Cruel King (Royal Elite #0) by Rina Kent

God, I hate everything these rich kids stand for.

I try to run on silent mode, but the twigs continue crunching under my feet as if purposely giving a signal to my hunters.

Branches and the odd tree trunk scrape against my bare arms as I carry on my run.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I reach a small road. I bend over behind a tree to catch my erratic breathing.

Aside from the moonlight slipping from between clouds and the trees, it’s pitch black out here. The mansion’s lights and music have completely disappeared.

The footsteps have vanished, too, and so did the voices. Phew. Maybe even my horrible athletic skills have managed to get me out of this unscathed.

Still, my heart won’t stop beating fast and hard against my chest cavity.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I take tentative steps towards the empty road, hoping to find someone for help.

Two steps forward. One step back.

The sound of a night bird — or beast — makes me freeze in place, almost peeing myself.

When I go back home, I won’t take gory or horror films for granted anymore. It’s terrifying as hell in real life.

“This way!” Someone shouts.

“No one sees and lives to tell about it.” A familiar voice, super familiar, deadpans as numerous, steady footsteps sprint in my direction.

I bolt down the road, my heart hammering in my chest so loud, I can’t hear my own footsteps.

Run.

Run.

Run!

They say you don’t feel it when your life ends.

I do.

It happens in a split second.

One moment, I’m running down the road, the next, blinding headlights freeze me in place.

I want to move. I want to get out of the way.

I can’t.

Something hard crushes against my side and I’m flying over the road. I fall with a thud, my hands lolling in an awkward position.

Something warm pools underneath me and sticks to my T-shirt.

Voices scatter all around me along with the loud squeal of someone slamming on brakes.

The metallic stench of blood fills my nostrils just like that day two years ago.

It’s rainy and dark. So fucking dark, I can smell death in the air.

It has a distinctive smell, death. All murky and metallic and smoky.

Mum’s head is lolled to the side with blood all over her neck, smudging the white blazer she was happy to receive last week.

I stretch out a hand, but nothing in my body moves.

I can’t reach my mum.

I can’t save her.

“P-please… Please… no… please…”

Dark shadows loom over me. They’re talking, but it’s hushed and I can’t make anything of it.

Warm fingers touch my side. I crack my eyes open and see a small star tattoo on the inside of his arm like mine.

“Leave her,” The voice says.

My world goes black.





5





Astrid





They didn’t think I’d come back alive.



* * *



Two months later,

Back to school.

Back to life, basically.

The past two months were pieces cut from hell. I half-expected Lucifer — the real one, not the TV show — to jump out and inflict some sort of torture.

While all the kids at school holidayed and posted pictures from all over exotic places, I spent my time split between the hospital and rehab.

All of it crashed down on me in such a short period of time, it’s like I’m re-living the tragedy from three years ago.

Unlike then, I didn’t come out unscathed.

I broke my leg, bruised my ribs and dislocated my shoulder. According to the doctor and the nursing staff, I was lucky.

Lucky.

Such a weird word.

I even heard my stepmother say that to her countless snobbish friends. I was lucky to have escaped death twice.

Obviously this luck thing isn’t hereditary because Mum died in her first car accident.

Why couldn’t I share that luck with her?

Dan flings an arm around my shoulder, bringing me to the present.

The September sky has a beautiful, pale hue and the sun actually shines down on us peasants in the UK.

The air smells of Autumn's humidity and that tame forest scent — coming from the huge pine trees surrounding Royal Elite School.

Dan and I make our way through the huge double doors. Both of us are dressed in our uniforms. Mine has a dark blue skirt and a matching jacket with RES’s golden Lion-Shield-Crown on the pocket. A red ribbon surrounds my neck over the white button-down shirt. Dan’s identical except he has trousers and a red tie.

Dan’s smiles — all complete with a left dimple — at any of the female species passing by us and adds a few winks causing some of them to nearly fall over each other.

He’s good-looking in that classic, British kind of way. First of all, he has a dimple — that must be why I wanted to be friends with him. People with dimples kind of draw you in like magnets. He takes his time to slick his chestnut hair in a way that looks imperfect. Add in his turquoise, ocean eyes and he’s like a model in the making.

No joke. A scout stopped his mum in the mall and begged her to have their agency represent him.

“Hey, crazy bugger.” He pokes my arm. “We can do Senior year and we can even do it sideways, too.”

I roll my eyes. “Does everything need to have a sexual meaning with you?”