KNIGHT: A Dark High School Bully Romance Read online

  L.J. Woods

  KNIGHT

  Elite Royal Academy Book Two

  First published by Books By Woods 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by L.J. Woods

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Editing by Joshua R. Hunt

  Cover art by Lily Hall

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Join the Conversation

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  What’s Next?

  Bonus Chapters

  Dare to Go Darker

  About the Author

  Also by L.J. Woods

  Join the Conversation

  Want to keep up to date on my work-in-progress? Join the Deliciously Dark Discussions Facebook Group and dare to go dark.

  Join me on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter.

  Sign up to receive a free bonus chapter.

  * * *

  To my readers, this one’s for you.

  xo LJW

  Synopsis

  Sinister. Seductive. Sinful … the King of the elites is all three.

  And now, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks me.

  -

  Lay low and get through school?

  There’s no going back to that.

  No coming back from this.

  I’m tied to the enemy with a secret that could ruin me - if Damien King doesn’t ruin me first.

  Push the rich prick away? It’s not that easy.

  You try hiding from a smooth, sculpted, self-proclaimed god.

  He’s persuasive and persistent, punishing me for a crime I didn’t commit.

  His friends want to save me but he’s possessive in a twisted way, committed to making me pay.

  But I’m a survivor.

  There’s no chance I’m going down without a fight.

  Buckle up, my delicious, dark devil. Your kingdom’s at war and I’m to blame.

  Hell’s about to get a whole lot hotter when I fan these flames.

  -

  KNIGHT is a full-length 100,000-word new adult/high school bully romance novel with mature themes. This enemies-to-lovers romance is recommended for readers over 18. This is NOT a standalone and is book two of a trilogy, but if you’re a fan of rich, alpha possessive bad boys, this book is for you!

  * * *

  “Madness, as you know, is like gravity; all it takes is a little push.”

  - Joker (The Dark Knight)

  Prologue

  Damien

  It’s not what you think.

  I’m not a monster.

  I don’t have tentacles, fangs, or a hairy back.

  No claws. No screws through my head. Fuck, if there are any screws in my head, they’re all loose.

  He made me this way.

  Cold, calculating and cocky.

  He’s to blame. Ask my old therapist.

  But I’m not a monster.

  Believe me?

  I don’t.

  No one does. And as far as they know, Damien King is a massive monstrosity. Just like pops.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “Fuck,” I mutter, amber liquid spilling over the crystal glass in my hand as I try not to drop the polaroid in the other. I’m not usually this jumpy but every time there’s a loud bang, my body thinks it’s in the middle of a war.

  “Mister Damien?” Isobel calls from behind the door. It’s hard to hear the housekeeper with my dad’s vinyl blaring in the background. Hendrix’s “All Along The Watchtower.” But her Polish accent is distinguishable, voice higher than the guitar solo. “Two gentlemen are here to see—”

  “They can fuck off!” This isn’t the first time I’ve told her and something tells me it won’t be the last. Letting the scotch soak into my dark grey joggers, I pull the glass to my lips. The strong smell of alcohol blocks out the smell of tobacco and leather. His smell.

  Stay away from that girl. I forbid you to see her. You’re stupid, but don’t be an idiot.

  I scoff at those words. His final plea. No apology. No “I love you.” That’s not his style. Love? That’s bullshit to a King. Unnecessary. A roadblock to the top.

  Leaning over the desk, I pull the photo into the light. My eyes scan over Rosaline King for the thousandth time. Thick, long black hair. Porcelain cheeks that appear rosy even in this faded picture.

  Mom.

  Her doe eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, blue and full of life. It’s hard not to stare before my eyes land on him. A man with a rich, maple complexion, tall with a boxy, broad stature. He’s wearing a gold watch I’d recognize anywhere. A jacket that’s way too familiar. I’ve been staring at this photo for days and I still can’t make sense of it.

  The smile on my mom’s face is something I’ve hardly seen, almost reaching her brown eyes. And this man, this imposter, is looking at her like the fucking sun.

  Letting the polaroid drop to the table I pull the glass to my lips, my eyes on the crown moulding in the ceiling.

  Why did my dad have this buried in his wallet? Is this man who I think it is?

  With smooth whiskey on my tongue, my mind drifts, the air thick with smoke from the joint burning in the ashtray.

  Am I the monster they say I am? Or is that exactly what they want me to believe? What she wants me to believe?

  I’ve held that skinny wrist in my palms enough to know who’s watch that is. I’ve undressed that perfect body enough times to know every button and zipper on that leather jacket. The big guy twitches under these joggers just thinking about it.

  Running a hand over my shaft, I imagine it’s hers. Those long, slender fingers wrapped around me. This position is the one thing keeping me sane through this whole shitshow. She’s the one thing keeping me together and a mess at the same fucking time. With my hand around my length, I imagine my teeth in her soft, sandy skin. My lips on that velvety, heart-shaped pout. I can’t get the smell of her out of my mind. Coconut, vanilla and pot.

  Pulling my hard rod out of my joggers, I grunt. It feels way too good when I think about her warm skin pressed against my hard, cold body. She feels like a mickey of booze on a cold day. Satisfying. Comforting. I crave it. I crave her. My head falls back, remembering the taste of her tongue on mine, sweet and bitter.

  My fist slows, reminding myself that her tongue says words I can’t believe.

  Maybe the old man was right after all.

  The question replays in my he
ad, one I’ve been asking myself over and over.

  Is she after my heart, or is this pure revenge? Putting it past her isn’t easy. This girl’s spunky with a bite that I can’t get enough of. Out of all the girls to set foot in Eden, Jo Rowland is almost as golden as the flecks in her eyes.

  Even after all this, most of my thoughts are of her. That sexy body with curves in all the right places. That dip in her waist, the small of her back, the mole on her left ass cheek. An ass that fits my palms almost as perfect as the way those tits fit my mouth. I want her. Always have.

  But can I trust her?

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “I said tell them to get the fuck ou—”

  “Good afternoon,” a man’s voice booms through the small room and my hand flies from my throbbing crotch. Whoever this is finds the light switch, the chandelier above coming to life. It stings my eyes, my lids turning to slits as I try to see who the fuck is ballsy enough to waltz into my home. This office. “I’m sorry to disturb you—”

  “Then get the fuck out!” My voice means business. Fuck, did he just say afternoon? I thought it was still three in the morning. “Do you know who I am? How dare you!”

  “Everyone knows who you are.” Another voice comes from the door and by the time my vision clears, two men are in front of me. They stare down at me as I sit at my father’s desk. His throne. One wears a black suit with a white shirt and tie, thick hair gelled high like he’s ready for VIP. The other’s more dressed down, in a sweater and jeans. Narrow eyes, decent stache. “We’re very sorry to disturb you, Mister King, but we do have a few questions we need to ask. It’s about your father. I’m Detective Branson, EGPD, and this is Detective Hanson from Glendale.”

  “The Grove?” They have my attention. Swiping the polaroid from the table, I’m quick to put it in my pocket before pulling on the collar of my v-neck. My jaw tenses, a row of teeth tight on top of the other. “Hold on just a minute, Branson and Hanson. Do I need my lawyer or not?”

  “You’re not a suspect.” That helps the pressure in my chest. But then why are they here? “We don’t have any reason to think that. Not yet.”

  They start asking me questions from that morning. What I was doing at the lakehouse. Recounts of what happened. I take a drink every single time and it’s not long before I’m reaching for a refill. Good thing they can’t see my leg shaking under this desk, my palms all sweaty.

  “You say this was an accident?” Branson confirms, a finger in his grey and black strands.

  I nod, keeping my hard chest out as take another breath to keep my voice from shaking. “An unfortunate one.” For him anyway.

  “Was Joelle Rowland with you that morning, Mister King?” Detective Hanson lowers his notepad. If he sees how tight my grip is around this glass, I’m toast.

  “Joelle Rowland,” I repeat, and fuck, even saying her name makes my heart feel like it’s about to explode. It booms against my chest, my mind filling with memories of her. Leaning back in my seat, I take my time. Only because I need to catch my breath. But not too long, they’ll get suspicious. After another second I answer, Hanson glancing at his partner, “No. She wasn’t.”

  “But you two have been spending a lot of time together?” Hanson asks, pulling at his thick, dark stache.

  On second thought, I’m not sure if that’s a question or a statement, but yeah, I sure as hell have. Up until the last few days anyway. Images of me buried in her sweet, tight hole are hard to ignore as these two idiots stare at me as if I’m really going to give them answers. As if I’m really going to tell them the truth. “You say I’m not a suspect but you sure as fuck are acting like it.” I rise from my seat, coming level with these nosy assholes. “So unless I can call my lawyer, or you have a warrant, this conversation is over.”

  I don’t have to trust her, but this strong urge to protect what’s mine comes over me and I don’t hesitate before I’m leading them to the door. Cuffs I can get behind but she’s much more useful to me if she’s not locked in a cell again.

  “If you see Joelle, tell her we’ll be in touch.” Branson nods before I slam the door behind them.

  Fuck.

  Swiping the glass off the desk, I pace the room, suede slippers sliding against the dark brown wood. Knocking the contents in the glass down my throat, the liquid burns my empty stomach before I reach for more, replacing the glass with the bottle.

  The last couple of months go through my head.

  Was I right? Was he right?

  Was I the pawn in her game? Am I right where she wants me?

  My father’s voice rings in my ears. Be a man, Damien. Be a King.

  “Fuck!” My fist pounds into the first thing I see, a framed portrait of daddy dearest himself. Glass shatters to the ground, shards in my knuckles. The pain matches everything I’m feeling and I go for more, my fist slamming into the wall on the other side. Another in his face for good measure.

  He can’t be right. He doesn’t deserve to be right.

  A lump forms in my throat and I vow not to shed a tear. I’m not the weak kid he thinks I am. Won’t ever be.

  “Redecorating?” Isaac’s voice comes from the door. It stops my fist midswing, a lock of dark hair falling in my eye. I’m going to have to have another talk with Isobel. She’s been with our family forever but she really has to stop letting people in like it’s the goddamn circus.

  When I turn to my buddy, my brother, he has a couple of bottles of his own in his hand, two girls on either side. They look like the usual young models Isaac grabs when he wants to party. The little baggie of pills hanging from his fingers means he’s here for exactly that.

  “Thought you might need an escape,” he says with a smirk. His blown auburn eyes move between the two sets of giant tits on each side.

  This guy’s like the Batman of parties and he hardly needs a signal before he’s getting shit moving. He doesn’t have to say much else. No apologies, no condolences necessary. With a tilt of my chin, I invite him in, tanned girls smiling on each side.

  Trying to push out the fact that I wish these girls were here, I turn to Isaac. It’s time to end this mopey shitshow, “Let’s rage. For the old guy.”

  That’s when I make my decision. Jo and I? We can’t be together.

  Things are already too messy. No matter what my heart thinks, I’m a man who thinks with my head. And I don’t mean the one between my legs, even if he is excited at the thought of her. Biting my lip, I’m imagining those hazel eyes looking at me while she comes on my fingers. That hypnotizing gaze makes me want to bury myself inside her forever.

  Medusa.

  My Medusa.

  I’ll protect her.

  My heart won’t let me do otherwise and that’s a promise. But I don’t have to trust her. Don’t have to be with her.

  Believe me?

  I don’t.

  But if I can’t have her. No one can.

  One

  Jo

  POW!

  That sound replays over and over in my head.

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  So does his voice. Lifeless. Pleading. Desperate.

  “Jo…” His voice crackles, that smooth, booming bass broken down to a croak. “Go.”

  Images flicker through my mind, eyes focused on the crucifix positioned on the ornate altar. I’m not religious, especially not now being recently cast down by a god. But maybe I ought to be. Maybe that will save me.

  My head falls to my right, dark curls falling in front of my face. With blurry hazel eyes on the intricate display, I feel just like Jesus. Hung out to dry.

  “Jo!”

  Blood and flames blur together.

  Were my parents crucified too? Did they have a Judas of their own?

  Screams. Shouts. The crackling of flames.

  Am I as fucked as they are? No chance for a rescue?

  Red. So much red.

  A burning cold takes over. Just like that morning.

  “You need to go. Now,”
he coughs through his words, a trail of red flowing to his body. Or from his body. I’m not sure, my body stiffer than a corpse. “Do you hear me? Now, Jo!”

  “Jo?”

  A shiver bursts through me, my body jumping to attention.

  “You wanna be a part of this world? Buck up and pop a Xanax.” Nancy Archibalds’ hushed voice nudges me out of my daze, so does her pointy elbow.

  She keeps her shades perched on her straight red nose when she pops open the black clutch in her palm. A little packet of pills sits next to her iPhone, bouncing into each other as she shakes her purse.

  Murmurs and mumbles fill my ears again, voices echoing off grey stone walls and high ceilings. Nancy brings me back to reality but contrary to her belief, I don’t want to be a part of it. Don’t want to be a part of this “gathering” either.

  “I’m good.” I ignore her suggestion, glancing at Willow to my left, body cold under my jacket.

  I’m far from good. I haven’t slept since that morning. As for my appetite? That’s on a permanent vacation. I’m running on fumes, bourbon and pot, and I don’t have to look at my eyes to know they’re dark and sunken.

  My little sister scrolls through the feed on her iPhone and I catch a glimpse of the morbid headline. My jaw tenses, my stomach rolling, memories hitting me again. Trying to wipe that morning from my mind is almost as hard as keeping my mind off him. He’s the reason I stayed in this cold town dripping in lies and sin. The reason I’m standing here in the middle of hell. Sure, we’re in a cathedral as lavish as Notre Dame, but it might as well be in Hades.

  “Chin up, Jo,” Nancy whispers, annoyance in her voice. “Here come Eric’s investors.”

  She reaches in front of me to straighten Willow’s dress. Thank god we’re in black ‘cause I can hurl any minute. Willow’s outfit is as stuffy as mine. Knee-length in expensive fabric, black blazer rolled up to her sleeves. She makes it work but I’ve been dying to get out of this constricting black halter. It’s nowhere as comfortable as my worn-in band tees or my bicycle shorts.