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  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2017 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  This one is for you, little girl. May you chase all of your dreams.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  Chapter One

  Nora

  The black Mary-Jane’s strapped to my feet, too expensive to even hold a candle to the things I used to call shoes, clack along the floors of the hall in timid steps. I wobble, not used to heels and even more unfamiliar with the two-hundred-year-old oak panels beneath me. Tapestries that pre-date my birth, my mother’s birth, and probably her mother’s birth adorn the walls, casting an elegant and old-worldly feel to the building.

  Mint, cigar smoke and some kind of expensive after-shave scent have to be permanently embedded in the walls, because no matter where I’ve walked in this school, I can never escape the smell.

  And the stares. Oh, how they stare.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough being the new girl on the first day of senior year of high school, my luck dumped me here. In the middle of the richest, most entitled, most elite bunch of people I would probably ever breath the same air as. And these were only their teenagers.

  I pull on my uniform, the green and white plaid skirt suddenly feeling way too short, even though I know it’s well past my knees. Judging by the girls lining their lockers, looking me up and down, I’m the most modest one of them.

  “Is that the American?” I hear a whisper from my right and try to deflect it, try not to flinch.

  Because on top of being the new kid, the outcast … my life has been displayed in living color on every magazine rack in the city of London for months. These kids have already made up their minds about me, and it’s not even five minutes into the first day of school. They’ve seen the pictures of me in a bikini, hanging out at the local pool in our hometown of Pennsylvania. They’ve read the headlines about my gold-digging mother, and our obnoxious American ways. Every childhood memory, every interview from a random stranger back home, even the snippet they got from our supposed neighbor and friend … it’s all been paraded around for the gossip satisfaction of this country’s best and brightest.

  I know that Mom and Bennett told me to lift my head high, to walk on water. To act like I’m even in the same stratosphere as these people. But … this is high school. Even back home, it was vicious for me. And I’d grown up there, in the same dirt and poverty that everyone else had.

  Winston Preparatory Academy? This was a whole different ball game. With its years of history, remembrance walls of students who’d gone on to be world leaders and CEOs, sixty thousand dollar a year price tag and etiquette rules I would never be able to remember.

  My white-collared shirt and blazer stick to me by the time I make it to my locker, and there are so many eyes boring holes into my back that I’m sure the blush has moved from my face all the way down to my toes. Pulling the introduction folder the severely monotone school receptionist had given me when I’d first been dropped off from my new leather satchel, I flipped to the section with my locker number.

  Except, these weren’t like normal, metal and combination lock lockers. They were wood, each with a tiny school crest carved into the bottom left corner. The locks were a numeric keypad, like an upgraded ATM machine. And I was even more intimidated than I’d been nervously walking the unfamiliar corridors to get here.

  Keying the code in, the light on the keypad flashed red at me. I tried again, but to no avail. Maybe they’d given me the wrong combination? Jeez, I was probably the only girl in this school who had basic high school problems. I read the short paragraph about how to reset the lock, and made quick work of it. Sighing as the lock finally flashed green, I was ready to open the door and hide my flaming face in the darkness of the locker.

  Red and white balloons popped out as I swung the wood door open, and paparazzi pictures of my mother and her new husband lined the walls like wrapping paper. Somewhere inside, Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” began to play, loud enough for the entire hallway to hear the twangy chords.

  Humiliation, bright and red like an angry sore, tore down my spine, making my body flush hot and cold. Of course I didn’t know anyone here, so I couldn’t know who did this. Only that they’d gotten into my locker before I could, and they were sending a message.

  A group of girls standing across the hall, their skirts rolled, makeup flawless, with dress-code violations to the ceiling, burst into laughter. I turned, my mouth probably hanging open at the prank. One of the girls raised a sassy eyebrow at me and then they all fell into line as she walked away, while the rest of the students in the hall pointed or laughed.

  Realizing that Miley was still singing, I slammed the locker shut, drawing even more attention to myself.

  “Stop looking like a lamb panicking before slaughter and they might leave you alone.”

  A voice invades my embarrassment, licking at the side of my neck with its deep timber and British undertones.

  My head turns without my brain telling it to, my synapses firing of their own accord. The first thing that meets my eye is the Winston crest embroidered on a standard-issue school blazer. And then they travel up, higher and higher until my neck is almost tilted all the way back.

  The first student who has bothered to address me is tall … standing more than a foot taller than my figure. Dark green eyes, almost as dark as the blazer his broad shoulders fill out, meet mine. In them are judgment, a hint of anger, and a whole lot of sarcasm. His words, spoken from lips the color of crushed cherries, don’t fit his expression. This raven-haired boy, more like man, isn’t giving me advice.

  He’s issuing a warning.

  The sheer shock of his presence, and the wealth and superiority he exudes, almost knocks me over. He’s waiting, his jaw ticking with amusement at my gaping silence.

  When I can’t seem to find words, and the tunnel vision that locks only to his face keeps getting worse, he reaches out. Big, dexterous fingers pick up a lock of my fiery red hair off my blazer.

  He twirls it in his fingers, regarding me as my eyes follow the movement with child-like awe.

  He l
eans in, the clear scent of the woods after a thunderstorm hitting my senses. “Or don’t. I’ll have fun watching them have their way with you. You don’t belong here, peasant.”

  His insult, spoken like the dirtiest curse word he could muster, snaps me out of my reverie. I snap backwards, my hair falling back onto my shoulder as his grin, cold and malicious, mocks me.

  I should say something, defend myself, fight … but I’ve never been a fighter. I’ve never wanted the attention. To be honest, I’ve never known what I wanted.

  So I turn on my heel and bolt.

  What these elites didn’t realize was that I had no intention of becoming one of them. I was happy to play the outsider, to not belong. The only thing I could wish for now was to get through the next year as painlessly and unseen as possible. They could have their status, their high society, their rules. I wanted none of it, and at least I knew that.

  It wasn’t my fault I’d been thrust into this life, and I wanted out as soon as I could get it.

  Chapter Two

  Asher

  A whir of red rounds the corner at the end of the hall, and the precisely controlled disdain that had been fueling my veins burns and rolls again.

  I'd call our first meeting a success.

  Nora Randolph, I would never refer to her as a McAlister, must be eliminated. Everything she is, everyone she is now connected to, is dirty. And now that I have her as a pawn, we can finally expose her dear old stepdad for what he is.

  A murderer.

  The bell for period one sounds, a perfect chiming melody that I know Nora must not be familiar with. Back in whatever hole of a town she crawled out of, they probably bang on a cowbell or something equally as barbarian.

  My classmates mill about, the younger ones scurrying with books loaded in their arms, running for their first classes.

  Me? I just lean against the row of lockers that Nora's resides in, metaphorically sharpening my claws like a tiger’s. Not that senior year needed to be here for me to reign over Winston Prep, but I could almost smell the fresh blood in the air.

  This school taught and raised the most elite of the elite. Parliament members, world business leaders, royals, athletes ... they all sent their children here. To the famed academy that created them, to the school that rewarded with connections and a certain air on a résumé.

  And I was at the center of it all. Asher William Frederick of the Cornwall Frederick's. My father was one of the most powerful men in the British government, as all of my family members were influential on the London society scene.

  "Are you already bending women to your will? At least give the rest of us a day’s head start, mate."

  I don't have to turn to know that Edward Le Deux just slapped my shoulder, his voice scratchy from the rough night we had a mere eight hours ago. Ed, my best mate since we were nine, had decided it would be a great idea to throw a massive party in his father's grand library as a way to commemorate summer term ending. It was a miracle either of us were standing here, bright eyed at 7:30 a.m.

  "Nope, that one I just intend to shock and frighten." A sneer curls my lip.

  “Whatever you say, mate. You have such odd relationships with these birds. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re one of those whips and chains blokes.”

  "Sod off." Like I was going to talk about how I liked to fuck.

  "Love you too, chap. Anyways, let's get going. Professor Hugh is only going to make so many exceptions for us this year."

  I didn't care about that. My early acceptance at Oxford was secured. I barely needed to float through the year and grease each teacher with my Frederick charm.

  "Or we could go to The Gentleman's Lounge and work off the exhaustion of last night." I raise an eyebrow. A lap dance sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

  Ed groans. "You tosser, I'd love nothing more. But my mother will beat me mad."

  My best mate was typically all mouth and no trousers, and this instance was no different.

  "Fine. I'll go to class only because it's the first day."

  But I took one last look at the end of the hall before I followed Ed.

  I expected the arousal from exuding power over someone else. It was in my breeding to strike fear with a well-placed smirk, or exert control with just a movement of my fingers.

  What I didn't expect was the tightness in my balls from the sight of her. The papers didn't do her justice; she might be American but she was a pretty little thing. All long legs and impoverished innocence. She doesn’t know what this world is like, what people like the ones I associate with could do to her.

  What I could, and intended, to do to her.

  As I took my seat in Eighteenth Century European History, my head still swam with the piss of anger, and the plans of destruction that were yet to come.

  Chapter Three

  Nora

  When I think of home, I think of Pennsylvania. The small town where I grew up is a simple town, full of simple people. There are three stoplights, one elementary school, a diner and a man-made lake that the town considers a community swimming pool.

  I was born there, I was raised there, and I thought I would live out the rest of my life there. My mother was the manager at The Honey Time Diner, we lived in a quaint two-bedroom ranch, I went to school, and at night we’d sit on the deck drinking lemonade or hot chocolate, depending on the season.

  It was she and I against the world, our little bubble of two was all I’d ever known.

  And then Bennett Charles McAlister, or as the world knew him, the Duke of Westminster, rolled into our lives. The third in line to the British throne, the notorious royal’s town car broke down on the road outside of our house in early May of this year. He’d walked the half a mile up our driveway, mud and dust caking his shiny black shoes and impeccable suit.

  The minute he’d entered our home, and the second he and my mother had breathed the same air, I knew that the bubble had burst. It was no longer just the two of us, that much was clear from the minute their eyes had connected. I’d felt like I was witnessing a star explode, or God perform a miracle … the moment two people fell in love was rarely seen by others yet I’d watched it blossom and unfold right there in my living room.

  In all eighteen years I’d been alive, I’d never seen my mom look at a man the way she’d looked at Bennett. It was apparent from the get go that this was the man she’d been waiting for, the literal prince coming to save her from her average life. And luckily, he didn’t mind that his common princess had a daughter.

  So here we are, living in London. If it weren’t happening to me, and if it hadn’t been such a nightmare thus far, I would think the past three months were straight out of the Twilight Zone. My mother meeting Bennett was one thing. But to be wearing possibly the next King of England’s ring on her finger, to be marrying into the royal family? Sometimes I had to pinch myself when I woke up in the residence of Kensington Palace that we now occupied.

  But with the good came the bad. And while my mother had found her happiness … members of Parliament, the press and even those closest to her husband-to-be were crucifying her. Calling her a gold digger, questioning her motives, digging up any piece of insignificant dirt on her and running it for the masses to see.

  And apparently, that crucifixion extended to me.

  I’d expected to walk into Winston today and go virtually unnoticed. I was no one, I had no money, I wasn’t upper crust like the rest of these kids. I was simply a tourist, staying for a temporary amount of time until I vanished out of their lives. I hadn’t expected the stares, the curses, the whispers.

  And I certainly hadn’t expected the teenage James Bond who’d hypnotized me and basically told me to go to hell. His commanding presence still sat in my bones, that perfect English bone structure with the devious green eyes and mysterious dark hair were tattooed on the back of my retinas.

  The way he’d touched me, no … not even touched me. He’d simply held a lock of my hair between his fingers, yet it h
ad felt like a thunderstorm between my thighs. I’d never felt anything so powerful, so intimidating … so sensual. But his words, menacing and licking up my spine like poison, were targeted. He meant them, whoever the hell he was.

  “Did you get a lot of homework on the first day? How did you prefer Winston?” Bennett walks into the room and zaps my mind out of it’s horrible thoughts.

  I turn to my soon-to-be stepdad and smile. I guess it was good that if I only got one father figure in this life, it’s Bennett. Decked out in his casual attire, which includes a tie and ironed dress pants, his expression is hopeful and open.

  Actually, Bennett and I get along quite nicely. I’d never had a father; the low-life had skipped town when Mom had gotten pregnant with me the summer after she graduated high school. Bennett didn’t try to parent me, but instead formed a bond with me that I cherished even in the short amount of time we’d known each other. He liked to read, and had introduced me to classics that I hadn’t added to my collection. His record albums include The Beatles and Fall Out Boy, so he was okay in my music book. And most of all, he loved my mom as if she was the most rare and precious substance on this earth … so I’d taken a liking to him instantly.

  “I got some light reading and a few question sets for trigonometry, but nothing crazy. And my first day was … okay.” Besides the stares from both students and teachers, and the fact that some British supermodel called me a lamb for slaughter.