The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2) Read online

  The Lion Heart

  Rogue Academy, Book Two

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2019 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.

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  To the warriors who have survived trauma and come out infinitely stronger on the other side.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  Prologue

  Poppy

  One Year Ago

  Darkness shrouds the group of us, fresh off a magazine shoot in our teased hair and over-dramatic makeup.

  I can smell the perfume and various products wafting off the girls as they walk in front of me, following the waitress to our VIP booth in this cliché celebrity club that I’ve come to loathe. I’m not even sure why I came in the first place, probably because my fear of missing out got the best of me.

  I never could fall to one side or the other of the fence; I either craved the limelight and sought out fame, or wanted to cower from it, locked away from the lenses forever.

  “Hey, you’re the new Riare campaign model,” a deep, polished accent shouts in my direction over the pulsing music.

  Biting back an eye roll, I let my neck lazily, but gracefully, shift to one side. It’s never a question of when I’ll be recognized, but of which sloshed bar scum will try to throw cheesy pickup lines at me first.

  Except, when my eyes finally connect with said scum, he is not the usual type. I have to physically school my features into distaste and nonchalance while assessing the man.

  And he is a man, in all sense of the word. His long limbs spill over the couch in an almost vulgar position, his thick thighs spread and straining against the dark jeans he’s wearing. It’s as if he’s inviting me to sit on his lap and feel just what’s between those muscled legs. My eyes travel to his hands, large and capable, planted squarely on his knees. His frame commands attention, from the way his arms and torso fill out the royal blue collared shirt to the way he’s sexily slouched against the plush velvet of the booth.

  When my gaze reaches his face, I find his electric-green eyes, their color almost unattainably clover-like, winking with suggestion. His olive skin creases at his cheeks, where his mouth and chiseled jawbone are turned up in a wicked smirk. The sandy blond crop of hair is smoothed back with gel, giving him that debonair look all the athletes seem to go for these days.

  The attire he dons is one of affluence, casual jeans and a button-up that probably retails for thousands, and I can tell from his accent that he grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Yes, I know who he is. This is Kingston Phillips, one of those footie legacy children who believes he owns London and all the women in it.

  What makes him dangerous, though, is the kind of charm that comes with that upbringing and attitude. If you believe you’re untouchable, you take risks. Risks that the public can see, and ones you’re not afraid of answering for. Sure, I know very little about Kingston Phillips, but I encounter men like him every day. It’s the ones who operate in the light, not the shadows, that you should be afraid of.

  I’ve clocked this guy in three seconds flat, he has nothing to hide and is probably one of those cocky blokes who is embarrassed by very little, if nothing at all.

  But the fact that he thinks he has me figured out? Some floozy model who’ll fall all over herself for a chance to kneel in front of him? Christ, there is nothing I hate more than when people think they know me.

  “And you’re that cheeky football player who thinks he can bed anyone who bats an eyelash at him,” I quip back, unamused.

  Joining the other models—they’re not my friends, we’re merely out together to be seen as such—at our table, I give him my back and open a menu.

  “Oh, I like her.” The lone female with them giggles drunkenly.

  I cast a quick glance at her. She’s beautiful in an unconventional way, and I envy her. When someone looks at her, they’re not just imagining which campaign or product she can sell. Jude Davies, anyone would know who the next great athlete of our time is, laughs and pulls her closer to him. She nuzzles sweetly in the crook of his arm, and I have to swallow the jealousy bubbling up in my throat.

  Pasting on a smile, I get up, because while I may be direct, I’m not rude. “Poppy Raymond, nice to meet you.”

  “You look like an Amazon.” She blinks, shaking my extended hand.

  I think she’s too pissed to remember to tell me her name, but that’s all right.

  “You’re beautiful, in a way only someone like you could be. Elegant, angelic, with the sex appeal of a loaded pistol but the grace to disguise it. When people see a woman like me, they automatically think slag or model; my looks are far too obvious.” I tell her the truth.

  “Now I get it!” Kingston cries from where he sits on the other side of Jude. “You’re a lesbian.”

  Now, I really want to slap this wanker. He looks so pleased with himself for finding the obvious reason I’m not interested in him, and it only makes me want to wind up and kick him right in the bollocks.

  My lip curls up, and I know that cold gleam in my eye is boring holes into him. “I’m not a lesbian. I just know how to admire beauty, in a way that doesn’t scream at everyone that I’m a bloody git. However, if I were I would have ten times the game you do when trying to pick someone up.”

  The arsehole looks like I’ve sucker punched him in the gut. His jaw hangs wide open, and the expression of sheer shock tells me he doesn’t get turned down. Ever.

  “Oh my lord, I think he’s met his match.” Their fourth table-mate chuckles as he tips his beer back.

  “Why don’t you come sit down on my lap and find out just how much game I have?” Kingston waggles his eyebrows at me, undeterred from my obvious distaste.

  This guy is bloody inc
orrigible. And, he has no idea what lies just under the surface of my pretty little facade. If he did, he wouldn’t come within fifty feet. A guy like this would never deal with the festering wounds I’ve hidden under the makeup and expensive clothing.

  “Make it to the first squad, come play in London among the ranks of the big boys, and maybe I’ll give your theory a test.” I smirk, practiced in the art of masking my true feelings.

  I flounce back to my booth, pretending to be completely ignorant of the fact that anyone exists beyond the group of girls I’m dining with.

  But in the pit of my stomach, it’s all still there. The fear, the annoyance, the inability to trust. And the sorrow at not being able to let anyone close enough to test the theory that there are still, in fact, good men among thieves.

  1

  Kingston

  Leggy blond.

  Leggy brunette.

  Leggy blond.

  Oh, switching it up with a leggy redhead.

  Yes, I could sit here all night and watch these gorgeous models strut their perfectly molded asses down the runway. In lingerie, no less. Expertly tailored scraps of lace in all the colors of the rainbow. One would think that undressing these goddesses down to their knickers would leave nothing to the imagination, but if anything, the barely-there undergarments did just that.

  Each time one of the Boudoir Lingerie Bombshell’s saunters past my front-row seat, my heart beats a little faster. Every time I tilt my head back, trying to admire the view from below the stage that’s been lifted five feet from the floor, the blood in my veins heats another degree. And my cock? The bloody bastard’s been hard as a steel pipe since the electric techno music introduced the first sex kitten in her virginal white getup.

  “I mean, how many pairs of underwear can a woman have?” Jude rolls his eyes next to me, his head buried in his phone.

  “Are you bloody insane?” I slap at his hands, making him almost drop his phone.

  My best mate sighs annoyedly. “I was supposed to meet Aria half an hour ago. We’ve watched the same fifteen birds traipse out here in different shades of satin for almost two hours. They all look the same. When does this thing end?”

  Only a man that was thoroughly whipped could turn up his nose at an endless stream of ridiculously hot models. How could Jude say that they all looked the same? Was that what happened when you fell in love? You became blind to all women but one? Count me out … God, the thought made me want to lose my dinner.

  To me, each woman looked like a new conquest I could explore in bed. To me, they all looked like a challenge.

  “You’re being rude. The photographers are going to catch pictures of you texting through this thing. Be a good boy, put away your phone, and observe the buffet of tits in front of you,” I scold him as my eyes turn to said-buffet, watching as plentiful sets of boobs jiggle down the catwalk.

  We were both asked to attend the annual Boudoir Lingerie Fashion Show as honored guests. The warehouse is lit in bubbly pink spotlights and fluorescent white shades. The chairs lining the stage and extending up toward the rafters house all kinds of celebrities, from musicians to actors to athletes. As two of the top footie players for Rogue Football Club, the best squad in all of England, it was our duty to show up for publicity events like this. It got our names in the papers, which generated press for the club and interest in us, which translated to ticket sales. And ticket sales means money for the club which means better coaches and facilities, or key players brought in on trades. I might act like a git most of the time, but I know how this world works. I’ve been raised in it, I know all about optics and strategy. Playing football is not my only job, and it was drilled into me from a young age to remember that.

  Plus, the perks of sitting front row, and then attending the VIP after-party, to watch the most attractive women in the world walk around nearly naked—yeah, I wasn’t passing those up.

  “I don’t even know why I’m here. Couldn’t they have just sent you? You’ll shag enough of these models for us both.” He tucks his phone into his pockets and folds his hands in his lap, keeping his gaze dutifully straight ahead.

  He’s the company man, the one who would live or die for the club even if they asked for something he didn’t really want to do. After a few years of recklessness, Jude Davies has straightened up in the past twelve months and become the next football legend we all knew he’d be. Scoring goals like a madman, showing up to all the press events his agent books him for, teaching football camps to little kids, and just generally becoming the face of the sport in England. Never mind, that he’s just twenty-one … if you know what’s good for you, you know Jude Davies is the be all, end all when it comes to British football these days.

  Me? Well, I’ve always been the guy with too much talent, and not enough work ethic. At least that’s what every trainer I’ve ever encountered has told me. I can rely on the God-given, or genetic, skills that I’ve been blessed with to get me through each match, but I never put forth more effort than that. It seems daft; why exert more energy when you’re already pretty good? Plus, I’ve never taken myself too seriously. It’s not like I’m a forward, it’s not like I have to score goals to keep my job.

  I play left back. My tasks are to cock up the other team’s offense, talk shite, be bloody fast, tackle players without the referee catching me, and having dead aim for my forwards so they can sprint up the field with my passes. By nature, my position is one of sneakiness, of annoyance, and it fits my personality.

  Kingston Phillips, the jester. The jokester. The pot-stirrer. That’s me, and I play it well. It’s the role I was given, much to my parent’s disappointment and I’ve put my all into adopting the persona.

  “That’s right, I will.” Rubbing my hands together, I give him a devious smile.

  Nothing more in this world I like than putting my hands and mouth on a beautiful female, preferably more than one at a time. Oh, the games I can play then.

  “Well, maybe not her.” Jude smirks in that prick way of his, like he knows something I don’t.

  Glancing toward the alcove at the back of the runway, my eyes home in on who he’s talking about.

  Shite, I’d almost forgotten she wore the coveted Bombshell title. It took most models years to work their way into the brand. If you were named a Boudoir Bombshell, it basically defined you as one of the most desired women in the world.

  But she’d been given the title at eighteen, as soon as it was legally acceptable to bestow it upon her.

  Poppy Raymond. The one woman in the world who hates my guts.

  Actually, that’s not exactly true. I’m sure there are loads of chicks out there who want to slap me in the face or slash my tires. But that’s after I sleep with them and then don’t call them back or they catch me being photographed with another woman.

  But Poppy Raymond … she’s the only one who wants nothing to do with me before we’ve shed each other’s clothes. I bet if I could flash her a glimpse of what’s going on below my waist, she wouldn’t be so ice cold.

  Or, maybe, she’d just slash that appendage off. The thought makes me shiver.

  Sitting here, in the front row of a fashion show where she is the star of the finale, is probably the closest I’ll ever get to unwrapping what’s underneath all of that stubborn, sassy facade.

  As usual, she’s the most stunning woman in the room. Not that I’d tell her that, or needed too. She already knows it, and of the few brief interactions we’ve had, nothing I’d done to woo her had worked.

  Her feet—Christ, I’d never been so bloody interested in a woman’s feet before hers—are strapped into impossibly high heels. The kind of heels that make your eyes focus instantly on the way her long, bronze legs carry her entire body. Lean and sculpted in a way that makes you imagine those legs wrapped around your own waist, your eyes can only do one thing next. Home in on the arse to make all other arses irrelevant. Round and perky and accented by the tiniest light blue scrap of lace I’ve ever seen.

 
That torso, the one that cinches and dips like a vintage soda bottle, leads up to tits that almost make you forget about the arse. Larger than a handful and perfectly trussed up in a bra I’d pay good money to have her wear forever. Long dark hair, the color of melted chocolate swirled with sticky caramel, falls in tendrils over her shoulders and spills down over the curves of her cleavage.

  And that face, lord have mercy on men. The angelic face that has graced hundreds of magazines, billboards, and TV screens, with those sapphire blue eyes and the naughty little dimple in her right cheek …

  It’s pointed right at me as she floats over the runway. A quick glance at the top of her waving locks and I spot the gleaming sapphire-jeweled crown they’ve placed upon it.

  Yes, Poppy Raymond is the queen.

  And with the way she’s looking at me, you’d think it was off with my head.

  2

  Poppy

  Bloody hell, I wish I could remove the cake that’s seeping into my pores.

  There is more makeup cemented onto my face than I’ve ever worn in my life. And I’m a professional model, so that’s saying something.

  Every year, I detest this show more and more, and I’ve only been walking in it for three years. First off, it’s always a week after my birthday, when all I really want to be doing is sunning myself on some tropical island and not worrying about dehydrating my body to get the leanest look I can for the cameras.