Savage Kings: A Dark Bully Romance (Savages of Kingsworth Book 1) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Soundtrack

  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

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 by LM Harrison

  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.

  Discreet Cover Design: The Pretty Little Design Co.

  Ebook Cover Design: Cover Couture

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Savage Kings is a bully romance that contains graphic content and situations that might make some readers uncomfortable. It is a #whychoose novel, meaning the heroine has more than one love interest. It is book 1 in the Savages of Kingsworth trilogy and ends in a cliffhanger.

  For a full list of potential triggers, please click HERE

  For character inspiration, click HERE to follow the Savage Kings PINTEREST board.

  Want to talk about the book? Join my reader group, LM’S READER ROOM

  SOUNDTRACK

  Mount Everest by Labrinth

  Follow the White Rabbit by Madison Beer

  Savage by Bahari

  Flawless by The Neighbourhood

  INFERNO by Sub Urban & Bella Poarch

  Wrong by MAX & Lil Uzi Vert

  Okay by Chase Atlantic

  Panic Room by Au/Ra

  Daisy by Ashniko

  Middle of the Night by Elley Duhé

  Oblivion by Grimes

  Cherry by Lana Del Rey

  Run by Awolnation

  Follow the SAVAGE KINGS playlist on SPOTIFY for the full list of songs

  1

  What has been your greatest accomplishment?

  Not going to juvie? Making it to my senior year with a decent GPA despite attending a different high school each year? Saying no to drugs?

  “This is a dumb assignment,” I mutter.

  My first week taking dual enrollment courses at Rockford Community College has been… frustrating. Just like this “Get to Know You” assignment. It’s bullshit fluff I would’ve ignored in junior year, but now I’m trying to do something with my life. Meaning, no matter how lame the work seems, I’m determined to finish it.

  Five minutes later, though, that first question is still glaring up at me accusingly.

  What’s been my greatest accomplishment in my eighteen years on this planet?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Abandoning my homework, I tilt my head against the headrest and catch sight of my nephew in the rearview mirror. Richie is out, his little face smooshed against the side of his booster seat. A steady line of drool trickles out the corner of his open mouth.

  I can’t help but grin as I lean forward and take my phone from the dashboard. It’s 11:30. Well past Richie’s bedtime and half an hour after my sister’s double shift at the tragically named Pump & Go. We’ve been out here waiting for the last 45 minutes, our usual routine when Indigo works this late on Fridays.

  It’s not ideal.

  Richie should be home, sleeping peacefully in his crib instead of a booster seat. I should be doing my schoolwork under better lighting than the shitty bulbs over the gas pumps. And my sister shouldn’t be killing herself for minimum wage in this dump, where her co-workers rarely show up on time.

  It’s not ideal at all, but that's never been a word to describe our lives.

  We’re survivors, not thrivers—or at least, we haven’t been. We’ve been trying to break the warped cycle our mother raised us in, but it’s slow-going. Neither of us wants to end up like Mom, though.

  My phone buzzes, wrenching my attention from my oh-so-happy thoughts, and my friend Marisa’s name flashes on the screen. Tossing my homework onto the back floorboard, I open her text with little thought.

  Graceeeeeeeeee! Party tonight! We’re all getting fucked up one last time before Colin and Rosie leave for college. You in? We’re at Trident Beach.

  Painful knots coil in my stomach. Normally, I would be happy to join my friends for a wild evening of cheap beer, but that single word, “beach,” stops me cold. I drag in breath after breath. Try to force the ugly memories of the last beach party I attended back inside their rusty box, where I keep them hidden in the far corners of my mind.

  Inhale, exhale, forget, repeat, I tell myself until the nausea passes and I can swallow without tasting blood and tears and fear.

  I type my excuse, and I’m seconds from sending it when I hear it. Voices. Loud voices coming from the front of the gas station. Tensing, I listen closely. And the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end when I recognize one of them.

  “Please, I just want to go home. Will you let me go already?” the woman begs, and my breath hitches.

  Because it’s my sister.

  Panic pulsing through me, I dive for the pepper spray we keep in the dashboard, then sprint around the building. I come to a stop when my gaze lands on Indigo.

  Surrounded by not one but three guys.

  “I mean it!” Her eyes are wide and terrified as she glances around at them. “I will call the cops if you don’t stop.”

  The one blocking her path takes a deep drag of the cigarette dangling from his fingertips. “Come on, don’t be that way.”

  There’s an obvious accent to his slurred words—British, for sure—and judging by the way he’s swaying, he’s drunk. He’s tall and well-built, with short, curly brown hair, warm olive skin that looks flawless even under the unforgiving parking lot lighting, and the sharp, angular features most models would kill for.

  He would be gorgeous… if he wasn’t being a dick to my sister.

  The other two don’t appear to be directly harassing Indigo, but they aren’t stopping their friend, either. One of them is watching, his pouty lips quirking. He’s the stereotypical hot surfer, toned and bronze, with golden-brown eyes and purposely disheveled, dirty blond hair that falls around his square jawline.

  And then, there’s the third one.

  The one standing off to the side, leaning against a black Mercedes SUV. He’s taller and more muscular than the other two, with dark hair and blue eyes and a stone-cold expression. Like a young Henry Cavill—if tattoos covered every inch of Henry’s arms and he seemed perpetually bored.

  They’re all stunning, the whole trio, and I stand there in absolute silence, my breath cowering as I drink them in. But then the British prick opens his mouth. And what he says snaps me out of my dazed stupor.

  “You could make good m
oney with us. We just want you to show us a little something.”

  Is he… is he asking her to strip?

  There’s no way he has the audacity to even think to ask her to do that, right?

  But Indie’s body language tells me that’s exactly what’s happening. She drags the collar of her red Pump & Go polo shirt together, like she’s trying to hide her body from him, and dips her head low. I see her lips move, but I’m not sure what she says.

  A moment later, he retorts, “It would be well worth your time.”

  That’s it. Fury crackling beneath my skin, I advance on him, the hot pink can of pepper spray raised right in front of me like a gun. “Get the hell away from her!”

  Everyone whirls toward me, but the British guy seems the most affected by the intrusion. Even though he’s an easy foot over my 5’2 frame—they all are—I push my way past him to stand in front of my sister, who’s also much taller than me.

  Not that it matters. Because right now?

  Right now, I feel seven feet tall.

  “Who are you?” the Brit demands once he’s stable on his feet as Indigo hisses down at me, “Gracie, what the hell are you doing out here? Go back to the car!”

  I ignore her pleas and focus every ounce of my attention on the three men staring us down.

  “Stay away from my sister, you motherfuckers!” I shout, and the blond guy lets out a low whistle and lifts his brows. “She’s already said no to your disgusting offer, so leave.”

  “You two are sisters?” When I answer the Brit with silence and a clenched jaw, he flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement and gives his beach-boy buddy a sideways glance. “A two-for-one deal?”

  Yeah, that really sets me off.

  “You rich bastards are all the same, thinking you can buy people and get them to do whatever you want anytime you bark out an order, but Indigo isn’t that type of girl.”

  “And what about—”

  Before he can finish, I thrust the pepper spray in his face. He stumbles back, but Golden Boy grabs his arm before he loses his balance and falls on his perfect ass. When they don’t immediately take off, I position my finger over the pepper spray’s trigger.

  “I said get out of here.”

  Indigo clutches my shoulder. “Grace, stop! Just drop it so we can go.”

  But I’m too furious to stop. Besides, I don’t want us to be the ones to walk away. It’ll seem like we’re running, and there’s no way I’m giving these entitled pricks the satisfaction of thinking they chased us off.

  “Any bitch can be that type of girl… for the right price,” a deep voice says, wrapping around me like a snake.

  It’s the one with all the tattoos, but he doesn’t look bored anymore. Now his eyes are predatory, reminding me of an animal waiting for its prey to make a fatal mistake.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s the matter? Jealous your sister got an invitation but not you? Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Two long strides bring him within inches of my body, and he leans into me so close that his breath ruffles my hair when he whispers, “There’s plenty of room, even if you are the clear loser in the trailer slut genetic Olympics.”

  His words lash at me and sting, leaving a mark I do not want to acknowledge but end up doing, anyway. Indigo and I both have our mom’s blue-green eyes, but that’s our only similarity. Like our mother, my sister’s got long legs, perfect beach blonde waves, and that whole 2000s Victoria’s Secret model vibe going for her.

  I, however, am a walking “Short Girl Problems” meme with boobs that are more curse than blessing, and dishwater blonde frizz I try to call curls.

  My features are fine, but they’re not… Indigo. And this boy knows he’s affected me because his grin takes on a vicious edge.

  Lifting my phone, I hit the button to record. “Mind repeating that, sweetheart?”

  He glances at my phone before raising his eyes back to mine. “I asked if you were jealous your trashy sister got invited to come strip for us. You’re nowhere near as hot, but there’s still plenty of room and cash for you.”

  By the time I answer him, I’m practically vibrating with rage. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  He sweeps an appraising gaze over my body but says nothing as he and his friends head for the Mercedes. Words aren’t necessary, though. Not after the way he looked at me.

  Like I was nothing.

  I keep the video recording until they’re gone and then I lower my phone and the pepper spray and pivot toward my sister. “Indie…”

  She blinks to bat away tears and hugs her arms over her chest. “Where’s Richie?”

  “Still in the car.” Saying that out loud, I realize how reckless I was to leave him by himself, even if I was only twenty feet away. “Shit, I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t do it again.” Her expression is fierce when she whirls around to face me. Where was this version of her five minutes ago? “I mean that, Gracie. Don’t you ever leave my baby alone when you’re supposed to be watching him.”

  Swallowing hard, I bob my head in understanding. “I won’t, I promise.” I close the distance between us and pull her close, releasing a heavy sigh. “Come on... let's go home.”

  We make our way back to our crappy old Civic, where Richie is still snoozing away, oblivious to everything that’s happened.

  I climb into the driver’s side and start the engine. My anger hasn’t dissipated as we pull out onto the road to head home, but I’m quiet for a long time, focusing on the soft sound of my nephew’s snoring and the grinding brakes.

  “Grace…” My sister perches her elbow against the door rest and stares out at the night sky.

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “I didn’t want to cause any trouble. You know I’ve been trying to find a better job. With my record, I need a good reference. What do you think Billy would say if I called the cops on all his customers?”

  “Do you care what Mr. Food Stamp Fraud himself thinks about you?”

  She giggle-snorts at my remark about her boss, but then she exhales, shakes her head, and slants me with a serious look. “Look… I know how you get, but let it go. Please. They were being kids.”

  “Those weren’t kids. They were shitheads harassing a woman they saw as vulnerable because she was alone.” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel because it’s the only thing stopping me from trembling. “I bet it’s not the first time they’ve done that to someone, either.”

  “It’s not worth fussing over because we won’t ever see them again.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  But she laughs and shakes her head. “You think guys like that hang out in Mattapan? Did you see that car? The clothes they had on?”

  That sounds like something Mom would say. And that irks me more than it ever should.

  “Being rich doesn’t mean they should be able to do whatever they want.”

  “You’re right.” She turns to me, a sad smile twisting her lips. “But people like that get away with everything.”

  We have to stay out of their way or adapt.

  She doesn’t say it aloud, but that statement echoes through the car. I hate our mom for drilling that lesson into our skulls. Even Indigo, who tries to find the best in everyone, believes that shit.

  It’s not fair, and I’m still fuming about it as I lay wide awake in bed.

  Even though it’s a terrible idea, I open the video of the tattooed boy. As the recording plays, I keep thinking how infuriating it is that he probably gets away with this type of behavior regularly.

  And that’s what causes me to break.

  Before I consider what I’m doing, I upload the video to TikTok and pound out a scathing caption below it.

  When people think money equals personality, you get psychos who think they’re untouchable.

  The act of posting the video is a release, so I put my phone aside, snuggle under my blankets, and let sleep come to claim me.

  An incessant buzzing drags
me awake the next morning. At first, I try to resist and stay asleep a little longer, but the noise won’t stop. My groggy brain takes a few beats to realize it’s my phone. Confused, I crack open my eyes and grab the stupid thing from my nightstand. Who would bother me this early on a Saturday morning?

  Then I see what’s going on.

  Notification after notification pops up on my lock screen, and my mouth drops open. Because they’re all from my video.

  I bolt upright, my fingers fly across the screen to unlock my phone and see what’s happening. Likes, comments, shares… holy shit, it’s blowing up. And I mean half a million views blowing up.

  Why would my video be getting so much attention?

  Thanks to the comments, my suspense is short-lived. I learn all three guys go to Kingsworth Prep, the same school my sister’s husband attended before his parents disowned him for knocking up “the help.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can suck my non-prestigious dick,” I grumble at one comment that calls Kingsworth outstanding and me an attention whore. The school—and the gorgeous bastards who go there—are the only reason anyone cares enough to respond, anyway.

  And two comments later, I discover precisely who those bastards are.

  Ezra Covington, Bellamy Thorn, and Dashiell Laurier.

  The Governor of South Carolina’s son.