by Parker Grey
“Father, I’m not, I swear,” I say, my voice almost pleading. “It’s not what you think. Ella is different, she’s special, she’s—”
I stop short, because I can’t even put it into words how I feel about her. I barely know her, but I know I’d go to the ends of the earth to find and protect her.
Slowly, my father turns. He gives me a long, hard look, his hands clasped behind his back. I stand my ground, even though he’s the only person in the entire kingdom who has any sort of power over me.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he finally says, his eyes boring into mine.
I straighten, meeting his gaze squarely.
“What’s that?”
“If I divert kingdom resources to help you find her, you marry this girl. Assuming she says yes.”
Ten days ago, the mere thought would have made me nauseous. I’d have laughed in my father’s face at the idea, but now — after last night, after my wild urge to put a baby in Ella’s belly, to make her mine forever — it doesn’t faze me at all.
Actually, I kind of like the idea.
“All right,” I say. “If we find her, I’ll marry her.”
My father doesn’t respond, just lifts one eyebrow.
“Shoes,” my sister Aurora says. “You have shoes.”
She doesn’t sound impressed. I sigh.
“The chief inspector said he thought they looked custom,” I say, slouching back on my couch.
We’re sitting in one of the palace’s TV lounges, this one only for the royal family and their guests. Some show is playing on the TV, but instead, I’m trying to tell my sister about what’s happening.
“You have a custom shoe, then,” Aurora deadpans. “Can’t be many of those in a city of several million.”
“It’s all I have!” I nearly shout. “I’ve got her first name and her shoes. I didn’t get her last name, her phone number, her address.”
“Maybe she’ll contact you,” Aurora suggests, always reasonable.
I sigh again and run one hand through my hair.
“I think she’s in trouble,” I mutter.
Aurora looks at me.
“What?”
“I think there’s something wrong,” I say. “I don’t know, she was... a little weird a few times, like something was off.”
“Or this mystery girl you boned last night is a little weird,” Aurora says, shrugging. “At least you’re smart enough to wrap it up.”
I go dead silent.
“Grayson.”
I can’t even meet Aurora’s eyes.
“Did you—”
She stops suddenly, looking around the room.
“Did you fuck some crazy nameless girl without a condom?”
“She’s probably on the pill or something,” I mutter.
“Oh my god,” Aurora says, covering her face with both hands. “Oh my God. You’re going to have a bastard. It’s gonna fuck up the line of succession, you moron, there’s gonna be a civil war in fifty years and it’s gonna be because the legendary Idiot King Grayson the First boned a crazy chick.”
I don’t even have it in me to argue with Aurora. My little sister has always been the reasonable one, the one who was studious and smart in school, my solid rock through my wild life. When she was in a coma after a car accident a couple of years ago, I was a total mess until she woke up, but she did — miraculously unharmed.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I just... I just need to find her, Aurora.”
Her face softens, even though she rolls her eyes a little.
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d start by taking those shoes to strip joints,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows at her, opening my mouth, but she holds up one hand.
“I don’t want to insinuate anything, but have you looked at them? Look at them. Those aren’t regular people shoes. Just trust me.”
I heave yet another sigh, and stand up.
“I do,” I say. “Thanks, Rory.”
She makes a face as I leave, because she hates it when I call her Rory.
Chapter Twenty-FIve
Ella
Two Weeks Later
I open the fridge, grab the pitcher of margaritas, and pour Slade another one. My monitoring bracelet clanks against my ankle as I walk, a constant, heavy reminder of what’s happened.
Livia happened. That’s what. When I came home that morning, she knew. She saw me at the ball and she watched me disappear with the Prince and never come back, and she was furious.
She screamed that she owned me, that I was common dirt and not fit for royalty, that all I was good for was cooking and cleaning. She told me I’d never amount to anything, I’d never get out of her house, and my debt would never be repaid.
Then, to add insult to injury, she put this anklet on me. It’s for house arrest, but she’s either paid off or fucked half the police department, so two officers stood there and watched while she put it on me.
There was no escape. There’s never been any escape.
Slade doesn’t even look at me when I deliver her the margarita, just keeps her eyes closed as she bakes in the sun. I can practically smell her roasting.
I’m no sooner back in the kitchen than the doorbell rings, and I blink in surprise. We hardly ever have visitors — it’s not like these three are capable of close friendships — so I hesitate a moment before moving toward the front door to answer it.
Seconds later, Livia pushes past me, turning as she walks.
“Ella,” she commands. “Basement. Now.”
I hesitate, thinking that maybe she’ll bustle off without waiting for me to hide, and I can stay near. Maybe it’s Flynn, wondering where I’ve been for two weeks. It could even be cops that Livia hasn’t paid off, looking for me.
But she stands there, glaring, and I head to the basement door, walk down a few of the creaky wooden stairs, and shut it behind me, sitting down so I can listen at the door.
There are two people, it sounds like, and I think they’re both men but it’s hard to tell. The front door is pretty far from the basement door, so sound is muffled at best and obliterated at worst. It takes them a while, but eventually they seem to leave. I don’t hear their car drive away — too far, I guess — but after a long time, the door opens.
For some reason, I get my hopes up, that maybe they arrested Livia and now it’s the police or maybe even Grayson himself coming to rescue me.
But it’s not. It’s her, glaring icy daggers at me, like I’ve done something to upset her just by sitting here in the dark.
“Come out,” she snaps, and I walk up the few stairs again, not even bothering to look at her.
“The chandelier needs to be cleaned before you go to bed tonight,” she says, her voice hard-edged.
I just close my eyes and don’t respond. The chandelier takes me hours to clean, it’s already the late afternoon, and I have to make dinner.
“Okay,” I say, my voice listless.
Whatever her problem is, she’s won. I had one night of fun, and now apparently, I’ll be paying for it forever.
But it’s okay. It was worth it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grayson
Another Week Later
The Chief Investigator, Jacques, pulls into the parking lot of the Hot Lips Lounge with me in the passenger seat. It’s late afternoon, late enough for the performers to be there but not late enough for it to be crowded.
“You ready for this?” Jacques asks, sounding tired and weary. He didn’t sound like that when we were going to strip club after strip club, searching for the owner of these shoes.
I’m positive that Ella was born female, but I’m grasping at straws. Maybe a drag queen at least knows something.
“Let’s do this,” I say, and we get out of the car.
At the front door, we’re greeted by a drag queen whose heavily made up eyes instantly go wide when she sees us. I don’t even have to introduce myself, she just curtsies almost to the ground,
despite her high heels.
I’m kind of impressed. Those things look dangerous. Jacques holds up a shoe.
“Would you happen to have any idea whether these belong to a performer here?” he asks, his voice flat.
She purses her lips.
“They sure could. A little small for a queen, though.”
The drag queen looks me up and down, then bats her eyelashes.
“Want to come backstage and ask around, sweetie? I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
Jacques opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s going to say no so I step in front of him, cutting him off.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say, and we follow her to the back of the club.
“These might be Madeline’s,” says Minx July, a saucy redhead in a shimmering purple dress. “She’s got tiny little feet. Hey, Madeline! Girl, are these yours?”
A small, raven-haired queen in a short green dress sashays over, and when she sees the shoes, her face lights up.
“Yes, they are, where on earth have these beauties been? I swear I let Charlize borrow them a couple of weeks ago and that whore never gave them back—”
“Who’s Charlize?” I cut in, my heart suddenly pounding. It’s the first good news we’ve gotten since we started searching, the first time anyone’s had a clue about these shoes.
“She’s our weekend headliner,” Madeline says, giving me back the shoe and tilting her head. “Come on, she’s this way.”
Charlize is an Amazon in a blonde wig carefully dabbing lipstick on with a delicate brush, if drag queens can be Amazons. She turns to us when we walk up to her.
“Oh my Jesus,” she says, and curtsies. “Your Highness, I had no idea you were going to be here tonight.”
“I’m afraid we’re not here for the show,” I say, my whole body finally vibrating with excitement.
We’re close. I can feel it. After weeks of having no luck at all, of thinking that maybe I’d lost my mind, we’re finally close.
“Can I help you with something else?” Charlize asks, tilting her head to one side.
Jacques holds up the shoe, and Charlize gasps.
“You found that little tart!” she exclaims. “I borrowed those when I shouldn’t have, and she got me into hot water with Madeline, let me tell you—”
“Ella?” I practically shout. “I need to find the girl who borrowed these, it’s incredibly important. Please, if you can tell me anything at all.”
Charlize looks surprised at my sudden outburst, and one hand drifts to her chest.
“Sweet little thing. She’s a good friend of my boyfriend’s, and she has this terrible stepmother who’s basically enslaved her, and she needed an outfit for a ball...”
Her eyes widen, and I can practically see her putting two and two together.
“I met her at the ball,” I say quietly. “She left without saying goodbye, and I’ve been looking for her ever since. I’d give anything to find her.”
Charlize already has her phone out, dialing a number.
“Flynn, baby, it’s me,” she says, her voice surprisingly calm. “Prince Grayson is here asking about Ella. Think you can help?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ella
I stare at the calendar hanging in the kitchen, chewing on the inside of my lip. I feel like an alligator has my insides in its jaws, and it’s trying to crush me to death.
I’m pretty sure my period’s a week late. I say pretty sure because I’ve never kept track all that well — it happened about once a month, everything always seemed normal, and I was definitely not getting pregnant, so I didn’t bother.
Now I wish I had. I think I’d give almost anything to go back in time and write down when I started my last period, because I wish I knew whether I was giving myself an ulcer over nothing.
I try to tell myself that I’m remembering wrong, and it’s just because of stress that I haven’t gotten it yet. Stress is probably also why everything I’ve eaten in the last week has made me feel mildly nauseous, and why my breasts hurt so bad that rolling over wrong in bed wakes me up.
Getting pregnant your first time would be crazy, I tell myself. What are the odds? Chill out.
Not to mention that I’m terrified of what Livia might do to me if I were pregnant.
Speaking of the devil, she walks into the kitchen and stands imperiously in the doorway.
“Basement, now,” she spits.
“Can’t I just be quiet? Dinner will burn—”
“Was I unclear?” she snaps.
I turn off the burners on the stove, wiping my hands on a towel. She stands there, glaring at me, until she’s interrupted by someone knocking on the door.
No. They’re not knocking. They’re pounding on the door. Even Livia jumps, and for once she actually looks shaken.
“Basement!” she orders, just as the pounding begins again. I put the towel down on the counter and walk toward the basement door, only to be interrupted.
“LIVIA TREMAINE, THE ROYAL GUARD DEMANDS THAT YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW.”
My mouth falls open and my heart leaps into my throat.
It’s Grayson.
Livia turns pale, then bright red, and she marches toward me, her icy eyes narrowing.
“Get the fuck into that basement or I swear I’ll—”
The pounding starts again, and now I can hear footsteps coming down the stairs like a drunk elephant.
“Jesus, Mom,” Slade is saying. “Where the fuck is Ella, can’t she do her job for once? I’m trying to sleep.”
Livia whirls around, her eyes wide and panicked.
“Slade, do not open—”
The hinges creak.
“Huh?” Slade says.
“Where’s Livia Tremaine?” Grayson barks.
Livia lunges for me, taking me totally by surprise. Before I can move she’s grabbed me by the hair and yanks me backwards, nearly knocking me off my feet as she pulls me toward the basement door.
“Ow!” I yelp.
“ELLA!”
Feet stomp through the foyer. Slade makes an oof noise, and Livia just grits her teeth and drags me harder.
“I’m here!” I shout, my voice sounding strangled, my eyes burning with tears.
“Shut up, you stupid tramp,” Livia growls as I put my hands around her wrist, trying to get her off of me.
I can feel my hair coming out by the roots, the pain white-hot and searing as I stumble backwards along the kitchen floor.
“Let me go!” I shout, and in that instant, the kitchen door bursts open.
Grayson’s standing there, several uniformed men behind him. He doesn’t say anything, but in three steps he’s across the kitchen, and Livia lets me go just before he reaches her, and I stumble.
It doesn’t matter.
“You’re a fucking monster!” he shouts, and shoves her as hard as he can. She falls back against a wall, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look terrified.
Grayson advances toward her, a vein ticking in his forehead.
“I should beat you until you’re as ugly on the outside as you are inside,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “I should—”
“Grayson,” I say, both hands on my head, trying to make sure she didn’t rip my scalp off.
He turns, and instantly, his face softens. I swallow hard, because there are tears streaming down my face and I have no idea what’s happening.
“Ella,” he murmurs, and the next thing I know he’s wrapped me in his arms and I’m tight against his chest. “Ella, I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you.”
I hug him back as hard as I can, burying my face in him, breathing in his scent — leather and stone, mixed with just a little bit of musk.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
“You just left,” he says. “And I didn’t know your last name, where you lived, anything. I kept trying the diner, but since Livia owns it...”
The uniformed men are surrounding her now, and I can hear her pl
eading over their low, stern voices telling her that she’s arrested for kidnapping, human trafficking, and a whole host of other things I can’t make out.
“You were looking for me?” I ask, pulling back so we’re face-to-face.
“Of course,” he says, his eyes searching mine, and a small frown furrows his brow. “I told you I was yours, Ella. I meant it.”
I have no idea what to say, but my eyes fill with tears again.
“I didn’t think... I mean, I’ve read the papers, and...”
I bite my lip, because there’s no good way to phrase you’ve got a reputation for going through women like a hot knife through butter and I thought you were lying to me because of that to the man who just spent three weeks tearing apart his own kingdom to find you.
But Grayson just grins, then kisses me gently, his lips soft and warm against mine. I kiss back greedily, hungrily, like he’s a freshwater spring and I’ve been in the desert for weeks.
“That was all before you,” he whispers when we pull away. “You changed everything, Ella.”
The uniformed men take Livia away, out of the room. Peyton and Slade are screeching, so they’re probably also in handcuffs, and for just an instant, I feel bad.
Then Grayson kisses me again, and I feel less bad. I let one hand drift to my belly, and I wonder if I should tell him.
Not yet, I think. You’re not even sure.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Grayson
She comes back with me. I insist on it. I’ve gone long enough without her, and I’m not letting her stay here, alone, in this enormous house that’s haunted with memories of her evil stepmother.
The poor thing only brings two suitcases, and when I tell her that I’ll send someone back for the rest, she just shrugs.