by Sky Corgan
Resigned to the realization that Fynn's entire staff sees me as nothing but an outsider and a burden, I place my food order for breakfast, eat my meal, and then do my best to stay out of everyone's way.
I explore the house like a timid mouse hiding from a cat, sticking to the walls whenever I see someone coming and carefully peeking into rooms before I enter them. I find a living space with a bar and treat myself to a drink. I'm not of drinking age yet, but I don't think that matters here. More than likely, no one is going to try to stop me. Fynn said I could do whatever I want, and I'm sure he left that order with his servants.
I drink my cocktail at the bar, a combination of liquors and mixers—what they would call a suicide if it were a fountain drink. Somehow, it doesn't turn out half bad, and I briefly wonder if a bartender has ever come up with a similar concoction.
Once I finish my drink, wash my glass, and put everything back as it was, I tipsily continue exploring the rest of the house. I find a home theater and spend a good thirty minutes trying to figure out how the projector works before I put on a movie and just chill out for the next few hours.
This is definitely luxury, I think as I take a seat in the middle row and prop my feet up on the chair in front of me. Lifestyles of the rich and famous. I wonder if there's a home theater in the palace. Probably. This place may look like a castle with all of its excessive rooms, but I've seen images of the palace on television. It's at least ten times bigger. While this room is large enough to seat a dozen people, if the palace has a theater, it will be as big as a commercial one.
I drift between the movie and daydreaming about what my life will be like once I'm a princess. What does a princess do exactly? I know that they make lots of public appearances and support charities. That's what I want to do, I decide. If it's within my power, I want to help people as much as possible—give some meaning to my life. And I don't want to just hide inside the palace and help from afar, either. I want to be hands-on. Make the world a better place. It's the least I can do with this opportunity that's just been given to me on a silver platter. And I'll get our children involved too so that they'll grow up to be good people.
Our children. I scrub my hand over my stomach, wondering if I'm pregnant already. Kids had never been in my life plan until now. I had always been too busy just trying to survive, to get from one day to the next. Even before the war, supporting myself was my only concern. But now there are other possibilities...thanks to Fynn.
I watch another movie then continue my exploration of the house. The next interesting room I come across is a library. There are tons of books on film and philosophy, but the section that interests me the most is an entire bookshelf dedicated to children's books that are meticulously arranged by age group. I smile as I skim through the titles, everything from The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Harry Potter. I wonder if the palace has a similar selection. Probably.
I pull down Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? and open it, getting swept away in nostalgia. My adopted parents didn't do a lot for us individually, but what they did do almost every night was get us all together for story time. It was easier for them to read to us all at once, so we'd all cram into my disabled brothers' bedroom and sit on the floor while they went in rotation through the dozen children's books that they owned. We didn't have to stay and listen if we didn't want to. Most of us were too old for whatever they were reading. But most of us did stay because it was the only family time we got.
Every Christmas they bought a new book to add to the mix. I remember being more excited about that than the clothes or whatever necessities ended up wrapped up for me under the tree.
As I look down the row of books on the shelf, I realize that every book my adopted parents ever owned is here. All their books and the ones that were read to me at school and even ones I haven't heard of. Before I even know what I'm doing, I'm collecting books in my arms and sitting on the floor to read them. There's a perfectly good chair in the room—several perfectly good chairs, actually. There's a children's table with four child-sized chairs around it. There's also a larger table and chairs for adults. I take a guess by the pile of board games stacked on one shelf that this is where the family held game nights. Otherwise, why would they need so many chairs?
Despite all the chairs, though, being close to the books trumps comfort. I sit and lean back against the bookshelf, opening the books and reading them one at a time, immersing myself in the fantasies of childhood. When I finish reading one stack of books, I stand, put them back where I found them, then pull out the next section, reading them all in order. I'm so engrossed in what I'm doing that I don't even look up until I hear someone speaking to me from the doorway.
“There you are,” a man's voice says. Not Fynn.
My eyes jerk up, instinctively assuming it's one of the servants. I know I missed lunch. That was hours ago. I hadn't bothered going down because I didn't want to be a burden. Besides, I'm used to not eating very much, and I had a large breakfast—enough to tide me over until dinner. Maybe one of them thought I had tried to run away and became concerned. I'm not sure whether Fynn would get angry at them or not if I left the house.
But when my eyes land on General Daniel Hansson, I realize that's not the case. That no one in this house cares about me but Fynn. Especially not this man. What is he doing here? Just seeing him causes my stomach to clench with discomfort.
I set down the book I was reading and stand, trying to show some level of respect. “Is something wrong?” I ask, immediately fearing that something might have happened to Fynn when he went to sweep the area where my camp was.
“Yes.” He glowers at me from the doorway.
“Is it Fynn? Is he okay?” I draw my hand up to my chest, trying to quell my heart's unsteady beating.
General Daniel Hansson's gaze drops to the floor. His jaw tenses, but I can't really discern his expression. He looks conflicted, angry and guilty all at the same time. “I'm sorry, but I can't allow this to happen.”
“Allow what?” A shiver zips up my spine. I pray I'm misreading him as I feel the room fill with murderous intent.
When I see him grip the handle of the knife on his hip and the silver blade catches the light, I know I'm not mistaken. He's come here to kill me.
I hold my hands up in surrender, backing up against the bookshelf. “Wait a minute. It doesn't have to go down this way. I could just leave.”
He takes a few steps forward. “We both know that wouldn't work. He would find you, wherever you go.”
He stops only a foot away, lifting the knife as if he plans to jam it into my stomach. My heart is about to beat out of my chest. General Daniel Hansson stares into my eyes with the tiniest bit of remorse as he says, “I'm sorry things had to be this way.”
Then he pushes the knife forward.
I gasp, my hands moving on autopilot. The impact shakes me, my wrists trembling. I close my eyes but know that I can't afford to hold them that way. Being blind means death, and right now I need to make sure I'm still okay. Right now, I need to run.
I look down at the blade only an inch from my stomach. It sliced right through the book I pulled from the shelf and thrust in front of me as a shield. It would have gone all the way through me if I hadn't acted quickly.
General Daniel Hansson's brow furrows, and he jerks the book aside. I use the second of distraction to slip around him and run for the door, screaming for help even though I doubt anyone will come to my aid. He's right on my heels, so close that I realize if I stumble and fall, it's all over for me. I head for the stairs, bounding down them three at a time. There's a whoosh of air behind me, and I feel the sting of the blade on my back. I don't know whether he stabbed me or just cut me, but I don't stop running. Adrenaline makes the pain disappear almost instantly, fight or flight response keeping me moving.
I wish I could have taken more time finding all the exits in this place. As it is, I only know of the front and back doors. I haven't explored the backyard yet, so it's probabl
y not my best route for escape. Not that there's any good route when the entire property is fenced off. With Fynn's servants likely on General Daniel Hansson's side, I can't help but wonder what the point of running is. They're not going to let me out. They might even try to help catch me so that General Daniel Hansson can end my life and their prince can move on and marry proper royalty.
I've felt helpless and hopeless before, but never like this. This place was supposed to be my safe haven. Instead, I've trapped myself, a rabbit in a den of wolves. They'll make me run until I'm out of energy, and then they'll strike, tearing out my throat.
I hazard a glance back to see how far away General Daniel Hansson is, wondering if I'll even have time to open the front door when I reach it. The answer is no. If I pause, I'm dead.
“Please stop,” I choke out as I continue to run, the door now in my view. It's not even loud enough to carry behind me. I doubt General Daniel Hansson would listen anyway. He's a man on a mission—a mission he's going to complete as soon as I reach the door.
This is it for me. The foyer might as well be a dead end. I could hang a right and end up in the drawing room, or hang a left and end up in a room with a grand piano. Going left will buy me a little bit of extra time if I can get on the opposite side of the piano from him. Then maybe I can rethink my escape. I decide that's the best option for me, seeing as how there are no large objects in the drawing room for me to hide behind.
Just when I'm about to make the sharp left turn, the front door opens. The cold wind sweeps in like a breath of fresh air, and I feel like an angel must be watching over me for me to have such luck. I make a beeline for the door, planning to bowl past whoever is trying to enter. If I can get past them, it might buy me some extra time if they block General Daniel Hansson's path.
No such luck. I run straight into a wall of muscle. Arms clutch around me, and tears sting my cheeks as I brace myself for the pain of death. I've been captured, and now I'm going to die.
The blade doesn't sink between my shoulder blades, though. I don't gasp my last breath as it plunges into my heart. Instead, I'm spun on my heels and nearly lose my balance. The arms that were holding onto me so tightly work to corral me behind the body I ran into. One quick glance up at the long strands of brown hair now in my face, and I realize who opened the door.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” Fynn's voice booms out in an angry yell.
One minute, his body is protectively close to me, the next, it's surging forward and away. I barely have time to process what's going on before I see him attack General Daniel Hansson. The knife clatters to the floor and is quickly replaced by the sounds of the skirmish. General Daniel Hansson is on the defense, backing away and trying to avoid the onslaught of punches being throw at him.
“I was only doing it to protect the crown,” General Daniel Hansson manages to get out before one of Fynn's punches connects with his face.
“Fuck the crown!”
I stand in the doorway, watching everything in complete disbelief, my hand glued to my chest as I try to still my unsteady breathing. General Daniel Hansson loses his balance and falls back onto the floor. Fynn descends and starts straddle-punching him, one sickening thud after another. General Daniel Hansson is doing his best to block, but his best isn't serving him so well. When Fynn pulls his arm back to hit him again, I can see the blood on his knuckles, though his body is shielding me from seeing General Daniel Hansson's face.
“You tried to kill my fiancée, you son of a bitch,” Fynn says breathlessly.
“Fynn, stop,” General Daniel Hansson chokes out.
Fynn stops finally, leaning back and taking in several deep breaths. “I'll make sure you never lay a hand on her again.” He reaches for the knife that General Daniel Hansson dropped and raises it with both hands.
My heart surges up into my throat as I realize I'm about to see him murder someone. “Fynn, no.” I rush forward to stop him, grabbing onto his arms so that he can't swing down.
“No?” He glances back at me, his forehead beaded with perspiration, his eyes wild. “This son of a bitch tried to kill you.” He gazes back down at General Daniel Hansson with nothing but malice. “The punishment for that is death.”
“Don't kill him,” I beg. “He was only trying to protect your family.”
Fynn snorts, jerking his hands away from me. For a moment, I'm worried he's going to kill General Daniel Hansson anyway, but then he lowers the knife to his side.
“Do you see that?” he says to General Daniel Hansson. “She just saved your life. You were going to kill her, and she repaid you by saving your life.” He leans down and grips General Daniel Hansson's face, digging his fingers into his skin and cracking his skull against the floor a final time. “You remember that.”
I make room as Fynn stands. General Daniel Hansson's face is a bloody mess. His nose is broken, and he's missing a tooth. My stomach rolls from the bloody scene, and I have to turn away, though I still watch General Daniel Hansson in my peripheral vision. Both men are panting, and it takes General Daniel Hansson several moments before he finally pulls himself up into a sitting position.
“Your father is going to hear about this,” General Daniel Hansson tells Fynn like a fucking idiot. Does the guy have a death wish?
“Tell him. By the time he gets here, there will be nothing he can do about it.” Fynn flanks my side. “Now get the fuck out of my house, and if you ever try anything like this again, I swear to fucking God I'll flay you alive myself.”
General Daniel Hansson grits his teeth in pain as he stands and dusts himself off. He gives me one final menacing look before he brushes past Fynn to leave.
“Are you alright?” All of the anger fades from Fynn's eyes as he turns to me. “He didn't hurt you, did he?” He clutches onto my arms and looks me over with concern.
“I'm not sure.” I wince as I move my shoulder. Now that the adrenaline is dying down, I can feel the pain from where General Daniel Hansson lashed out at me. “Check my back. I think he cut me or stabbed me or something.” I turn so that my back is towards him.
Fynn examines the wound and then sighs in relief. “It's just a little cut.”
“It doesn't feel little.” I glance at him over my shoulder.
“A little cut that's going to need stitches.” He offers me a regretful smile. “But it's not life-threatening.”
“Thank God.” I exhale deeply.
Fynn spins me back around and pulls me into his arms, crushing me against his chest. “I'm so sorry, Anya. If I had known...” I can hear him choking up.
“It's alright.” I rub his back. “You're not a mind reader.”
“No, but I should have known something was up when he didn't want to come on the sweep after I volunteered to lead it. I thought he was just going to work on something else. If there's one thing Daniel doesn't like to do, it's waste time. There was no reason for both of us to go on the sweep, so there was no reason for me to suspect that he was up to something.”
In hindsight, this was my fault for asking Fynn to go on the sweep. I want to tell him that, but I know he'll just argue with me about it, so instead, I decide to change the subject. “Were my people gone?”
“Yes.” He lets me go and nods. “I'm not sure where they moved to, but I didn't go looking either.”
“Good.” I step in and rest my head against his chest, feeling exhausted from all that running and panicking.
“I'll have one of the medics sent over to tend to that wound. You rest for now.” Fynn rakes his fingers through my hair.
“You should probably have him look at your fists, too.” I glance down at his bloody knuckles.
“You're more important.” He kisses the top of my head, inhaling my scent. “You'll always be more important.”
CHAPTER TEN
FYNN
My heart aches as I watch the medic stitch Anya's wound up. She didn't deserve this. I'm not even sure I could be angry if she wanted to leave me, not that I'd allow it. Than
kfully, she doesn't want to leave.
She worries over me as the medic tends to my knuckles. Adrenaline kept me from feeling any pain until he poured hydrogen peroxide on the wounds and began to clean the peeled skin away. Two of the knuckles on my right hand are split open from hitting Daniel so hard. The bastard is lucky I didn't kill him.
After we're both tended to, the medic leaves, and Anya and I simply hold each other for several minutes before lying in bed and holding each other some more. There's a strange silent shock running between us. I've apologized to her a million times, and she's said little in return except that it wasn't my fault. Maybe it wasn't, but I feel like it was.
I only came back after the sweep to report to Anya that the area was clear and that her people had moved on. I still had work to do. Telling her could have waited until the end of the day. I'm glad I came back, though. If I hadn't...I don't even want to think about what would have happened. I'm just thankful that whatever Daniel was doing instead of the sweep had kept him occupied long enough that he wasn't able to get away until later. If he had come right after I left for the sweep, I'd be burying my fiancée right now instead of cuddling her in our bed. Imagining that makes my heart throb with pain—makes me pull her tighter against me and never want to let her go.
“I'm not going to the encampment tomorrow,” I say absentmindedly, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“Fynn, you have to.” Anya looks at me over her naked shoulder. As soon as the medic left, I stripped her bare. She argued with me for a moment, but then settled when I told her it was because she didn't need any material rubbing against her wound. I know she thought I was just trying to be a pervert, and maybe that was part of the reason. I love seeing her naked, touching her silky skin that my fingers were denied for all of those long weeks of watching her from afar. Now, I can't get enough of it—can't get enough of her.