Chapter 11 – Marcella
MARCELLA
Emily has the palace honed into a well-oiled machine that I can’t allow to lapse, even for a moment.
Truthfully, I’m in over my head, and as a result, I wake early after going to bed late.
All that aside, somewhere near midnight, with Jaqueline’s conversation still lingering on my mind, I had a thought.
I can keep the money I earn here.
I can keep my new name and credentials too. And when I’m done at the palace, I can take Jaqueline, and together we can leave Messalina, Antonia, and Signoria Batorini behind.
I can go out into the world. I can get a real job.
How can they stop me? What are they going to do?
I was beholden to them with no way out, but now, my options are open.
They’re the ones who paid off the necessary people in order for me to get the credentials, so it’s not like they can say or do anything about it.
Their hands are just as dirty as mine.
The truth is, they’ll kill me if I attempt it. But maybe I can broker our release. Maybe I can work out a deal. I have to try. If I can’t, I’ll complete my assignment here and kill them. I can’t go back to that life. Not after living in this one and knowing what’s out there.
Once that thought took residence within me, that small taste of eventual freedom, I fell asleep.
I can do this job. I can do anything I set my mind to.
I can deal with petty assholes and avoid Rowan easily enough.
Adding to that, the chief of security, Emily’s husband, is with her at the hospital, so I’ll have a bit more freedom from that to get things done.
The king, queen, Rowan, and Althea rise early. The king and Rowan go to the main gym or run the trail while the queen and Althea have regular yoga sessions together. The children get up shortly after that, and they all have breakfast together in the breakfast room most mornings.
It’s during that time that I’m to ensure that the king’s office, study, and Rowan’s office are ready for the day.
The bedrooms are done after that. I have my trolley full of supplies and tackle the king’s quarters first. I don’t have access to his computer, nor can I even attempt that now, and the documents he has out aren’t of much interest. Simply matters of state that require attending to.
Nothing scandalous or even juicy. I also don’t take pictures or read anything all that carefully.
I don’t know where—if there are any—the cameras are in this room. Snooping will have to come later once I’m more comfortable that I can get away with it.
After I finish with the king’s space, I move on to Rowan’s study. This and his bedroom are the two places I’m least excited to enter. I don’t want the view into his life any more than I already have.
On first breath, it’s not what I expected.
It’s simple without a lot of fanfare. It has a large mahogany desk with things strewn on it, a comfy-looking brown leather sofa, two chairs, an open gas fireplace, and a table and chairs by the window.
His wooden bookshelves that match his desk are mostly empty save for a few ancient-looking tomes about Messalina that I surmise are ubiquitous on every bookshelf in the palace.
I don’t like being in here. It smells like him, first of all, but touching his stuff feels like I’m touching him. It wasn’t like this in the king’s space, and his was far more lived in and filled with things like family pictures and paintings on the walls and an old mug of half-drunk coffee.
I start with dusting, making sure everything is pristine, but mostly so I can wash out the scent of his cologne with beeswax and citrus.
But when I get to his desk, I can’t help but study it in ways I didn’t the king’s.
Papers are scattered across his desk that appear to have been ripped out of a sketchbook, along with pencils and charcoals worn down to the nubs.
I look at the torn pages, trying not to disturb them as I clean.
They’re sketches, which I didn’t expect.
Most are objects or landscapes. There are a few of the children, and one is with the king and queen.
All of them are incredible, so lifelike, and I had no clue that Prince Rowan had an artistic side, let alone real talent.
I continue on, going from paper to paper when I spot a leather portfolio tucked beneath his laptop and some other items.
I shouldn’t touch it.
My job is to clean, but I’m not exactly a maid, am I?
I glance at the door, curiosity taking over common sense as I listen for footsteps and hear nothing. Then I mark the walls and ceilings, searching for anything that could possibly be a camera, and when I come up empty, I slip it out and carefully open it.
God, this is so stupid. And I hate that I care enough to do this. I hate that there’s still a part of me that thinks about him. Is intrigued.
It’s more charcoal sketches, but when I get to the second page, my heart stops, and my jaw drops. It’s me. Or rather, it’s Ella, the version of me from the wedding, complete with dark hair, dark eyes, a lot of makeup, and a beautiful gown. Jesus.
It looks like me, and yet, thankfully, it doesn’t.
With a tremulous hand, I flip the page and find another, this one of me holding my martini and smiling. The next is…holy shit. It’s me, naked on his bed, my head thrown back in ecstasy, my legs spread, and my tits high.
Heat crawls up my skin, and I rub the back of my neck as I look at it closer and see his fingers in my pussy and the top of his head hovering close.
My empty core clenches, and my nipples tighten.
He drew me coming. I remember what that orgasm felt like.
How intense it was. The next page is of me on top of him, riding him.
I have a blissed-out smile on my face, and I look… happy. Lust-drunk and happy.
I can’t believe he drew these. Drew me. Drew us from that night.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I quickly shuffle the papers back in line, close the leather cover, and put the portfolio back where I found it. Only in my haste, I step back and knock into a large vase on the floor behind me that I hadn’t noticed.
Shit.
It begins to topple over, and I lunge for it, grasping it at the last second before it smashes.
I manage to set the white vase with blue paint back upright and release a relieved breath, only to start and practically drop the thing again when a voice from the doorway says, “That’s a Ming Dynasty piece. Glad you didn’t break it.”
Fuck!
I face Prince Rowan, my heart beating so hard and loud I’d be shocked if he couldn’t hear it. “Me too. Probably smart that you keep a priceless object on the floor where anyone could bump into it.”
Crap. I need to watch my mouth. But damn him, those photos and him finding me have me so flustered I can hardly catch my breath.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his broad chest as if he’s been watching me much longer than I hope he has been.
I didn’t check. I got sidetracked by his drawings.
He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tanned forearms.
“Emily never seemed to have a problem with it.”
“That you know of.”
He pushes off from the doorway and stalks toward me. So much for all that beeswax and citrus.
“What on my desk made you so jumpy that you knocked into my vase?”
My mouth goes dry. “Nothing, Your Highness. I was just cleaning around your desk.”
“Were you?” He takes in his sketches and other papers, the ones I left mostly untouched and in place.
“Of course. I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” His tone sharpens. “Didn’t look? Didn’t touch?”
“Actually, I did both.”
He chuckles lightly and angles toward me, his eyebrows raised. “Where did you look and touch?”
His voice is a soft purr, decadent like velvet or melted chocolate. The way he asks that after the drawings I just saw is not helping my nipple situation. I can’t tell if he saw me looking at his portfolio or not, so I point to the visible papers, my gaze holding firm on his.
“Do you make it a habit to touch and look at things that don’t belong to you?”
Asshole.
“No, sir. I don’t. I apologize for overstepping.” I shift away from him. “I was about finished in here anyway. I’ll let you have your study.”
I grab my trolley and head for the door when he stops me.
“Marcella?”
My eyes close. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Did you like them?”
I turn back to him. “Yes. I liked them. They’re very good.”
“Even the ones in the portfolio?”
Shit. He did see me.
“Yes. Even those.” There is no inflection in my tone, and my features stay neutral.
He rounds his desk and crosses the room to me.
I swallow thickly as he approaches, standing over me, the weight of his gaze heavy on my face.
I fight the urge to bite my lip or shift my position.
It’s also one hell of a battle to maintain eye contact, the tension so thick between us you could cut it with a knife.
“Maybe next time a little more cleaning and a little less touching.” He dips in toward my ear, and I swallow thickly. “Unless that’s what you’re after here.” His warm breath ghosts across my skin.
My jaw locks, and my fists ball up.
Cocky fucking ass.
“No, sir,” I grit out. “It’s not.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
I step back and nail him with my ire. “While I’m sure you’ve had women throw themselves at you, you won’t get that from me. I’m not the least bit interested in that.”
His blue eyes pierce into mine. “And yet my pictures made you blush so pretty.”
Bastard. He’s testing me again, but I’m more than done with him. This is the real Prince Rowan. Not the charming drunk guy I met at the wedding who made me feel decadent and special.
“Your Highness—”
“Rowan,” he corrects. “It’s not ‘sir’ or ‘Your Highness.’ Say it, scream it, yell it, whisper it. I don’t care—”
I shake my head, cutting him off. “I’m not calling you that again.”
“We’ll see. You’re dismissed.”
I spin on the balls of my feet, grip my trolley, and hightail it out of here.
With how he drew me, despite the disguise, I can’t help but wonder just how much the prince knows about me and isn’t letting on.