Chapter 17 – Marcella
MARCELLA
Ijolt awake to frantic knocking on my door. My room is pitch black, and I can tell the sun isn’t rising yet. More knocking, and I practically fall out of bed, calling out an “I’m coming” as I snatch my sweatshirt from the chair in the corner and throw it on before I open the door.
“Thank God you’re up!” Jennine, one of the cooks, exclaims.
“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Half past five. We’ve got a situation that requires immediate attention.”
“Okay. Give me five minutes, and I’ll meet you down in the staff room.”
“Perfect! Thank you!”
She races off, and I shut the door to get myself dressed and ready.
I’ve taken to wearing black pants and shirts—what Emily typically wears—since my dresses were cut up.
I slept like shit last night, my thoughts impossibly heavy.
I never snuck out to the king’s office. I never went to hack his system.
Instead I lay in bed thinking over and over about all the things Samil told me over the years about King Sebastian and the royal family.
All the things Antonia and Signoria Batorini have told me. Even things my father told me.
I was also stuck on what Bellamy said. The king relayed to her what Samil had said about wanting the children dead. Who’s to say he’s not lying to make himself look better after what happened between them?
I don’t know who or what to believe anymore. It’s rattling me. I need to believe my brother didn’t lie to me. I’m not sure I can handle the alternative.
I make it down to the servants’ quarters and find four others here, including Raul and Marsha.
“What’s the problem?” I ask Jennine since she’s the one who came to me first.
“The laundry delivery that was supposed to come in last night never came,” she tells me. “And it appears the order was changed to arrive tonight at nine.”
“What? I didn’t change it.”
She shrugs. “They said you did. It’s on the form in their system, order changed by Marcella Russo.”
Motherfucker. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“The prime minister and his aide are still here,” Raul jumps in. “How are we supposed to care for them and tend to their rooms if we don’t have fresh linens and towels?”
“Let me get on the phone with them and see what happened. I’m sure we can make something work. For now, we can take from unused rooms, do a quick wash, and reset everything in those two rooms.”
Sara, another housekeeper, nods. “Yes. Good idea. I can get started on that now.” She leaves us, and I release a tense breath. At least someone is willing to help and get things right.
“Fine, but what are we supposed to tell the prime minister when he comes asking for fresh towels?”
I squint at Raul, one of my three stooges. “We replaced them yesterday, Raul, and typically we supply enough towels for them to get through the morning without an issue.”
“I don’t know why you had to go and change the order,” Marsha mutters under her breath, though intentionally loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I didn’t,” I press, my tone firm. “Clearly there was an error.”
She makes a dismissive noise. “Yeah, another error. How many does that make this week?”
“I agree. These continued mistakes only seem to have started since you took charge.”
“Marsha, Raul, while I appreciate that you’re both puppy hurt that you didn’t win best in show, how about instead of standing here petulantly whining about it, you get to work and do your jobs? And no, that’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.”
“Fucking bitch,” Marsha snaps, again under her breath, but thankfully, both she and Raul leave.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of them because they’ve been talking all kinds of trash about you behind your back, but the lunch order for the king, the prime minister, Lady Althea, and the prime minister’s aide didn’t populate this morning either, and when I refreshed it, it was completely different and included a dish with peanut sauce, which the prime minister is allergic to.
We also don’t have enough linens to get us through lunch and dinner service. ”
I close my eyes. “Linens aside, I double-checked the menu yesterday afternoon when I returned from the festival.”
Jennine shrugs. “I don’t know what to say.”
I grit my teeth. “I went over it with Margarite, so she should hopefully have an idea of what was on the original menu. I’ll go into the system and see what I can figure out, and I’ll get on the phone with the linens company immediately.”
“Great. Thanks.” Jennine scurries off, likely to handle breakfast for the royal family and our guests, and I get to work on all the fires that need putting out.
Something is sticking with me, though. This is the third or fourth issue that’s happened in the system, but they’re showing up as changes I made.
I’m logged into Emily’s iPad under my credentials.
Who else knows the code to unlock Emily’s iPad?
Once they’re in there, it would be easy enough to make changes under my name.
Emily had her surgery on Friday and is still in the hospital.
The last thing I want to do is burden her with any of this.
She’s set to come home to her new quarters by the end of the week.
I can change the login code on the iPad and tell her about it then.
I also need to make a thousand percent sure that everything is set and in place for her.
Dammit! I never should have gone to the festival yesterday. I knew it too.
After I change the password, I set to work on fixing all the issues.
Thankfully, Margarite had already printed out a copy of the lunch menu because she is, and I quote, old school and works better with paper than a tablet.
Works for me. Lunch crisis averted, but how fucked is it that someone tried to give the prime minister something he’s allergic to?
I’m far from an innocent lamb in anything, but that’s beyond trying to make me look bad. That’s straight up potentially killing an innocent. Maybe they assumed it’d be caught, and I’d simply look incompetent? I don’t know. But it’s still fucked.
The linens are another matter, and the owner of the company says he can get them here by twelve. Let’s pray he’s on time because lunch service is at twelve-thirty. Once that’s all done, I head across the palace to the family side, keeping my eyes and ears open for Esme, Marsha, or Raul.
I have no proof that it’s actually them doing this. Just my suspicions, but damn do I wish I did. Revenge would be so sweet.
I finish the king and queen’s suite and the king’s office and study without any issues.
The king’s laptop isn’t here. It must be with him, so I don’t have the option to snoop or hack.
Sara managed to wash two sets of towels and linens she took from empty bedrooms and has made up the prime minister’s and his aide’s rooms. Just as I start to relax, a voice in the hall stops me.
“Hey, can I ask a favor?” Alice, the housekeeper who typically does Rowan’s, the children’s, and Althea’s rooms, questions.
“Of course.”
“I have a massive migraine hitting me. Lady Althea’s and the children’s rooms are done, but would you mind attending to the prince’s for me? I can’t handle the smell of cleaner and just need to lie down for a bit. I have medicine in my room I can take, which should help, and I swear by tomorrow—”
“It’s fine,” I cut her off, even if it’s not fine. “I understand. Go rest up and feel better.”
A grateful smile partially turns up her lips. “Thank you so much. I changed the sheets on the prince’s bed yesterday, so he just needs the bed made and the room tidied.”
“Got it.”
She takes off for her quarters, and now I’m stuck having to clean Rowan’s room. A place I’ve avoided like the plague. His study is difficult enough.
The door opens, and I’m instantly assaulted with the scent of him, all masculine and woodsy and freaking delicious.
It’s one thing to be near him and smell it.
It’s another to be immersed in it. I start with his bathroom, hoping to find it disgusting so there can finally be something about him that turns me off.
But no.
It’s not disgusting. The toilet seat is up, but that’s about as far as it goes here. Everything is neat and organized, and it doesn’t take me longer than five minutes to clean and reorganize his space.
His bedroom is large with a light wood four-poster king-sized bed, two nightstands, a brown leather bench at the foot of the bed, and a dresser and desk that match his bed.
I pick up the couple of items he has on the floor and put them into the laundry bag to be sent down, give everything a fresh dusting, and lastly, make his bed.
The drawer on his nightstand is slightly open, and I go to close it but stop when something inside catches my eye. After checking that no one is here and there’s no sound, I open the drawer wider and gasp. Holy shit, it’s my earring. Or Signoria Batorini’s earring, I should say.
I told Antonia I had lost one of them, but she said “earrings” to Signoria—meaning the pair—and I never corrected her. I was getting a beating anyway. Might as well keep what I had. Call it payment for fifteen years of indentured servitude and years of abuse.
I assumed it had fallen out in his suite, but I was hoping it happened after I made my escape.
No such luck. I pick it up, holding it in the palm of my hand.
Heat prickles the back of my neck. He kept it.
And he drew pictures of us from that night.
I’d figured it meant nothing to him. He is Prince Rowan after all. The very definition of a playboy.
But the earring…the pictures.
I hate how much I like that he drew those pictures. That he kept my earring and has it in his bedside table. No condoms in here. Not even lube.
I can’t take it. He’ll know.
I wish he hadn’t kept it. I wish he hadn’t drawn those pictures. I wish I didn’t feel the way I do when I’m around him.
With a mental headshake, I put the earring back and close the drawer.
The sheets are a bit rumpled, and his pillows are in disarray.
My hand runs along the silky sheets where he slept, feeling like a total creeper, but not stopping either.
Memories of him from that night swarm me.
He teased me yesterday about how I was a ride virgin, and I teased him back about popping my cherry, but that’s exactly what he did.
The way he thrust inside me makes me shiver. His mouth. His hands. His voice. His words. I’ve made myself come over and over to thoughts of that night, and being in here now is doing things to me.
I force myself to get back to work and finish making his bed. His pillows are large and soft, and like a girl who knows better, I bring one up to my face, smiling softly to myself in the way you do when you’re doing something naughty, something forbidden, and no one knows about.
Except that’s the moment Rowan enters his bedroom and finds me with my face in his pillow.
“Well, well. Look at this.”
Oh god.
The pillow falls from my hands, landing with a gentle thud. My heart takes off at a sprint, and my adrenaline-frazzled mind works circuits to come up with a plausible explanation, only to fail. He saw me. He knows what I was doing. There is no talking myself out of that.
“Sir—” I stop short as he enters and shuts the door behind him with a deafening click.
I don’t move. I hardly breathe. He steps deeper into the room. The tap of his shoes on the wood becomes softer as he reaches the carpet beneath his bed, and my body stiffens.
My hair being swept over one shoulder makes me jump, and his hot breath by my ear has me biting into my lip.
“Were you smelling my pillow?”
“Your Highness, I—”
A hard smack to my ass jolts me forward, my hands planting into the mattress to break my fall, but now my ass is pointed back to him like an offering.
It’s funny, in all the ways I’ve been hit, no one has ever spanked me before.
But the thought of him hitting me, punishing me, sends a frisson of fear through me.
I hold bone still, not even my chest rising or falling with the need to take in extra air.
He moves in behind me. His hard cock presses against my ass as he leans over me, eliciting a gasp I attempt and fail to suppress. I was wet and turned on before he walked in, but feeling him like this…
His hands are on either side of mine, and his body is completely against me as he brings his mouth back to my ear.
“I’ve asked you to call me Rowan.”
I gulp. “Yes, si—Rowan,” I correct. I’m trembling. I’ve been hit by women, and their brutality is fierce. I’ve never experienced a man. His sheer muscular strength alone could tear me in two.
“Better. Did you like how I smell?”
My eyes pinch tight, my fists clenching the bed. “Yes. I liked it.”
“I like how you smell, too.” He takes a deep inhale of the space beneath my ear, and I whimper, half aroused, half in fear, unable to stop my reaction to him.
He chuckles, the sound warm as it rustles my hair.
“Marcella, Marcella, such a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Where is the person who normally cleans my room?”
“Sick, Yo—” I stop myself. “I filled in.”
“Once again, I catch you touching things you shouldn’t.”
“My apologies. It won’t happen—”
He smacks my ass again just as hard as he did the first time, but now he rubs the sting away with his cock. My eyes roll back. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t like anything he’s doing, and I need to stop him.
But I don’t. I keep my hands on the bed and let him do what he wants to me because it’s exactly what I want too.
“Somehow, I doubt that. I think we both know you like it and would do it again if I hadn’t caught you. You don’t seem to be able to help yourself. Have you been this bad when cleaning other rooms?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Good girl.”
Jesus. The way he says this, the sound of his voice, that low, sensual rasp, is more than I can take. My mind grows fuzzy and soft. I think I’d do just about anything for him to call me that again.
“Why are you shaking like this? I won’t hurt you, sweetheart. At least not more than you’ll want me to.”
I suck in my whimper, refusing to allow it past my lips.
His hand drags up and down my side from my hip to the side of my breast. “You’ve touched my things. I think it’s only fair I get to touch you in return.”