Chapter 22 – Marcella
MARCELLA
Goddamn, I’m so fucked. Literally. Figuratively. Whateverly. It’s all there, and it all boils down to one thing. One person, rather. Rowan.
He fucked me again before he snuck back into the palace. The irony of him sneaking out this time instead of me didn’t exactly make me smile. Nor did the aftermath of what happened between us.
The throat. The eye contact. The kissing of my scars. Every encounter with him is more intense than the last, which I didn’t think was possible.
He was snooping around my room, but I have to imagine that if he found the earring, he would have said something. Other than that, there’s nothing in there.
But why is he so distrustful?
Is it the curse? Is it from Samil and Charlotte, and now he’s naturally distrustful of everyone? He’s not this way with any of the other staff on the family side. It’s just me, and it doesn’t quite add up.
I lock my door when I leave my room. Always and without fail.
But I didn’t last night, and I didn’t because I was distracted.
I loved my brother. He was the only bright spot in my life after my father died, other than Jaqueline, and Jaqueline was often kept from me because of that.
Samil answered to no one and did what he pleased, and that included spending time with me.
Every villain has a story, and sometimes that story isn’t as evil as people imagine. His was baked in heartache. In jealousy. In grief and hatred. In a venom that necrotized his soul. But…I don’t know if I want to seek his justice anymore.
I can’t change the past. There is no revisionist history.
This is my life. I have to stop imagining what could have been.
What I wish it were. I don’t have a reset button as much as I wish I did.
I could have been so many pretty things.
A magical piece on the board that braved and vanquished adversaries.
And I would have made it all better. I would have.
No one’s death would be glued under my fingernails. I’d have no sins to atone for.
But that’s not how my story goes.
It’s black and bleak. The crawling earth nightmares derive from.
But with that, I know who I am. Or more likely, who I want to be.
I don’t want to snoop on the king’s computer.
I don’t want to find secrets he likely doesn’t have or plant ones he was never a part of.
I don’t want to destroy his family. I don’t know if the girls are his or Samil’s, but if they’re Samil’s, that would make them my blood too. More than that, I really like Bellamy.
That woman has been through it and yet somehow manages to greet every day, every interaction, with a smile and hope. It’s magic. It’s addictive. It makes me want to be…different. Have more. More than I ever thought I could.
So I was distracted last night and didn’t lock my door. I was in the shower thinking about my next steps. The choices I have to make for myself, Jaqueline, and our future.
Then Rowan happened and fucked me into a coma. Or maybe I simply needed a good night’s sleep, which isn’t something I’ve had for, well, likely ever but certainly not since I took over for Emily.
My day doesn’t start any better than it did yesterday.
I rise early, eat quickly, and make sure everything is in line with assignments and staff. It is. But by the time I’m ready to head upstairs to start my morning cleaning, there’s a text from Signoria Batorini.
S.B.: I want you in the king’s computer by tomorrow morning. If you’re not, this is only the beginning.
There’s a video attached, and I find a corner, a tight alcove, and with tremulous fingers and my stomach in my throat, I hit play.
I don’t have to. I could delete it and move on.
I know what it is simply from the freeze-frame image.
Jaqueline is tied to a post in our basement while Antonia whips her back with her favorite cane.
Still, I hit play, and I watch in horror, unshed tears in my eyes, and resolve hardening in my gut. Antonia has that smile on her face. That sick, twisted as fuck smile. She loves punishments as much as Signoria does. I suppose that comes with their bloodline, and I’m grateful I’m not part of it.
Jaqueline’s face is strained in agony, her screams wrenching the air, making a gasp and a cry shoot past my lips. The camera pans, the image changing, and there is Signoria, wearing an equally sadistic smile.
“Get it done,” she says in Italian, and that’s that. Video over.
My lungs cave. I have to do it. Whether I want to or not, I have to do it. Tonight.
I shove my phone into my pocket, wipe away the moisture clinging to my eyelashes, and press on, forcing one foot in front of the other.
I tell myself that I can see what’s on there about Samil.
Then I can discover if what the queen told me is accurate.
I can search through videos and documents and whatever else I can find and learn his secrets.
And if his secrets are as awful as Samil told me they were, then maybe my actions are justified.
Maybe exposing him is mercy to the kingdom.
Maybe.
I don’t see Rowan as I do my morning duties of tidying up, and I’m more than a little grateful for it.
I change sheets, dust, polish, and scrub.
It’s mindless, tedious work, and I sing through it, focusing on the lyrics and harmonies and stretching my voice because I can’t think about anything else.
Some people are born with a song in their heart, and others have to force it from their lips. I’m the latter, and I’ll never be the former, no matter how much I’d like to be.
After I finish with Rowan’s office—no smelling or snooping today—I head down and check on everyone else, and once I’m positive things are going smoothly, and half the staff is eating their lunch, I take to the path that’s become my respite. My revival.
Today nothing feels open or safe or sacred.
The air is hot and dry, making me sweat, and the buzzing of cicadas gives me a headache.
Even the earthy scent of herbs and the freshness of flowers are pissing me off.
I read a book once a long time ago that I stole from Antonia, and in it the main character said there’s nothing a drink and an orgasm couldn’t fix.
The last time I had a drink was at the wedding. And last night’s orgasm didn’t fix shit. It only created more problems. Problems I have no choice but to fix myself, and that comes down to one simple truth.
I have to save Jaqueline.
I will do anything for that. Commit any crime. She’s an innocent. A sweet girl who deserves better than the nightmare her entire life has been. She doesn’t remember our father. She’s never known happiness or peace. I will do what I can to protect those who deserve it, but she will be my endgame.
After that, I’ll figure out the rest.
The path crunches beneath my worn shoes until I reach the edge of the forest, breathing out a sigh as the canopy of leaves shelters me in their cooling shade. I lean against the trunk of a tree and close my eyes. I don’t have to be back inside for a little less than an hour. It should be peaceful.
But the tiny snap of a twig alerts me that I’m not alone.
It could be an animal—I’m hoping it is—but the hairs on the back of my neck have me on alert, and I slowly turn over my shoulder and lock eyes with Rowan. Motherfucker. He followed me out here, but he didn’t want me to know it, judging by the oh shit, she caught me mien he has going.
“You need to work on your tracking skills, Your Highness. You should add that to your snooping skills.”
I turn back to the woods as my ears search, finding him behind me and listening as he advances.
“I think we both need lessons then.”
I laugh. I’ve had lessons in espionage my entire life. I’ve just gotten sloppy. A weird taste of freedom and an annoying curiosity can do that to a person.
“Why are you following me?”
He doesn’t reply, and I’m not in the mood for his answer anyway. He continues to prowl toward me, now less than six or so meters away. I can tell from the sound of the ground he’s walking on. I’m salty and defensive like a caged animal.
Which is why I say, “Fuck off and leave me alone. I’m on my break, and you have no right to intrude.”
“We need to talk.”
I shake my head against the tree and close my eyes. “We have nothing to talk about, Your Highness.”
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.”
He’ll have to catch me then. And hope I don’t kill him with my bare hands.
On my next heartbeat, I take off at a sprint, starting on the trail but quickly veering off it, winding my way through trees and over brush and fallen limbs. The palace property is massive, and I could run at this stretch for two hundred kilometers at least without reaching anything else.
A laugh springs from my lips. The taste of adventure and the thrill of being chased making me go faster.
I pump my arms and push myself to my breaking point.
Only I’m not alone. A cursory glance over my shoulder reveals he’s chasing me, determination on his face and in his stride, his eyes dark and predatory.
Shit! My pulse kicks up, and my baser instinct takes over.
“How far are you going to run?” he calls out at me.
I smile, even as my lungs burn, begging for air. “How long are you going to chase?”
“As long as it takes to catch you, mia stella.”
Something about the way he says that and calls me my star in Italian, a word that rhymes with my name, makes my empty core clench and my stupid heart skip a beat.
“You should turn around now, You Highness. I’m not your star, and I’m definitely not someone you want to catch.”