When all the time, she wasright fucking here,rightunder our noses.
“Anastasia Cooper,” I breathe. Rafe curses next to me.
Stasi.
Crispin clears his throat, flinching when we all look up. He lingers a few steps away, managing to look both curious and heinously uncomfortable as our eyes fix on him. The paper crunches under my grip as it tightens. “Yes. Anastasia. That’s Ella’s sister – you know.”
The ugly stepsister.
I hadn’t seen a photograph, not until today. That’s what they’ve been calling her in the news - the woman who enslaved the princess, who kept Ella Cooper as an indentured servant for years, until she ran away to a ball and met the Crown Prince of Sorelle.
A real-life fairytale, one to capture the hearts of the nation.
AndStasiis the villain.
My jaw tightens.
That, I can believe.
Keeping the paper in my hand, I slowly pull out a chair. “Take a seat, Crispin. I have a new proposition for you. One which you’ll find is in your interest to accept.”
Because Crispin may be fucking clueless, but the woman currently gracing the front pages ispriceless. There is nothing we wouldn’t give, no amount we wouldn’t hand over to have Anastasia back within our grasp.
To make her ours.
And to make her pay.
3 – Stasi
I’m counting in meals now.
One meal every twenty-four hours, slid through my door before it slams shut again. In between, I’m escorted to the shitty little bathroom twice a day.
The thin gruel can barely be called food, but I drink it down anyway, breaking off a tiny piece of the hard bread that accompanies it and keeping the rest to get me through the rest of the day. The bottle of water is harder to resist, but I ration it, taking small sips.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
Eleven meals.
That’s how many I get before the doors open again. I’m dozing on my cot, jerked into full, terrifying awareness by the overwhelming number of men entering my cell as I scramble back, pressing myself into the wall.
The meaty-faced guard, the one who kindly smashed his baton into the wall next to me, throws down a dark bundle of cloth in front of me with a sneer. “Put that on.”
I stare down at it, and then back to him. He doesn’t move.
I wait, and his lips curl up in a sneer. “You’re property of the crown now, bitch. You don’t get to have privacy.”
There’s a gleam in his eye that makes nausea rise up in my stomach. I cross my arms. “Then I guess I’m not getting changed after all.”
A few of the guards have the decency to shift uncomfortably. Not one of the cowards says anything, though. Meathead’s face bulges, making his beady little eyes pop. “Put the fucking dress on.”
I stare straight into his face. “No.”
I flinch when he steps forward, but another guard gets in his way. “Parrish. We don’t have time. They’re already waiting for us.”
The little weasel –Parrish- grunts in displeasure, but he storms out. The others follow. It feels like a small victory, even though he’s probably watching me through the creepy little peephole they use to spy on their prisoners.
It takes me a while to struggle out of my jeans. Caked in filth and fuck knows what from my cell, they’re almost solid as I wrestle with them. My shirt sticks to my skin stubbornly before I peel it away, and it lands with a thump as I pick up the new offering and shake it out.
