CHAPTER 3 - OCTAVIA
2493 Words
The cold wakes me first. Water has gathered along my shirt, making it nearly see-through from the morning mist. Yet I’m not as cold as I should be. Beside me, Tristan’s chest slowly rises and falls, his breath like smoke in the air. His shirt clings to his broad chest, slick with early morning dew. His hair is a tumbled mess, bits of black falling over thick lashes.
“Shit.” I bolt upright, quickly looking around. Tristan mumbles something, rolling closer. His arm loops around my waist before I shove it off. “Wake up, Trist. We fell asleep,” I snap.
Tristan’s lashes flutter, hints of green finally appearing. “We what?”
“We fell asleep! Wake up.” I shove him again before getting to my feet, hastily brushing off bits of grass.
This isn’t the first time it’s happened. We’ve stayed up late before, falling asleep in the gardens more times than I can count. And I’ve always gotten in trouble for it.
Even if we’re both Shifters, he’s a Fox.
And I’m the damn Princess.
“Shit.” He sits up and I try to ignore the way his muscles flex beneath the wet fabric of his shirt. “How much trouble are you going to be in?”
“If I survive the morning, I’ll let you know.”
Tristan sighs. “I guess I should escort you to your execution then.”
“Hell no. If my parents, or even the damn butler, see you bringing me back, it’ll only be worse for me.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to untangle the wild knots to no avail.
He reaches over as he gets to his feet, taking the tangled locks of hair before deftly plucking out the tangles with graceful movements. It must be the fox in him. I’ve never seen anyone else move like him.
“You better hurry back inside, Princess,” Tristan says finally. There’s an edge to his voice.
I turn, feeling the heat of his fingers drag across my shoulders. “Don’t get caught.”
The edges of his lips twitch. “I never do.” His hand lifts, smile faltering. “Just don’t get locked up for too long, Princess. I’ll miss you.”
Without waiting for my reply, he turns, heading towards the stone wall just feet away. We’d fallen asleep in our usual spot, a small alcove at the very edge of the property. This small piece of heaven is hidden between a grove of trees. A small pond had been dug beside the wall, stones laid out around it haphazardly but still beautiful.
I watch as Tristan leaps up, fingers grasping the edge of the wall, muscles flexing as he hauls himself up in one, fluid movement. Straddling the ledge, he gives a mock salute before disappearing into the forest beyond. I’m not sure how much longer I stand out there in the chilly Autumn morning, but it’s long enough to send goosebumps racing along my skin.
Shivering, I warily start for the back patio of the mansion. The glass doors there lead to the ballroom where I can—hopefully—sneak back up to my room without anyone really noticing. Sure, the maids and butlers might, but they wouldn’t dare risk my wrath just to snitch.
I slip through the doors, a gust of heat pricking at my skin. The ballroom is empty, the marble floors gleaming in the morning light. Pillars of white hold up the gilded ceiling, each frame hand-painted with scenes of a forest. Animals dart, stalk, and rest between the brush and trunks. To any human, it would simply be a natural scene. But to us, it represents our spirit animals, our oneness with the world.
Or, at least it did.
There’s nothing natural about our lifestyle now. Most of our people live in fancy houses most Americans could only dream of. Their banks are bursting, both here and abroad. We have connections everywhere, Shifters in high-up positions that enable them to keep our world a secret from humans.
The slippers I never bothered to change out of are soft against the stone floors, never making a sound. So far the coast is clear. And I want to keep it that way.
It’s not as if I’m a prisoner here. Not really. But being the sole heir to an ancient and expansive kingdom does have its downsides. It’s the same old thing over and over. Don’t go there. Smile. Look pretty. Stay silent. Smooth the overseas ambassadors so they can report back to their respective territories that the Princess is not only alive and well, but dutiful and strong.
Because, in our world, power is everything.
And yet, I have so little of it.
Creeping towards the back set of stairs that take me directly to my turret, I try to keep an eye on my surroundings. If I just made it up these steps and down the hall, I’d be safe. No one would know I just spent the night sleeping under the canopies with a Fox Shifter.
“Octavia Rae Hart.”
I wince, my hand hovering just over the banister. Turning, I find my mother, already dressed for the day and looking as if someone pissed in her cup of coffee this morning. Her black pantsuit fits her perfectly, cinched at the waist to accentuate the curves she adores and the ones I abhor. Not a single strand of hair is out of place in her perfect French twist. Manicured nails tap along the inside of her crossed arms.
“Morning, mother,” I chirp as cheerfully as I dare. “How’s your morning?”
She stalks closer, every inch of wolf showing through her striking eyes. I can practically feel her assessing me, her gaze raking over my dirt-smudged clothes, my red knees, and tangled hair. One clawed and reaches out, snagging my arm in a fierce grip.
“Please tell me you weren’t with that boy,” she hisses.
“Tristan?” I ask carefully.
Her face pales slightly, lips pursing. “Did you do anything?”
“What?”
“Did you do anything?” she repeats, slower this time. “Anything…unbecoming.”
“Unbecoming,” I intone dryly. “Is that really the word you’re going to use?”
“Octavia, I swear to Mother Nature, if you did anything—”
“We didn’t do anything,” I grit out. “And even if we did, that wouldn’t be any of your business.”
Mother reels back as if I’ve slapped her. “I’m your mother.”
“And I’m an adult,” I snap back. “Twenty-two seems a bit old for something like this, don’t you think?”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
I wrench my arm from her grasp. “I’m going to shower and change. You can yell at me in about an hour.”
“Make it thirty minutes,” she replies coldly. “Your father and I would like to speak with you.”
Rolling my eyes, I start up the stairs. I can feel her heated gaze on the back of my neck as I go, like claws sinking into my skin. I can’t get up the steps fast enough. When I finally feel its safe, I slow, making my way down the short hall to my bedroom door. As soon as it’s closed, my back presses against the firm wood and my eyes close.
I was so f*****g dead.
+++
I take my sweet time getting ready for the day. My mother had said thirty minutes, but I made sure I wasn’t back downstairs until an hour later. A maid had come to fetch me eventually, forcing me to give up my little protest, as petty as it was.
For my reprimand, I make sure to dress as grown-up and professional as possible. When I at least look like I’m behaving, they’re a bit easier on me. Not that it will do me much good now. I was caught red-handed this morning, looking as if I really had been rolling around with Tristan all night. Not that I ever would. I’ve known him since we were both kids, still wrangling our spirit animals into submission.
But my mother would never believe me if I told her any of that. They sometimes just like to assume I’m doing the absolute most to embarrass them. And, of course, the Princess has to be pure of all things—even s*x.
They’re waiting for me in the dining hall. It’s still early. Way too early to be up at such an hour, in my opinion. I desperately need a cup of coffee. Or five. Especially if I’m going to have to deal with their disapproving glares for the next two hours.
Father is on his phone, probably checking his emails. He’s in a navy three-piece, a gold and white tie hanging from his neck like a collar. Mother sits with her hands folded atop the table in her black pantsuit, a steaming cup of tea beside her. They look so…normal. So human. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of it.
“Sit.” Mother wastes no time this morning. Yet, instead of her usual tense look of disapproval, she looks almost anxious. Her eyes dart towards my father, the corners of her lips twitching downwards.
“If you’re going to yell at me, can you at least wait until I get my coffee?” I ask tiredly. I know the usual routine; Father would tell me how disappointed he is in my behavior without even looking up from his phone. Mother will lament about how she’d somehow raised me wrong. They’d both go into boring details about how a Princess should act.
But they do none of that.
Instead, my Father sets his phone aside, turning the full weight of his gaze on me. Mother’s hands clench, her knuckles turning white. Both of them are silent as if waiting for something.
“What’s going on?” I ask slowly, taking a seat across from them.
“Last night, at dinner, Uncle George mentioned a ceasefire,” Father hesitates. “Something like a peace treaty.”
“Or an attempt of one,” Mother adds softly. I can’t tell, but it looks like there’s almost a hint of hope in her eyes.
“Well, that’s good.” I don’t know what else to say or why this has anything to do with me.
“The terms of the peace treaty have been discussed at length and we’ve finally agreed to the mutual terms.” He glances over at Mother, looking unsure for the first time since…ever. I’ve never seen either of them like this before. They’re always so obnoxiously put together. So powerful.
Today they are not.
“What are the terms?” I press. My stomach knots, sweat pricking the palms of my hands. It can’t be too good or they’d be preening. They wouldn’t be acting like this.
“The terms are pretty simple,” Father continues, clearing his throat. His fingers tug at the edge of his tie, trying to loosen it. “In return for peace, we need a bond. One that will bring the two sides together.”
Oh.
Oh no.
I’ve read all the books. I’ve seen the movies. Humans f*****g love this s**t.
“Please tell me I’m not a part of these terms.” My eyes flick between them, my hope sinking further and further into the pit of my stomach. The wolf inside gives a low growl, echoing in my head. Mother looks at the table, her hands moving to the cup of tea as if to warm them. Father clears his throat again.
“A marriage, as you know, is one of the more common—”
“No.”
Mother’s head snaps up. “Octavia.”
“I said no.” My chair screeches across the marble, nearly toppling to the floor. “I don’t give a s**t if this is a common way to bring peace or that it’s the only way—whatever s**t excuse you have—I’m saying no.”
Father’s black eyes burn into me, searing me from the inside out. “You don’t get to say no. The deal is done.”
“Is there a ring on my finger?” I ask, voice shaking as I flash my hand at them. “I don’t think so. Who the hell sells their daughter in this day and age?”
“It’s necessary—” Father stops short, rethinking his words. “You’re correct. This isn’t exactly the modern way of dealing with things.”
“But it’s better than our people continuously being slaughtered or turned into…one of them.” Mother shudders and I can smell the prick of fear surrounding her.
My wolf side snarls. “So you’d rather your own daughter either die or turn into a monster instead?”
“That’s not what this is,” Mother protests, but it falls on deaf ears. I don’t want to hear it.
Mother flinches as the table shakes beneath my palms. “I’m not going to do it. And you can’t make me. Who did you sell me to? The Bloody Prince himself?” When they don’t reply, I know I’m right. “He’s—he’s the worst of them. And you just handed me over like I’m nothing to you? Father, he has killed more of our own people than any other Wyre. He’s their prince. The most ruthless one of them all.”
Father catches my eye, his face like stone. “And he’ll be here in just a few days.”
“Here?” My heart skips a beat. “Are you insane?”
“Octavia,” my mother snaps, finally breaking. “That’s enough. Your people have been dying for centuries and you have a way to stop it. Wouldn’t you want to end their suffering? No matter the cost?”
“Is this why you asked if I did anything with Tristan?” I demand, looking to Mother. She looks away. “Because the Bloody Prince wants a pure princess?”
My father’s mouth parts in surprise as he glances between us. “What?”
I whip around, fighting back tears. “You do this and you’ll be signing my death certificate soon enough,” I tell them over my shoulder. “You speak to me about the cost, but are you willing to pay it?”
They say nothing.
And that’s my answer.
They are prepared to pay the cost. No matter what it is. Even if the price for peace is their own daughter. This is what it means to be a princess.
Too bad for them—I’ve never been a very good one.
- Writer
