Astrid
My once-determined steps falter before my knuckles can rap against the mahogany door. Every ounce of energy it took for me to get out of bed this morning cost me dearly. I have to lean against the wall to manage my breaths so that they can come out without another flow of tears.
Surely enough, he is found sitting in his chair in the library. And surely enough, his back is turned on the door.
“You should be resting,” the Prince’s voice is a low rumble.
I pick a book off the chestnut table; it is the same book I last read to him weeks ago.
“I know what you look like, you know,” I say. “I’ve seen the portrait in the Centre Wing.”
He sighs. “Does it still hurt very much?”
“Only when I walk about for too long,” I say, moving to prop myself on one of the curved couches. He angles his head away from me.
“I wish to be left alone.”
“They told me everything,” I continue without much care. “About the curse. About you.”
“Did they also tell you that I massacred an entire kingdom, including Imogen’s husband? Don’t antagonize me.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You are simply a spoilt prince who makes unjust demands. We have only the beast to fear,” I shrug.
When his fingers drum against the armrest, a small smile creeps onto my mouth. Watching the dominant foe squirm, it would seem, brings about a rather pleasing effect.
“And fresh air too, it appears,” I go on. “Tell me: would you, too, turn to stone if you stayed past the grounds for more than an hour?”
When he replies, he does so begrudgingly. “I wake up back in the castle again, unless I become the beast. Now, what do you want?” he snaps.
Even though he cannot see me, I sit up straight and place my hands on my lap, all politeness returning to my tone: “Take a message to my father. You used to visit me in the gardens once; you must have a way of reaching Ainsfrel in less than an hour. Either take me to see him, or take my letter to him yourself.”
He scoffs. “Is that a demand I hear?”
His royal upbringing must have entitled him to unconditional respect from all his subjects back in the day. Which is why Bayorn and Imogen obey his every syllable, and why Eli fears him. Even now, I can hear it in his voice: he does not fancy having his authority challenged.
But he is not my prince.
“Yes,” I raise my chin in defiance.
“You will do this because you owe me. Because I would never have been dragged near your sorry existence in this curse if you had not forced me into this prison in the first place. This is the very least you can do, after inflicting such a calamity upon innocent lives.”
He visibly flinches, as if I have slapped him. For a split second, a part of me wonders if I should take my words back.
But then I think of the contents of the letter I wrote to my father and stop feeling apologetic.
Rising to my feet, I move over to the table, take the folded parchment out of the pocket of my riding trousers and leave my last connection to the people I love behind in the library.