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.
“Paging the fashion police,” I mutter. The black dress is more of a sack, shapeless and baggy as I drag it on over my dirty underwear and let it fall past my knees. The thin material brushes against my ankles, and I slip my bare feet into the black slippers that came with it.
I raise a hand to my hair and immediately drop it. I’m not sure which is dirtier at this stage.
The door swings open, confirming my suspicion that someone was watching me through the door. “Can I have some water to wash, please?”
They ignore me, naturally.
With a guard holding each arm, my hands and ankles are chained together as though I’m some sort of high-risk psychopathic serial killer. I almost laugh at the sheer fucking insanity of it all as I’m escorted out of my cell. Moving towards fresh air for the first time in weeks, with at least half a dozen guards in front of and behind me.
When I stumble, they drag me to my feet without pausing, and I get the message.
Keep up or get dragged.
Wonderful.
I’m so focused on keeping my balance that I barely have chance to look around. We climb the narrow staircase, winding around and around until a sheer bright light pierces my eyes painfully, forcing them closed. A breeze dances across my filthy skin, and I suck the fresh, cool air into my lungs like it’s the water I’ve been craving.
The sunlight hurts. Burns the back of my eyes, leaving vivid orange circles behind as tears slip out of my closed eyelids.
How long have I been in that fucking cell?
My chest feels tight as I’m forced to keep my eyes closed.
This could be the last bit of daylight you ever see, Stasi. Open your damn eyes.
The thought is sobering, and I crack my lids open the barest amount to try and look. A van is waiting up ahead, white with blacked-out windows. The guards lift me into the back, shoving me down onto a bench as they take up seats around me.
My eyes open fully in the muted light, and I lean my head back, listening to the mutters of the guards as an engine rumbles to life beneath us.
They speak as though I’m not sat right here, listening to them gloat over the possibility of my death.
Deep breath.
In, out.
It helps a little, helps to dampen the fear filling my lungs, threatening to choke the air from my throat.
If today is the last day I have, I refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me break. Not when I’ve held myself together in carefully crafted pieces for so long.
Courage, Anastasia.
We drive for a while before the van slows. I keep my breathing steady as something bangs heavily into the side, and the guards stiffen.
Another bang, and another.
The van slows to a crawl, and a voice calls through. “We have a crowd.”
A crowd. A baying mass of faceless people, all gathered to watch me fall, to gloat in the downfall of the ugly stepsister.
It shouldn’t sting, not when there are much bigger problems for me to focus on. It’s not the first time I’ve been called that, after all.
As ugly on the inside as you are on the outside.
I wonder what they would say, if they could see me now. If they’ve spoken about me, gloated at the downfall of the girl they once knew, watched the twisted, misshapen saga of my life being played out across every newspaper in the country.
I wonder if they ever even think of me at all. When I’ve barely gone a day without thinking of them.
Stop it, Stasi. Breathe.
I can hear the shouts now, the taunts. More hands bang against the sides of the vehicle, almost rocking it, jeers and shouts aimed in my direction.
And they call me ugly. Some of these people need to look in the damn mirror.
When the van stops, even the guards hesitate, sharing glances between each other as though debating who has the pleasure of going first.
I’m pulled to my feet. None of them look at me. Not one of them spare me a single word as the doors are pulled open.
The whole world narrows.
Flashes, shouts, screams.
Anger. Hatred.
Such pulsating, vibrant hatred that I can almost taste it, sour and prickly on my tongue as the guards drag me out, making a show of it, much to the delight of the crowd. They push against the makeshift barriers someone thought to put up, screaming in my face, shrieking insults and vitriol as I’m pulled along towards the palace. It feels like it’s miles away, and I wonder if they’ve done it deliberately. More of a spectacle.
I let them do it, let them almost drag me, unable to see beyond the twisted faces surrounding me.
This is so much worse than what I imagined.
A grunt escapes my throat as something hits my face, hard. The guards pause, scanning the area, and I stare down at the apple core on the ground.
Another hit connects with my cheekbone, and my head whips to the side. I suck in a breath at the spike of pain.
More follows. I wait to see if the guards will do something, anything, but they just look ahead, prodding me along.
No, I realize, glancing around.
They’re falling back, shoving me ahead of them with harsh hands, leaving just enough space for the public to have full access. Protecting themselves or throwing me to the wolves, it’s the same thing.
And the people screaming in my face take full advantage.
I lose track of the number of items that hit me as we walk towards the palace. People are pressed against the barriers all the way up the steep flight of white stone steps, shouting and laughing as I’m splattered with rotten fruit and vegetables.
I keep my head down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a response, even as my ears ring and stinging slaps ring out against my skin. It’s only when something smashes against my forehead that I stagger, and the guards finally decide to step in.
They lift me up the last few steps as I shake my head, trying to get rid of the fuzziness. The ornate entrance doors are opened for us, and they pull me through, the sounds of the crowd dying away behind us as someone pushes them shut.
I don’t get a second to pull myself together. They pick up the pace, yanking me forward, dragging me down a hallway filled with huge pieces of art in gilded golden frames. Members of the royal family stare down at me in silent judgement, and I almost laugh when I catch sight of Ella’s perfect face amongst them. Prim and delicate, seated on a throne next to Crispin.
Jesus. She works fast, considering they’re not even married yet.
I’m expecting a courtroom. Maybe a judge, a jury. But instead, I’m dragged into a long, high-ceilinged room, as ornate and overdone as the rest of this fucking place.
There is no judge. No jury to be seen.
No. Instead, my sister and her fiancée sit in matching thrones at the end of the room. Watching me as I’m escorted towards them. Rows of courtiers line the walls, every one of them ridiculously overdressed, whispering and giggling to themselves as I’m paraded past them.
At least none of this lot seem to have any rotten fruit at hand. Their eyes flick over me with distaste, lips curling back in disgust as they murmur about my hair, the sack of a dress I’m wearing.
One loud woman complains about the smell. My whole face heats in response, humiliation prickling the back of my neck.
But everyone silences as we reach the end of the room, and I’m pushed down onto my knees. They hit the stone floor solidly, and I bite back a wince as I shuffle in place before looking up.
Prince Crispin stares down at me. Broad shouldered, he slouches in his throne, tapping his fingers on the arm as he looks me up and down. Slack-jawed with morbid fascination, as though I’m a creature he’s just discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Next to him, Ella is the picture of devastation. Tears fill her eyes as she watches me, and when I stare back, she bites her lip and presses the back of her palm over her mouth as though the sight of me here on my knees is far too much for her to possibly be expected to bear.
I wait. Everyone waits, as the Crown Prince of Sorelle continues his staring.
After a minute, Ella slides her eyes towards her fiancée. She coughs, delicately, and he straightens in his seat, reaching out for her hand. She clasps it in both of hers, and he raises it to his mouth, pressing his lips against it. The crowd murmurs in approval.
When he’s finished with his little show, he sits back, keeping Ella’s hand clasped in his. “Anastasia Cooper.”
I steel myself.
“You have been brought before the Royal Court to answer to the modern slavery charges levelled against you. This court states that over a period of four years, you and your mother, Angelica Cooper – now deceased – held Ella Cooper against her will and forced her to act as an indentured servant, without pay.”
The crowd murmurs in disgust.
“You stole her identity documentation and used intimidation and threats to keep her in your home, where you benefitted from her unpaid labor. The court also ascertains that you assaulted Ella Cooper on several occasions, resulting in her fearing for her life. You forced her to sleep on a stone floor and withheld food as a punishment on frequent occasions.”
Crispin frowns. “Your ruse was only discovered upon the death of your mother, whereupon Ella was able to escape from your home and seek refuge under the protection of the royal family.”
I lick my dry lips. “I—,”
“You have not been given permission to speak.”
The prince is enjoying this show. He straightens more with every sentence, every inch the golden knight fighting for his princess. Ella watches him with adoration, even as she casts small, sad glances my way.
He taps the fingers of his hand against the armrest of the throne he sits in. “This case involves the Royal family. Therefore, we have the right to intercede and enforce punishment, as per the laws of Sorelle. I will be announcing your sentence today.”
I feel cold. “But—,”
“Silence,” he hisses. “In the interest of fairness, the court searched for a character witness to stand for you. We found no-one. Your sister has already given evidence, which has been accepted by this court. Anastasia Cooper, you have been judged. And this court finds you guilty.”
I didn’t expect anything less. Certainly not a fair hearing. But the fucking injustice burns. “May I at least speak in my own defense?”
“You already have,” he says tightly. “We have the statements you provided upon your arrest. Your story has been proven false. There is no evidence to support your fanciful accusations. I have no wish to subject my fiancée to hearing them again.”
No evidence. Nothing, not even a scrap to support my version of events. My deceitful little stepsister was very thorough in her plan.
“Before I pass down your sentence,” Crispin continues. “I will give you one opportunity. And you only have this because of the kindness of the woman sitting next to me. Take it, and I may consider a lighter sentence.”
Ella leans forward, offering me a wobbly smile. Her eyes are shiny, gleaming with unshed tears.
Well, this should be good.
“Anastasia,” she breathes. “We are sisters. To see you here brings me no pleasure.”
Liar.
“All I want,” she says tearfully, “is an apology, Stasi. Admit what you’ve done and apologize. I beg you to do this for me. And for yourself. Please.”
Whispers sweep the room. Admiring whispers. How kind my sister is, to offer me this. After everything I’ve done.
The injustice sticks in my throat, drying it, even as we watch each other.
“You have one chance.” Prince Crispin’s voice is hard. “I suggest you do not waste it.”
Wetting my lips, I open my mouth. Ella watches me avidly, her eyes gleaming with something more than tears. Satisfaction.
He’s right. And I have no intention of wasting it.
“I…,” my voice cracks as she leans forward, her head tilting to the side. I cough, trying to clear my throat enough for them to hear me.
For everyone in the room to hear me as I lift my head up.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. Truthfully.
Ella’s eyes light up.
“For all of you,” I continue.
I turn around to face the court, away from the widening eyes of my so-called stepsister. “For being taken in so damn easily.”
I spin back to Ella. She’s gaping at me, the tears vanishing. “And I am truly sorry,” I call out, my voice steady and sure. “To have ever had someone as manipulative and psychotic as you in my life. My crazy, deluded, lying bitch of a stepsister.”
“That’s enough,” Crispin chokes out, but I’m not done.
If I only have one opportunity, I’m making the fucking most of it.
“One day,” I say to him loudly, “you will realize who she truly is. And even if I’m not here to see it, I hope that it bites you in the fucking ass.”
The room erupts. Ella collapses back into her seat and Crispin leans over her, fanning her face frantically. “Sweetheart. Can you hear me?”
I’m surrounded by idiots. Ella, clearly faking her little fainting fit, begins to cry as Crispin roars for silence.
I don’t believe for a minute that he would have given me an easier sentence.
“You wanted to see me on my knees,” I throw at her as she sits up. “But I will see you in hell before I ever beg you for a single fucking thing, sister.”
Fuck, it feels good to see the look on her face. The embarrassment, as she glances around the room.
I’m not playing into her games for a second longer. Even if it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
I take a breath, staying silent as Crispin finally gets the room under control, everyone settling in to listen avidly to what he has to say in response.
“You dare to throw this back in our faces,” he says finally. His voice shakes as he clears his throat. “Very well. I have made my decision.”
I wait. I don’t know much about the execution laws in Sorelle. They don’t take place often, and normally behind closed doors.
I hope they make it quick.
“In the interest of my fiancée,” Crispin says finally, “I will not be sentencing you to death, although I doubt anyone here would dispute it if I did.”
Ella twists her head to stare at him. “What?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Imprisonment isn’t much better, in my opinion. Not with Parrish in there with me.
He leans over to pat her hand, but he doesn’t respond before he turns back to me. Ella faces me too, a scowl spreading over her face that I can see her fighting to wipe away.
“However,” he continues. “Punishment must be severe. And so I sentence you, Anastasia Cooper, to twenty years of imprisonment.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer, and I sway.
Twenty years.
Two decades of my life. I’ll be forty-five when I’m released. If I even make it that far.
“Your sentence will be served under house arrest.”
My head jerks up. House arrest?
At this point, I’m certain Ella and I have matching looks of confusion on our faces, as Crispin leans forward. “You will serve out your sentence away from the public eye, under the close watch of three of my most… trusted men. You will receive the same treatment that you gave to your sister, and you will work to earn your keep at Oakbourne Manor.”
Wait.
Oakbourne Manor.
The thrones in front of me swim hazily as a wave of cold sweeps over my skin, leaving numbness in its wake.
It’s not possible.
It can’t be.
Because that would mean—
“The Tate brothers,” Crispin announces, “will act as your keepers for the duration of your sentence.”
There’s a roaring in my ears as footsteps sound behind me. My eyes close as I fight to stay upright, to push away the dizziness threatening to send me toppling to the floor. It feels as though all of the air in the room has been sucked away, and it’s because of the three men who come to stand around me, their eyes on my face.
I can feel them, feel their stares like a brand on my skin.
And I know, then. Know that it’s them.
Because only three people have ever made me feel that way.
Just for a moment, hope trickles in.
Crispin said they couldn’t find a character witness.
But they’re here. They came. So maybe, just maybe…
Slowly, I open my eyes.
It takes me a few seconds for the awareness to sink in. For me to realize that these are not the boys I once knew.
And that small, final, precious piece of hope fizzles out.
Of course. Why did you think they would be any different, Anastasia?
Kit’s shoulders are broader now, even as he folds his arms, watching me silently with those unique violet eyes that feel ice cold as they bore into me. His hair brushes over his forehead in a slight curl, a raven’s wing of blue-black.
I can barely breathe. Kit. Kit is here, and if Kit is here, then that means—
My eyes move to his twin. Identical in their facial features, yet as different as night and day. His shoulder-length wavy caramel blonde hair falls carelessly over his face, strands coming free from the cord he uses to keep it tied back. The sight of them together still makes me catch my breath. Rafe’s breathing is almost as staggered as mine, the anger in his face, in his hooded green eyes clear. If Kit is ice, then Rafe is fire, the hate in his gaze heating my skin.
I have to take a second before I can face Silas. If the twins can look at me like that, then Silas might well kill me on the spot. I push down the memories of our last meeting as I turn to him slowly. My eyes slide up… and up.
The oldest Tate brother is even bigger than I remember. He was tall then, but now he outflanks even the twins, matched only in the width of his shoulders and torso.
He looks like he could break me. Especially as he clenches his fists, my eyes trailing from the movement to his face. Deep, indigo blue stares back at me. His hair is sleek and dark, shorter than the twins. More controlled, just like the man who watches me with a hate-filled gaze.
Exactly as I last saw him.
“Hello, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “Long time, no see.”
There is not enough air. They’ve stolen it all, every scrap of oxygen as my hand reaches for my throat.
And then my head meets the stone floor, and they’re gone.
