Page 39 of Princess Broken

“Hey.” A female pops out from behind a rack of clothes and strides toward us. I recognize her as Gracen, one of the vampires we met when we arrived.

“Hello.” I clear my throat. “I wonder if you can assist me. I need to replace…” I brush my hand down the front of my stained dress.

“Assist you?” Tipping her head to the side, she cocks out one curvaceous hip. “Ha!” A sly grin paints her face. “You think I work here.”

“Oh, I… You don’t?”

“No one works here.” Blade steps up beside me. “But perhaps Gracen would be willing to help you find some things?”

Gracen smiles as she looks at Blade. “Why the fuck not.” Then she crosses her arms over her chest. “Time to back off fellas. Give the girls some space to shop.”

The men break their formation around me, moving to the sides of the room.

“You’re planning to watch?” Gracen says with disgust. “Fucking perverts.”

“We will face the wall when she disrobes,” Crusher says.

Gracen puts her hands on her well-formed hips. “What do you think’s going to happen to her in here if you leave?” She gestures broadly. “There’s only one exit. I’m unarmed.” She runs her hands over her tight fitting leather clothing. Then her expression darkens. “Or are you worried I’ll try to fuck her?”

Phil grunts, drawing my attention. His cheeks are flushed. “We’ll wait in the square.”

Blade and Flame glance toward Crusher, who turns and exits the room. Phil follows behind him, then Blade and Flame. The latter flicks a lit match into the room as he exits, and I watch it burn out on the tiled floor.

“So…” Gracen plops down on one of the chaises. “How did you end up with those fucking psychos?”

“Psychos?”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of dangerous men—even one who literally calls himself Psycho—but those four?” She whistles through her teeth. “They put the icing on the crazy cake.”

I frown, feeling an urge to defend the men. Plus, I should remind her that terms like “psycho” and “crazy” are unacceptable derogatory terms, insulting to those diagnosed with mental illnesses. But I say nothing.

Sitting with one arm draped over the back of the chaise, Gracen pats the space beside her. “Take a load off, sugar. Let’s get to know each other.”

I sit on the edge of the furniture, clasping my hands on my lap and turning toward her.

Her eyes widen. “Holy shit!”

My back stiffens. “What?”

“You’re that princess!”

Nerves scramble inside me as I remain outwardly calm. It’s not as if I’m never recognized, but after so many years with no exposure to anyone beyond those at court, I’m unused to being recognized by strangers. And yet… I realize that something about Gracen is familiar to me too. Something beyond our previous brief meeting.

“Oh!” I place my hand on the aubergine, velvet upholstery between us. “You were trapped in that unsanctioned prison of Octavia’s.” No wonder she’s been exposed to so many dangerous men.

Nodding, she makes a gun shape with her fingers and points it toward me. “Bingo.”

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t recognize you sooner. Did I conduct your interview?” I hate to think I could have so quickly forgotten anyone who shared her harrowing story of captivity with me.

She shakes her head. “Nope. But I recognize you from the trial when that bitch was sentenced.” Her eyes narrow. “Octavia should have been staked, better yet, tied up in silver and left to burn under the midday sun.”

Shaking off the brutality of Gracen’s words, I find my compassion. Octavia is being punished for her crimes, but not at the cost of her life, and her sentence did not sit well with many of her victims, who’d been trapped underground for decades.

Bending one leg under my ruined gown, I turn toward her. “Gracen, I can only begin to imagine what you suffered at Octavia’s hand. But under vampiric laws—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Raising her palms toward me, she shrugs. “I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“If you don’t mind me asking.” I lean forward, my hand resting on the furniture between us. “How did you come to be down here?” I glance back toward the exit, wondering if the men are listening. “Are you a prisoner?” I whisper.

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