Page 3 of Praise Me: Princess

“Yeah. Wow.” The sarcasm is dripping off me and I genuinely don’t give a fuck. “I’m so thrilled to be here.”

To her credit, the queen only looks more amused, rather than insulted. She’s known for being unflappable and fair, but I can’t help but disagree, considering I’ve been commissioned for this job against my will.

“May I introduce my daughter, Greta,” the queen says, sweeping a hand in the direction of the girl sitting across from her.

Still, I refuse to look.

This pampered princess can wither into a pile of dust for all I care.

“Great,” I respond dryly. “What are my orders, your highness? Am I to commence babysitting duty now or in the morning?”

A flicker of censure passes across her features. “You sound less than pleased with your new post, commander.”

“What tipped you off?”

“You’ll watch how you speak to the queen,” blusters one of her assistants.

I stare the little fucker down until he goes back to scribbling on a clipboard. This is not my scene. Where I come from, respect is earned, not passed on through birthright, the way it has been to these royals. “I didn’t ask for this post, your highness. It was tied around my neck like an anvil.”

“I don’t wish to be an anvil, Mother,” comes a hushed voice.

It’s from the princess.

My vision sort of glitches around the edges, something causing my pulse to skip around in confusion. I’ve never usedthe word “sweet” to describe anything but candy. But it would be a lie to describe her voice as anything but that. Sweet. It’s light and earnest, totally different from the nasally whine I was expecting. I haven’t had the opportunity to watch much television for the last decade, but as I recall, Princess Greta rarely appeared on camera as a child, and when she did, due to someone with royal blood being married or some other such occasion, she kept her head down and let her mother do the talking.

Probably doesn’t have a single thought it her head, that’s why.

Don’t look at her.

Maybe this is illogical, but as soon as I set my eyes on Greta, I’ve acknowledged this job and I don’t want to do that until absolutely necessary. The queen has stripped me of my free will, but I can control this one thing, as small as it is.

“You are not an anvil, Greta,” says the queen.

“Yes, she is,” I respond, spawning gasps around the room.

“Mother, please. I will go outside the gates alone. I promise.” The more she speaks, the more it becomes painful not to look at her. “Please, let him go.”

Surprise draws my gaze down, despite my iron will, but she’s facing the queen, leaving me a view of only her hair and shoulders.

But my God, those shoulders.

They are soft, delicate slopes that lead to a graceful neck, her hair in a gathering of heavy golden curls on top of her head. Exquisite. There’s another word I’ve never used. That’s what she is.

Resolutely, I rip my eyes off the princess and go about ignoring the continuous ripple in my chest. What is causing my heart to beat so strangely?

“That’s very brave of you, Greta, and I don’t doubt you would try, but as I mentioned, we’ll be traveling soon to make your potential betrothal, and we won’t have time for stopping to catch our breath. Best to begin improving yourself now.”

I’m highly stuck on the word “betrothal.”

Who is the princess marrying?

Why does this news make me resent her even more than I already do?

“I don’t wish to have the commander here if he doesn’t choose to be,” says the princess. “Can you not give me a few days to…improve myself?”

“I’ve given you enough time. It’s been a full year since the incident, dear.”

“What incident?” I ask, not liking the ridiculous softening inside my rib cage. The more the princess speaks up on behalf of my freedom, the harder she makes it for me to hate her guts. Also, hearing from her own mouth that she needs to “improve herself” means she can’t be as self-consumed as I’d expected. “What happened a year ago?”

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