Page 38 of Alien Prince

Being the youngest can be utterly infuriating on its own, but when you are both the baby and a girl, somehow it’s astronomically harder to get anyone to take you seriously, which is why I stopped bothering years ago.

I’m half convinced that no one would bat an eye if I disappeared. Partly because we change skins all the time, so disappearing for my kind just means going off the radar completely, which would never happen. Like when my brother, Raphael died. To the public, he is dead, but to me he is alive and well, jumping from skin to skin and indulging in anonymity. But he is also, a man, and as such, his life is full of those turning a blind eye.

I could never be so lucky.

Because I’m a princess.

More like a prisoner.

My curiosity soon turns to panic as I see my mother, waltzing down the hall with an angry glare.

Great, what did I do this time to piss her off?

“Sabella,” she barks, her tone unsympathetic and cold. But I’ve never known her to be anything but a bitch, so her tone doesn’t affect me as it probably should.

But the flicker of panic in her eyes tells me otherwise.

Something has happened.

And that makes my blood chill.

Thank the heavens for skins. They process things so much faster, so much better than I can because their disposition to emotion is unsurmountable.

“Mother,” I say, addressing her well-used skin as she grabs me by the arm, yanking me into the nearest room.

“Ow! That hurts!” I whine.

“Hush!” she hisses, but she does not let go.

Her fingernails dig into my flesh and she grips me hard. So hard, I can feel her shake. I look to where she holds me, noticing she is bleeding.

Blood trails down her arm, pooling between her fingers, spreading onto my skin.

I try to pull away, but she only grips me harder, and I half worry she will break this feeble skin’s bones.

Now that would be a real pity.

“I need you to do something for me.” She says, her breath labored. The stench of blood reaches my nostrils and I have to fight the urge to gag.

I’ve never been a fan of blood like some of my family.

Panic surges through me at the thought of what she wants. Knowing my mother, it can’t be good.

Raphael assured me because of my youth, and my older brothers standings, I would likely be able to slip by without much attention from our mother as long as I kept a low profile.

That profile being the spoiled party-going royal who couldn’t be trusted to stay sober long enough to do anything important.

I wish I could say it was an act, but the truth is much more complicated than that. I want to matter to my mother, to my father, and my brothers.

I want to be more than just some cosmic being flitting from skin to skin to survive. To be seen, heard—felt.

I want to be seen for who I am, not just my title or someone else's face.

The problem is, I’m not entirely sure who I am.

“What?” I ask, my voice wavering only slightly.

“There is a mole in the palace.” She says. I can’t stop staring at the blood on her hands, and part of me wonders if it is hers or someone else’s…

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