Page 4 of Mated to the Crown
She steps forward, snatching a blanket from the pile on the floor and gently placing it over my grandmother so she is covered. The way she is caring and respectful makes me believe she didn’t do anything but I watch her anyway, curious about her actions.
“She hates you fighting. And being an ass. I don’t want her to see that.” She speaks bluntly like she can hear my thoughts.
I click my tongue and stand up, feeling the headache finally soothing,
“Name, pumpkin?”
She pulls back again, “Don’t call me pumpkin, like ever. I don’t care who the hell you are, I’m not a big, fat pumpkin.”
I open my mouth, ready for a witty retort but close it, trying to take a breath.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. What is your name?” I kick myself in the balls for that one. I was trying to be genuine. I guess pumpkin was a stupid name.
She looks at me, squaring off her posture and crossing her arms once more.
I relax my own stance and cross my arms, matching her. I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out if she wants to tell me or not. Inside everything is screaming at me to walk up to her, pull her close and tell her it’s okay, but I can’t. I have to figure this out, slowly.
“See you at 7.” She turns on her heel and opens the door.
“No name? How about Princess.” I smirk and she scoffs before leaving, shutting the door loudly behind her.
CELESTE
Holy fuck, shit, motherfucker. Every curse I can think of floods my brain as I run from the room. Prince Malik was there. He talked to me. Something in his eyes made me want to see him more, but I can’t. There is no way. I have to go tell Lyra, like now. I rush toward the stairs and slow before I go down them, making sure not to fall.
He was visiting his Grandma. In all the years I went he never went to visit her after me. We never bumped into each other.
Oh shit, and she died.
Now there will be a big funeral, a whole big shebang that I will need to hide from. I can’t see him again, there is no way. My heartbeat still races, thinking about us being in a room together.
I quicken my pace, slipping around the corner and entering back into the hallways of the lower levels where we - the servants - live. I move through the hallways, scooting around people and trying to rush. I finally get to the laundry room andskid into it, slamming the door behind me. I take a few breaths, trying to calm down from the emotions swirling inside me.
“Lyra? Are you still here?”
The laundry area is the loudest place in the lower level - the machines constantly running, churning water and suds all hours of the day. If they aren’t running, then the dryers are, pouring steam into the room so it’s always one of the hotter rooms. I move forward, my legs shaky as the shock of moments before starts to subside. Malik.PrinceMalik.
“Lyra?” I peek around the corner of the room to where the tables are set up for folding and ironing.
Lyra is sitting on the edge of the table, kicking her feet and looking down at the ground. She looks like me, more of a pear shaped body but shorter by a few inches. Her hair is shorter than mine but curly as ever. Our mother would always get frustrated trying to brush it out and eventually she cut it short so it was easier to deal with.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, stepping toward her.
I can see the tears on her eyes and frown slightly, wondering where the guy she was with earlier went. She is quick to fall for men. A trait I never seemed to suffer. Probably because I’m too busy being a miserable bitch and not wanting relations with anyone.
“Yeah. He’s fucking Marcie.” She mutters, kicking her feet back and forth.
I hop up on the table next to her, taking her hand in mine,
“Well, he will probably get a bad rash from that. I heard she’s been with everyone.” I nudge my shoulder against hers but it doesn’t pull her from a slump. We sit like that for a few minutes, enjoying the noise of the washers like white noise.
“Want some drama?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t meet my gaze and I pat the top of her hand.
“It’s about Prince Malik.”
“What?!” She jumps off the table, looking at me like a deer in headlights. “Spill it.”
