Book 18: Ripped Apart

Fallon

“Let me go!” I screech, digging in my heels. My useless satin slippers–which perfectly match my dress, I might add–slip over wide, flat tiles of the deepest gray, jagged grout-lines tearing holes in the cork heels. I kick out when the men tighten their grip hard enough to leave bruises. I can feel their touch in my bones, pinching the bones of my wrists together in a way that makes me bite back shrieks of pain.

“Shut up,” one of the men whines, jostling me. I’ve already looked them each in the eye when they dragged me up an exterior staircase that led from the beach to the palace, when all the while I tried to make myself as slack and heavy as possible to stall their progress. I will never forget their faces. Never.

My complaints fall on deaf ears. My reassertions that I am, in fact, the royal princess of Eastonia–heir to my mother–a certi