Page 23 of Stolen Princess

“You’re making fun of me.”

I’m not actually. I’m simply defensive and pissy from her tears. I feel like a fucking wimp because I have the strongest, most ridiculous, nonsensical urge to hug her. I don’t hug people. I don’t even like touching them, let alone talking to them, unless it’s necessary. It’s madness, and it infuriates me. As do so many things about the pretty blonde. Like the fact that I think she’s so pretty.

Annoyingly, she starts to sing, and of course her voice is the kind of beautiful that would make angels weep. Because why shouldn’t everything on her be?

I’m officially in a foul fucking mood.

I want my necklace. I want my tiara. I want to sell both—or perhaps only the necklace—and move my ass to an island in the middle of blue-green waters and never look back.

Instead I’m here, sweating my bollocks off, sporting a wicked headache because we didn’t think this through and bring any provisions with us—plus she hit me in the head yesterday—and trying to ignore how my feet are killing me in my Chucks that have little to no sole support left.

“Do you have to keep singing?” I grouse when she goes from one song into the next.

She falters. “Sorry. It’s how I fill the quiet. I can’t stand the TV—you saw all that’s on mine—and music is about all I have other than books.”

Now I feel like an asshole.

“How long have you been a jewel thief?” she asks.

“Are we making small talk now?”

She huffs. “You’re right. I thought it might be a preferable way to fill the silence. Guess I was wrong.” On her next breath, she launches into some pop song at the top of her lungs. It’s complete with her dancing, swaying her hips, skipping in her step, and running her hands up her sides. I can’t tell if Miss Innocent knows what she’s doing and is a fucking tease or if she’s totally clueless, which is such an annoying, frustrating turn-on.

Blood surges to my cock because, of course, it does. Why should anything about this bullshit be easy?

“Can you go two minutes without making noise or moving unnecessarily?”

I get a coy look that isn’t helping the cock situation. “No. Want me to go louder?”

Yes.

I grunt instead.

“You could simply talk to me, and then I wouldn’t sing.”

“Or you could shut. The fuck. Up.”

She doesn’t get to be sexy or innocent or sing like an angel. She’s a means to an end. A job I’m working. I want my tiara back. I want to make her mother suffer. I want my necklace too. I’m repeating myself. I know this. But it’s a mantra that will see me through.

She laughs. Actually laughs. “I could. But where’s the fun in that when I annoy you so beautifully?”

For fuck’s sake.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me. Isn’t that what you said? The less we talk the better?”

She shrugs, her hands going up at her sides. “I did, but I also spend six out of seven days a week by myself talking to only myself. I befriended a feral cat. At this point, I’d talk to the trees if they responded. So answer me.”

I don’t. Not right away. I’m obstinate and petulant, and fuck my life. This girl has a way about her, doesn’t she?

“I’ve been a thief for twenty or so years. I started back when I was a kid and learned that was the best way to survive when no one gives a shit if you do. I did smaller, petty crimes and slowly learned and worked my way up.”

“Where are you from? I don’t get your accent.”

“I was born in America, then was moved to Ireland when I was seven because I had an aunt there⁠—”

“Wait. Where were your parents?”

“Dead.” I don’t elaborate, nor do I plan to.