Page 79 of Stolen Princess

Holy shit. She admitted it. I’m her. I’m the princess. My hands tremble as I reply.

Me: Then who is?

Mother: You were supposed to be mine. You are mine. And I won’t let anyone take you from me again.

I shake my head. I don’t understand that. Not even a little.

I see Ferrin coming out of the store, his arms loaded with bags, and I get out of the car. He frowns when he sees me, but I take my phone and slam it down on the ground. It makes a delightful cracking sound, and a piece of black plastic flies off. But that’s not good enough. I jump up and down on it before I pick it up and chuck it at a lamppost. It hits it dead on, which fills me with a sense of pride, especially as it splinters into at least a dozen pieces.

Ferrin stops before me, a curious yet amused expression on his face. “Problem with your phone, princess?”

“My mother.”

That hint of a grin curves down. “What happened?”

“I told her I wasn’t coming back. That I”—I glance around to make sure we’re alone—“killed her henchman⁠—”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I don’t want her to know you’re with me. I told her I knew I was the stolen princess.”

He steps forward. “What did she say?”

“She didn’t say yes or no directly but essentially confirmed it when she told me she’s not the one who stole me. That I was supposed to be hers and that she won’t let anyone take me again.”

He hisses something in Danish under his breath and goes to the trunk of the car, opens it and tosses all the bags in before he slams it shut.

“Get in.”

The doors click shut, and he starts the car before he peels out of the parking lot.

“She was tracking me. She sent that guy for me. That’s how he knew where I was last night.”

“I was being tracked too,” he tells me. “They had a tracker in my bag. You went to the restaurant I was supposed to meet him at. Maybe he saw you.”

“No. She knew I wasn’t on my way to her. She had tracking on my phone somehow.”

It makes sense and fuck me for blowing that notion off because of how old her phone is.

We pull back onto the autoroute and head south, the sun high in the sky.

“She knows what my dream is. She knows I want to go to the festival.”

“We need to talk about that,” he says in a low, measured tone.

“I’m going. Fuck her.”

He smirks and reaches over to tug on the bottom of my braid that’s hanging around my waist. “Darlin’, I’m not saying we don’t go. I’m saying we have to be strategic about it. More than that…” He pauses and throws me a quick side-eye before returning to the road. “Prince Rowan attends the event every year. Desta, do you want to meet him? Do you want to meet your brother?”

That chokes me up, and I look out the window, giving him the back of my head. The notion that I have a family out there. A real one. With siblings. I squeeze two fingers, holding them tight, overwrought with all of this.

“They won’t believe I’m her.”

“They will once they hear your story and see you. It’s getting to that part that may be tricky. Not to mention your mother will do everything in her power to prevent that meeting.”

I sniffle and wipe at the tears on my cheeks. “What happens if they don’t want to see me or they don’t believe I’m her or they’re horrible? What happens when I start to hope—truly allow it to take root within me—and it’s nothing as I imagined? It’s a nightmare instead of a dream.”

“What happens if you don’t take the risk despite knowing what it could turn out to be?”