Page 10 of Princess of Thieves

And in three brisk steps, he’s gone, leaving nothing in the room but me and all of his family photos.

I’m studying them when it hits me: that’s what’s different here. Besides the more traditional decor, and the presence of hired help, anyway—that’swhy this house feels so different from Rob’s.

He and the others had nothing like that. No sentimentality, no snapshots, not even a fridge magnet with any kind of personality.

But here...this isn’t just a house, full of rich-boy toys and fancy furniture.

It’s a home. A place someone’s trying to build a life.

For whatever reason, that thought makes me shiver.

Chapter Four

For the rest of the day, I wander around the house, trying to amuse myself. It really does feel likeBeauty and the Beast, like I’ve been given this entire playground to explore, with only the East Wing forbidden. I’m a poor substitute for Belle, though—not nearly as brave and with no father to defend. And it’s not like the cutlery here is going to start singing to me anytime soon.

At first, I try the library, in keeping with the fairytale theme. It’s beautiful, like it’s been professionally staged—and it probably has—with floor-to-ceiling bookcases stuffed full of elegantly bound tomes, gold bands on the spines, and not a single volume out of place. But as soon as I pull one off to examine it, I realize it’s a law textbook. Boring. The next few are equally dull. There are a couple of classics, but we’re talking, like, classic classics: Don Quixote and Pilgrim’s Progress—the stuff that’s so old and boring that only old and boring people read it, or people who want to look impressive.

I sulk in one of the massive armchairs, wishing there were a few trashy paperbacks to keep me company, or at least a phone that wasn’t smashed where I could get a library book. Probably the only thing I ever liked about Sherwood County was the library system.

Next, I go outside, where it’s beastly hot—the kind of sticky Virginia heat that feels like a honeyed kiss on your skin, and not in a good way: a stifling smooch from an aunt you don’t like more than something romantic. The gardens are beautiful: pearly pebbles, a few tasteful shrubs, and a little echinacea and catmint for color—nothing too gaudy or girly. There’s a garage,and my heart picks up as soon as I see it. Sure, the Rover wasn’t anything too exciting, but the guy seems like the type to have fancy cars. Maybe I grab the knob and rattle it, but it’s locked. Of course it is. Even if there were cars, he probably wouldn’t want me touching them.

When I wander back to the house, sweating no small amount in the clothes I’d run away in, I find myself face-to-face with Rosa at the kitchen door—my very own Mrs. Potts.

“Miss Maren,” she says and ducks her head. “I have some clothes for you, if you’d like.”

Oh, damn, that was fast. You can’t even get Amazon Prime here without a two-day wait. But I guess the guy’s one of those people who has connections. I straighten my shoulders, feeling the humid weight of my shirt sticking to my neck. A clean T-shirt sounds heavenly.

“Yes, thank you so much.”

She nods again. “Por supuesto.”

I slip into the kitchen past her, and I’m halfway to the hallway when she speaks up again.

“Oh, and Miss Maren—”

I stop and turn, trying to smile. If I’m unsure about what’s happening in my life and a little bit scared, Rosa is the opposite—entirely certain about where she is and terrified. I don’t need to add to that for her.

“Yes?” I say.

“Mr. Guy would like to see you for dinner at seven. He says you’ll know what to wear.”

Guy has much too high an opinion of my fashion savvy. These clothes are nice—nice in a way that doesn’t compute for me. Linen, cashmere, light fluffy fabrics, and pink—a lot of pink. I know that Jack said redheads could wear red, and I did look bang-up in that dress he got me to wear to the Fox Hunt Club,but I skim my fingertips over a folded blouse in front of me. Pink plus red hair? I just don’t think I get it.

I don’t quite know what to put on at first—none of it feels right, and I truly have no idea what I’m meant to wear—until finally, I come upon it: a slip dress in a deeper color. I guess you’d call it dusty rose or something, with thin straps and a liquid texture. It feels nice against the palm of my hand, I have to admit. But as I stand there dripping from the shower, with a towel wrapped under my armpits and my hair streaming loose over my shoulders, I think, It’s just not me.

And as soon as I think it, I feel really fucking stupid. When did I become a girl who says, It’s just not me about clothes—or about anything, really? I’ve been so used to surviving that my own personal tastes have never really mattered. I couldn’t let them. And now I’m here, staring at a dress that probably cost several hundred dollars, and I’m sticking my nose up at it. For some reason, I...

I sigh, bite a hangnail by my thumb, and drop my towel to put it on.

The material glides over my skin delicately, like mist, and the cool touch of it, combined with the chill of the post-shower air, sends a little shiver down my spine. When I look at myself in the full-length, gold-framed mirror, I have to admit—I look pretty. Not powerful, or sexy, or confident, like I felt in the new clothes I got back with Rob and Tuck and LJ and Will, but pretty. And I’ve never felt pretty.

Not to say that I never felt in my life like I looked good—sexy, even—but pretty? That was never for me. There was just a delicate quality to it that I never felt entitled to, that felt too fragile, too vulnerable. And now, with one stupid fucking party dress, I’m cracked wide open.

I scrub my hair with a towel and blot it dry. Fortunately, the central air keeps it from looking too poofy, and there are evena few clips and barrettes mixed in with the clothes that I use to pin the longer front pieces out of the way. There’s underwear too, which is embarrassing to realize, but I guess Rosa had my measurements. I walk my fingers over the options—nothing too sexy, not like before. But it’s not frumpy either. It’s just simple, useful pearl-pink fabrics and white lace.

After a moment’s hesitation, I select a pair of high-cut panties and shimmy them on under my dress, then smooth it down over my legs again. One glance in the mirror tells me it’s a no-go. The lumps and bumps of the lace are all too evident under the silk. I shuck them off, throw them on the floor, and try again, this time with a seafoam green pair of bikinis—simple, presumably smoother—but I have just as little luck this time. One glance at my ass, and there’s a visible panty line you could probably see on Google Maps.

“God damn it,” I mutter, peeling those off too. Am I seriously about to go commando?

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