Page 6 of Bitter Prince
A soft grunt caught my attention and I turned my head to the left. A pair of panties with little hearts and cinnamon sticks was the first thing I noticed.
Amused, Dante and I studied the struggling girl hanging off the white-painted iron fence as we slipped our hands into our pockets. The hem of her skirt caught on one of the spikes, leaving her to struggle as her pink ballet flats dangled off her feet.
“Motherfucking fences with pitchforks and stupid dresses,” the soft voice grumbled. She hissed as she tried to maneuver herself over, then came the sound of material ripping. “Please let this be theonetime you actually hear me,” she cried, her pout evident from her tone as she flailed her arms.
It was only then that I noticed another girl, kneeling down and digging through a bag, her back turned to us. Her dark hair glimmered with shades of auburn, coal, and mahogany. They had to be the Romero sisters. My intel showed Reina was fourteen years old and her sister, Phoenix, was sixteen.
“You know, Marilyn Monroe could pull off her skirt blowing in the wind with grace. She even made it look like it was the most natural thing,” the girl continued, muttering to herself. “But then again, she didn’t have to worry about getting caught by her father, her ass hanging out for the whole world to see. I can handle Grandma catching me in this state, but Papà will blow a gasket.” She blew a frustrated breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she added another, “Fuck!”
A lightness filled my chest for the first time in a long time. It was one of the more entertaining things I’d seen in a while. I flicked a glance my brother’s way, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to help the girl, I closed the distance.
The one who’d been digging through her bag mere moments ago turned around and let out a soundless squeal. Her blue eyes widened in fear, glancing behind me to my brother and then back to me.
“What?” The girl’s dress was pulled up over her head, blocking her sight, but her arms felt around, grasping at thin air. “Phoenix, are you okay? What’s happening?”
She wasn’t exactly expecting an answer though, was she? Her older sister, who was currently staring at me like I was the devil incarnate, was deaf. The day the underworld found out that Tomaso Romero’s oldest daughter had Pendred syndrome, a genetic disorder that caused early hearing loss, Phoenix Romero had been labeled by her handicap.
Kind of like how I was labeled by my heritage on my mother’s side.
“Screw it, I’m ripping this dress off,” Reina hissed. “Whoever you are, you touch her and you’re dead. And look away, would you?”
I shook my head. This puny little cinnamon-heart-girl was threatening me. It was amusing as hell.
“I’m not hurting her, Reina,” I assured. Her body went still. “I’m going to help you get off the spikes, okay?”
A heartbeat of silence. “How do you know my name?” she asked, her voice cautious.
“We’ve met before.”
Her shoulders dropped from her ears a fraction. “Well then, help me down and stop gawking at my panties.”
“Who says I’m even looking at your panties?” Truthfully, I couldn’t help it since they were currently at my eye level. I tried to be discreet, but short of turning my back to her, it was unavoidable.
“All boys care about are panties,” she remarked, and even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was rolling her eyes.
“Moody, that one,” Dante remarked from where he stood by the gate, hands still in his pockets.
“There are two of you?” she snapped. “Good God, how many people are actually staring at my ass right now?”
“Just me,” I said, hiding my amusement. “Not to worry. I blocked my brother’s view, cinnamon girl. Although the entire block can hear your foul language.”
She blew a raspberry and mumbled something that sounded like, “I should have worn my black panties.” Then she cleared her throat and added loudly, “And don’t you worry about my foul language, buddy. My business, not yours.”
A chuckle vibrated in my chest. Even Dante couldn’t hold his in.
Stepping onto the three-foot-tall stone wall, I reached up to the top of the rail and unhooked her dress from where it was snagged. The soft pink material fell down her body, and I was blinded by the familiar golden-blonde curls that fell down her back, bright as ever under the afternoon sun.
Acting on impulse, I took one between my fingers, noticing it was even softer than it appeared. I wrapped it around my finger, the yellow strands shimmering like gold.
Reina hopped off, yanking her hair out of my grip.
“Ouch!” She brought her hand up and rubbed her scalp. “Why are you touching my hair?”
Her gaze met mine and it felt like an ocean crashing into me. When I was a little boy, my father had decided the time to swim was “now or never.” One day, when we were sailing on his boat, he dropped me into the Gulf of Trieste. I’d fought against the waves and current, but eventually, I saw the beauty around me. The sun pushed its rays into the depths of the blue sea, and I felt as though I could drown in its beauty. The life beneath the surface pulled me into its warm embrace and I’d felt safe, loved by it. More than my father. More than the whole world, except maybe for my mother and brother.
That day, the thought of leaving my brother and mother alone to our father’s mercy had me flapping my hands to reach the surface.
Yet now, as I stared into the blues of her gaze, I recalled that feeling again, and I feared I’d willingly drown for this girl.
