Dirty Prince

by Sky Corgan

  The men rush forward to protect the women. Asshole outside rolls around the corner still clutching his face. He points at me and says, “Intruder,” like some damn machine.

  “Who are you?” one of the men demands.

  “I'm a friend.” I hold my palms out in a gesture of peace. Perhaps barging in wasn't the best idea, but I feel like Asshole didn't give me much of a choice. He wasn't going to let me in without some lengthy conversation, and beyond that, he was just pissing me off by claiming that Anya belongs to him. Even if that is the case, it won't be for long. I've come to take her.

  “Anya,” I call out her name. The fear in her eyes is replaced with perplexity.

  “Who are you?” the man repeats. He takes a step forward, and I step back. This one looks a lot more aggressive, well-muscled in a shirt with cut-off sleeves. He's the one they should have had guarding the building.

  I glance at all the faces around me that stare back with tension and confusion.

  “I came to warn you all that the military is going to be doing a sweep of this area tomorrow. You will need to be gone by then.”

  “And why should we believe you?” The man with the cut-off sleeves points at me threateningly, taking a step closer still. This time, I stand my ground.

  “I mean you no harm,” I repeat in the same tone I used with Anya when I came upon her in the abandoned house, hoping she'll recognize my voice. It must have worked because she leaves the kids to join the group of adults that have been slowly gathering around me.

  “Wait. I know this man.” Anya holds her hand up as she approaches.

  “Well who is he, then?” another man asks.

  “A friend or relative of yours?” one of the women asks.

  “Something like that.” Anya stops right in front of me, gazing up into my eyes. “We can trust him.”

  “Can I speak to you outside?” I lower my voice.

  “If we can trust him, then why is he hiding his face?” Muscle Shirt gestures to my handkerchief mask.

  I grit my teeth, half wanting to put him on his ass, too. If he knew I was the one who has been feeding him these past several weeks, he might not be so hostile.

  Against my better judgment, I pull my mask down, revealing my face. A chorus of gasps rise up into the air, and several of the people around me take a step back as if I'm some poisonous snake. A few of them begin to kneel, but when they see their comrades refusing to bend the knee, they stop.

  “Now you know who I am,” I say before grabbing Anya's arm. She's looking at me as if seeing me for the first time, and it makes my gut twist because I can't tell what she's thinking. At least, she didn't start to kneel like some of the others. “I need to speak with you outside.” I don't give her time to respond or protest, practically dragging her with me.

  “You don't have to go with him.” Asshole reaches out to her, trying to stop us before we reach the door.

  I turn on him, showing him I mean business. “If you follow us outside, I'll have you executed.”

  That makes him back off. It's obvious he's a coward through and through. The thought that he was the one protecting everyone inside makes me sick to my stomach. If someone dangerous had come instead of me, they'd probably all be dead, Anya included.

  I close the door behind us, thankful to finally be alone with her again, though I know the others will be watching us from the windows. I won't truly have her alone until she's safely back at my estate. And when I do have her alone, I'll make her pay me back for all my generosity. But first I have to convince her to come with me.

  She hugs herself, looking nervous and shy. Today her hair is braided back away from her face. Loose strands of gold fall messily over her forehead. I can't resist the urge to brush it back. The second my hand makes contact with her, she shrinks away from me. Displeasure wells up inside of me like bile. It tastes bitter and wrong. I don't want her sinking away from me. I want her rushing into my arms, thanking me for saving her from this shit hole.

  “You can't stay here,” I tell her gently, biting back my feelings from her rejecting my touch.

  “Where am I supposed to go?” Her eyes don't meet mine, but I know she's watching me in her peripheral vision.

  “You'll come back to my estate.”

  She gasps, her little mouth forming an O, her eyes finally looking up into mine. “To the palace?”

  “No. I have a place here, for now.”

  “Oh.” The shock fades from her face, and she glances back towards the warehouse. “And what about everyone else?”

  “They'll have to move on.” I nod in no particular direction.

  “So you just want me to go with you?” Apprehension and confusion take over her voice.

  “Yes,” I reply plainly.

  “Why?”

  “Because you owe me a debt.” I can't resist the urge to try to touch her again. This time, when my fingers graze her cheek, she doesn't pull away, though I can tell it makes her uncomfortable. One step at a time.

  “We all owe you a debt.” She hugs herself tighter.

  “And you'll pay it.”

  “And you're just going to let them go,” she glances back at the warehouse again, “if I agree to pay their debt to you?”

  I find it funny that she keeps assuming this has anything to do with the others. It doesn't. It's all about her. It's all about me having her in the way I want.

  “Yes.” I give her the answer she seeks, not bothering to add that I had always intended to let them go. Even if she refused, I would have let them go.

  “Then what choice do I have.” She frowns. Her expression suggests she thinks I have something horrible planned for her, though I can't even begin to imagine what. I had hoped that by sending food and revealing my identity, she would understand that I'm not a complete monster. It looks like I still need to work on my image with her.

  “None.” I step away from her finally, content in the fact that I've won. “Go gather your things, only what's sentimental to you,” I tell her. “And remind your people to be out of here by early morning at the latest. I'm not responsible for anything that happens if they're still here when my men sweep through.” She turns and places her hand on the door to open it. “And Anya,” I grab her attention before she can disappear inside, “don't try to run from me. If you run, I will track you down. You belong to me now.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANYA

  I feel like I'm being driven off to prison or enslavement. Are they really that different? Who knows how long I'll be paying off our debt to the crown. Had I known this was what all that food would cost—my complete subservience to the enemy—I would have made Kim refuse that first shipment and every shipment after. But I didn't know, and we were all so hungry. I should have known that nothing in life is free—nothing is borne out of pure kindness, especially when you're a prince.

  Why me? I want to feel sorry for myself, but I already know the answer to that question. It had to be me because I'm the one who spied on him. No one else would have possibly been that stupid. I'll pay for that one mistake for the rest of my miserable life.

  I barely glance at Fynn the entire way to his estate, keeping my eyes on the streets and houses and buildings as they pass us by. Parts look like a battlefield, destroyed and tagged and burnt. Others are barely touched, more deserted than anything else, waiting for the war to end so they can be filled with life again.

  Prince Fynn, I correct myself. Prince Fynn Söderberg. Good God, it almost doesn't seem real. The man sitting beside looks nothing like his portrayal on television. He's wearing a pair of distressed jeans with a white t-shirt and a black hoodie. His long brown hair is pulled back away from his face, but I'd recognize those eyes and that facial hair anywhere after seeing him up close just once.

  “What's with the getup, Your Highness?” I try the honorific on for size, though it tastes bitter on my tongue.

  “Don't do that.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Do what?” I l
ook around, trying to figure out what he's talking about.

  “It's Fynn. Just Fynn,” he tells me before returning his attention to the road.

  “Just Fynn.” I mouth his name. “But you are Prince Fynn Söderberg? You're not some other Fynn that happens to look like him? This isn't some fucked up dream or nightmare?” I try to tear my fingers through my hair, forgetting that it's pulled back. He smirks at me for a moment before I realize why he's smiling and my hand jumps up to my mouth. “I'm sorry for the language, Your Highness.”

  “If you Your Highness me one more fucking time, I'm going to spank you,” he chuckles.

  I snort lightly, seeing what he did there. Yeah, it's definitely hard picturing him as royalty when I'm able to speak to him so casually. I shouldn't feel this comfortable around him, not when I barely know him.

  He never answers my question, just continues driving in silence. It's a bit unnerving. My mind is going a million miles per second, wondering what's going to happen to me. Did I just step into a trap? Is he going to take me off somewhere and kill me? That wouldn't make much sense though with all the food he's sent to my people.

  “Why did you help us?” I ask, yearning to fill the void with words, wondering if I'll ever have a chance to speak to him again once he puts me to work doing whatever he has planned for me.

  “I have my reasons,” he replies plainly, though there's an almost boyish smirk still playing on his lips.

  “You're quite the mysterious one,” I comment. “All dressed incognito, roaming away from your men, helping the enemy.”

  He doesn't seem to like my assessment of him much, his mouth dipping into a frown. “I wasn't helping the enemy.”

  “Oh really. Perhaps you forgot which side of the war you fought on.” At the forefront, I remind myself. He didn't hide in the castle. He was in the middle of the battlefield with the rest of his countrymen. He's not just some pampered brat.

  “I'm not your enemy.” He pierces me with a gaze that causes something deep within me to stir.

  If he's not my enemy then what is he? Does he think that whisking me away from my people makes him my hero? Not hardly.

  “You're not native to this country,” he continues, wringing his hands around the steering wheel as if bringing it up makes him somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Am I not?” I stare straight forward, noticing that the scenery has changed. I recognize the neighborhood we've entered from before the war. The wealthiest neighborhood in the city with estates spanning several acres and houses like castles. Anyone local who has ever dreamed has thought of living here, though, for most, it would be forever out of their budget.

  “I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone with your skin tone and hair that naturally light. And you have the most exquisite eyes.” He squints when he says the last part as if talking about a piece of fine art. It's a subtle way of telling me I'm beautiful, which I've heard many times before. The fact that he won't take the extra step to say it is amusing. “Are your parents immigrants?”

  “I'm adopted,” I inform him, because what does it matter.

  “And where are your parents now?” He looks over at me with the slightest hint of concern.

  “They fled the country when the war began.”

  “They left you behind.” I'm not sure if it's a question or a statement.

  “They thought they were doing me a favor by raising me. Their love only extended that far.” I hate myself for sounding so bitter about it, but it's the truth.

  “They should have loved you more, but I'm glad that they didn't.” He slides his hand on top of mine, and my body grows rigid from his touch. The fondness in his words seems misplaced, like I'm something precious to him. He doesn't even know me.

  I shouldn't be surprised when he pulls up to the driveway of the biggest house in the neighborhood. A six-foot-tall stone fence surrounds the large estate with a wrought iron gate and two guards keeping anyone unwanted out. Fynn clicks a button on a remote to open the gate. The guards nod at him as we pass by, curiously glancing at me but keeping their interest contained. I can't force myself to be impressed because I know that everything is stolen. There were other people living here before him, a wealthy filmmaker and his wife and their two children and several servants. They were forced out because of the war like so many others, everything they worked for taken from them in the blink of an eye.

  We pull around a large circular driveway and stop in front of the towering monstrosity of stone and wood. There are towers and balconies and more windows than I can count. I've seen this place from a distance when driving by daydreaming, but I never imagined one day being able to go inside.

  “Stay put,” Fynn tells me as he kills the engine and steps out of the car.

  A man in a servant's uniform who was standing by the front door of the house comes to assist us. Fynn holds out his hand to keep him at bay, and he stops, waiting for instructions. I shift my belongings on my lap, wringing my hand around the knot I made at the top of the plastic bag that holds my clothes. They're not sentimental to me, just things I picked up at the thrift store to get me by before the war, but I brought them anyway. Everything of sentimental value that I had I left behind in my apartment when the war began, thinking that it would be safe since there was nothing of monetary value and that I could go back for it once the fighting ceased and the enemy forces were driven out of the area. That obviously didn't happen. We lost the war. And even if we hadn't, there would be no going back for it now. Only a day after I fled the area, the apartment building was bombed and destroyed.

  Fynn opens the car door for me, and I step out with a sigh, my eyes passing over the massive building in front of me. Will this be my temporary home, or will I be forced to stay here and slave away? I imagine it takes a whole lot of people to keep a place this size clean. Not that I mind cleaning. It can't be any worse than working in fast food.

  “Elliott, this is Anya. Anya, Elliott. She'll be a guest with us for a while,” Fynn informs his servant.

  With no further orders from Fynn, the man greets me politely, then bows and returns to the door to open it for us.

  Guest? It sounds like such a vague word with a distorted meaning. I don't feel like a guest here at all.

  We step into the foyer and are met by a female servant this time. Her eyes immediately go to me, and she smiles politely.

  Fynn gives pause, placing a hand on the small of my back. Every time he touches me, I feel electricity shoot through wherever his hand lands. I'm not used to being touched so tenderly. It's too friendly—too invasive.

  He makes introductions again, once more calling me their guest, before asking me what size clothes and shoes I wear and then requesting that the woman go shopping for me. When he tells her to buy me dresses fit for a princess, confusion takes over. I really don't understand what's going on here, but I'm beginning to get the feeling he doesn't want me to scrub floors. The servant looks equally perplexed, though she doesn't question him. She simply nods, asks how many items he wants, and then bows before setting off to the task.

  With her gone, Fynn's hand falls to mine, wrapping around it to lead me up a set of stairs. I want to pull away from him, but I refrain. Instead, I decide to engage him in conversation.

  “So what exactly am I going to be doing for you?” I ask.

  “You'll see.” He doesn't even look back at me, but I can hear the mischevious grin in his voice.

  I sigh inwardly, my only option to follow him until he reveals the mystery of my fate.

  I can't help but wonder if in other circumstances I'd be delighted by the splendor around me. Everything personal has been removed from the walls. I can tell by the subtle square shaped discolorations on the paint leading up the stairs. The people who lived here before must have smoked for it to get this way, though I don't smell any lingering aftermath of that. Instead, the air has a slightly floral scent from all the bouquets of fresh flowers set out on seemingly every table in the place. What paintings are left on the walls lo
ok like those you'd find in a museum, though there's a spattering of film-related prints that serve as a reminder of the lives of those who lived here before. It's a reminder that Fynn and his people don't belong.

  We reach the top of the stairs and continue down a short walkway with closed doors on one side and a railing on the other until we arrive at the end. Fynn opens the door there and steps aside for me to enter. I poke my head in before my feet follow me into the massive bedroom. As with the rest of the house, the floor is a light gray wood, and the walls are white. Most of the furniture is made of wood that matches the floor, including the frame of the large four-poster bed that stands as the centerpiece of the room. It's made up with a cream-colored comforter and more pillows than any one person could possibly ever need. The walls are mostly bare except for the same square spots where pictures once were, but there is an ivory cross above the bed and a basket of fresh flowers hanging on the wall next to the large shuttered windows that look deceptively like a balcony.

  “Is this my new prison?” I pivot to face Fynn. While the room is far nicer than anywhere I've ever stayed, I refuse to look impressed.

  “Your prison?” He furrows his brow, taking a few steps towards me and rubbing my shoulders. I try to sink away, but I don't step back. His casual touching of me is becoming irritating. “This is our bedroom.” He tosses his head towards the bed.

  “Our bedroom,” I mouth the words, my confusion doubling. He did say our, right? Not my. Not his. Our.

  “I had Lova make room in the closet for your things while I was away.” He leaves me to walk over to the closet and open the door, nodding in approval and closing it again before I have a chance to peek inside.