The Stolen Princess: A YA Dystopian Romance (Desolation Book 3)

by Kortney Keisel

  Tree branches whipped past them as they weaved in and out through the dense woods on the outskirts of the Tolsten House acreage.

  Her father’s strict “no leaving the grounds policy” had forced Myka to get creative. She’d had to come up with a way to get out or find someone who would be willing to help her get out. Something like that doesn’t happen overnight. She couldn’t walk up to any guard and say, hey, do you want to help me go against my father, who happens to be the king?

  Conversations like that weren’t typical.

  So, Myka had paid particular attention to which guards took to her charms. Most of the time, the guards ignored her, so it was easy to find the few who would respond. There were a lot of smiles and harmless friendships happening. Now that she thought about it, the whole situation made her sound a little heartless, but really, everything was innocent and genuine. Especially when she considered the guard who she’d ultimately chosen to help her.

  Myka snuck a look over her shoulder at the man on horseback behind her. Officer Arco was an older man who had been the queen’s personal guard before she’d left. He’d often said how much Myka reminded him of her mother. She didn’t know how she felt about that comparison. In a way, it thrilled her, but her mother had abandoned her. Myka didn’t want to be like someone who could do that to her only child. He didn’t like to speak about the queen, but Myka could see in his eyes that he had a fondness for her. And besides all of that, Arco looked like a man Myka had seen pictured in the Tolsten House artifact room. Some guy named Quaker Oats with fluffy white hair, an oddly-shaped black hat, and a kind smile. If the pre-Desolation people liked Quaker enough to plaster his picture on a can of food, then surely Myka could trust the lookalike version to help her sneak out.

  But it was Officer Arco’s affinity for alcohol that clinched the deal. Alcohol wasn’t deemed essential, making it extremely difficult to find even in the under-the-counter market. Hoping to soften him to her cause, Myka had bribed him with some of her father’s private stash. She would like to think that she could get a guard to disobey her father with just a wink and a smile, but the truth was, Arco was in it for the liquor. And Myka was more than happy to steal her father’s alcohol and deplete his collection. He was too sick to notice that the bottles were gone, and she hated when her father drank. It was illegal, for starters, and as king, he should be following the Council’s rules. But more than that, when her father got drunk, he became a completely different person. Someone Myka didn’t recognize.

  She pulled on Bronze’s reins, slowing the animal to a halt in front of the outer stone wall. She looked up at the white stone towering above her. Arco stopped next to her, swinging one leg over his horse to dismount. He worked to unlock the metal double doors that were built into the wall. It seemed weird to have a random door in the middle of a secure barricade, but past royalty had used the exit to make travel in and out of Tolsten House easier. Otherwise, they would’ve had to travel miles around it. Those royals didn’t seem to have had any rules on whether they could leave the grounds like Myka did.

  The door was resistant in every form of the word, and besides that, it had three locks plus a chain around it. When Arco finally had everything undone, he pulled the heavy door open.

  Myka gave him a quick nod. “I’ll be back in three hours. Before dinner with my father.”

  “And my payment?” Arco said with a smile.

  Myka nodded. “It will be waiting for you in your room tonight.”

  She prodded Bronze out the metal doorway, onto the open trail, then she dug her heel into the horse’s side, sending him lurching forward, leaving the Tolsten House grounds behind her.

  The first half of her ride, she kept an even pace, sticking to the trail even though she knew the surrounding woods well. The afternoon sun glittered through the trees, highlighting leaves, giving them a magical quality in the sunlight. She relaxed into her saddle, nudging Bronze to pick up his speed. Strands of her dark hair came loose from the bun on top of her head.

  Rommel and Joett lived three miles away, and before long, Myka found herself slowing Bronze to a walk down their lane. Rommel’s horse and wagon were gone, and instantly Myka felt a rush of disappointment flow through her. Had they forgotten that it was the sixteenth of the month? Maybe they hadn’t forgotten and would be back soon. She could wait for them. She had at least one hour before she needed to travel back to Tolsten House.

  Myka threw her leg over the side of the horse, thankful at that moment that she had changed into her pants and t-shirt—the same ones she wore every month when she snuck out. If her father knew the Tolsten House seamstress had made her custom-fitting pants and a shirt like the kind people had worn before Desolation, he would have the clothes burned and probably the seamstress fired. But Marnie could easily be bought. The woman loved having the extra money Myka had paid her for the nonessential clothes. She had seven children to feed, and since they would both be in trouble with the king if he found out, they both were extra careful to keep the clothes a secret.

  Myka slid to the ground, deciding she would wait inside for them to return. She reached for the horse’s reins to tie him up when the sound of water pumping stopped her. Maybe one of them was home after all.

  She finished tying the reins and walked to the side of the house. She poked her head around the corner, fully expecting to see Rommel’s crooked smile or Joett’s bright eyes.

  What she didn’t expect to see was a half-naked man pumping water from their well.

  He had taken off his shirt and slung it over the saddle of his horse, a speckled grey and white stallion grazing next to him. The man’s brown hair was long on top, falling down over his forehead and into his eyes, making it hard for her to get a good look at his face. His muscled arms pulled and twisted as he pushed the lever up and down, gushing out spurts of water into the waiting bucket. Once the bucket was full, he straightened, showing off how tall and fit he was—the man looked like he did push-ups and sit-ups just for the fun of it. Then he dumped the entire bucket over his head and down his chest.

  Myka might have thought the action extremely attractive had she not been so curious about who he was and what he was doing there. His fingers wiped at his eyes, and just before they opened, Myka retreated around the corner, pressing her back against the wall of the house. She stilled her breath, waiting to see if he’d noticed her.

  Who was this guy, and why was he at Rommel and Joett’s house? They didn’t have any other friends besides Myka, and they lived so far outside of Denton that they never had visitors. Something was off. Myka could feel it in her bones. She bit the side of her cheek as she peeked her head around the corner again. His back was to her, and he trudged through Rommel’s garden, thumbing through the plants and rows of seeds. When he got to the end of the row, he reached out to one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard and pulled a fruit off the branch. Myka’s jaw tightened as she watched the man take one bite and then throw it off to the side.

  Waster.

  That was a perfectly good snack. Anyone who would discard a delicious apple could not be trusted. Either that, or she was hungrier than she had realized.

  He walked to Rommel’s shed and slid the door open, picking up tools and gadgets to examine them. When he found one he liked, he put it in his back pocket.

  He’s a thief!

  Rommel would not stand for anybody messing with his tools, let alone stealing one. This man was clearly a robber, and Myka had to do something about it. She searched around, looking for some kind of weapon. It would have been really convenient if she could’ve found a sharp rock—the kind of sharpness that could potentially slice the thief in half. Unfortunately, that kind of rock wasn’t at hand. There were other rocks, though. Rocks that she could use to smash his skull in, but she shook her head at the thought. That seemed pretty violent, and Myka wasn’t violent like that.

  Maybe she could go all David and Goliath on him and throw a smaller rock at his forehead. She had read that s
tory in a book, but some serious details were missing. Like how large was the rock David had used, what was the exact distance you needed to throw the rock from for it to have the most impact, and where on the forehead was the best spot to strike a deadly blow? Did she even want to create a deadly blow? That seemed like a harsh punishment for stealing a tool. She decided to settle for a large stick. Maybe she could hit him hard enough to knock him out.

  The gun! She remembered.

  When Myka was twelve, she had begged her father to let her learn how to shoot a gun. Guns were a newer weapon and only essential for soldiers, but Myka had read about Annie Oakley in the pre-Desolation “O” encyclopedia and if Annie could shoot a gun, why couldn’t Myka? Her father had been hesitant at first, but then he had decided that they both should learn how to shoot a gun to protect themselves. From that day on, Myka had had weekly shooting lessons deep in the woods surrounding Tolsten House. She’d gotten surprisingly good with her aim, but she didn’t need to hit the thief. She just had to scare him so he would leave.

  She gently swung her backpack around so it rested on her chest. Slowly, she lifted the front pouch and pulled out the small handgun, careful not to disturb any of the cans inside. Then, she lowered the backpack to the ground. She didn’t need anything getting in her way. Her fingers slid over the metal until they felt the safety mechanism. She pushed the button, releasing the small piece of metal, so the gun was ready to fire—if she needed to fire it, that is. If he suddenly came at her with an ax or something, then she’d be ready. Both hands closed over the handle, and she stilled, taking in a steadying breath.

  She poked her head around the corner and raised her arms out in front of her, pointing the gun at the man as he stepped out of the shed. His gaze must’ve caught hold of her because he immediately threw his hands up in the air, and his eyes doubled in size.

  “Don’t shoot!” he yelled.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice trembled.

  Get it together, Myka. You are Annie Oakley.

  “I’m waiting for Rommel. I’m a friend of his.”

  Okay, so he knew Rommel’s name, but that didn’t mean he was a friend.

  “What are you doing in Rommel’s shed? He doesn’t like people touching his things.” Her voice came out harder this time, and she threw her shoulders back as a rush of confidence came over her.

  The man slowly lowered his arms. “I was looking for a tool to get the dirt out of my horse’s shoes.”

  “More like looking for a tool to break in!” she scoffed. She kept the gun out in front of her, aimed at him.

  “I told you, I’m a friend.” His palms went up higher in a gesture of peace. “Can you put the gun down?”

  He didn’t seem threatening. In fact, he was actually quite handsome. He had brown stubble scattered across his face in a groomed sort of way, like the stubble was intentional and not growing out of laziness. His long hair hung down across his forehead but could easily be rolled back with one swipe of his hand like a wave that curled back into the ocean. Myka couldn’t decide if the color of his hair was brown or black, especially since it was wet.

  Could she ask him?

  Since I’m holding you at gunpoint, would you care to tell me the exact color of your hair?

  No, she decided.

  She couldn’t ask him.

  Myka lowered the gun to her side, and his chest collapsed with relief.

  “What’s your name?” If he really was a friend of Rommel’s, she might as well get to know him, too.

  “Drake. And you are?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

  “Mya,” she lied.

  Why did I choose something so similar to Myka?

  She could never tell him her real name. It was too recognizable. She wasn’t recognizable. Nobody knew what Princess Mykaleen looked like. How could they when she hadn’t been out of Tolsten House as the princess for the last four years? But her name, that might raise suspicions. “My name is Mya.”

  “Mya,” he repeated.

  “How come I’ve never heard Rommel talk about you, Drake?”

  He raised his shoulders. “How come I’ve never heard him talk about you, Mya?”

  Probably because I’m the princess, and I’m not supposed to be outside of Tolsten House.

  She raised her chin. “You must not know him that well.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. His eyes glanced to the weapon at her side. “Where did you get that gun?”

  She swallowed, looking away. Guns weren’t essential. She should’ve thought about that before she whipped hers out. “It’s my father’s. I stole it from him.” Really, it wasn’t that far from the truth.

  His brows furrowed, and his lips bent into a frown. “Your father’s?”

  Myka straightened. She needed to change the subject. “Why are you here?”

  Drake’s sharp gaze traveled between her face and the gun at her side, seemingly unconvinced by her story. But instead of pressing it like Myka thought he would, he folded his arms across his chest, accentuating his muscles. “Am I not allowed to visit my friends?”

  She didn’t like how Drake kept referring to them as his friends. They were her friends—her only friends.

  “Well, I’ll tell them you stopped by.” She motioned to his horse with the gun, hoping he would get the hint to leave, but instead, he dropped his arms, taking a step toward her, sending a shot of anxiety through her chest. Was he coming closer?

  “Let me see the gun before you hurt somebody,” he said, reaching out to her.

  She pulled her arm back, insulted by his insinuation that she didn’t know how to handle a gun.

  “Why? Because I’m a woman?”

  “No, because you don’t seem confident with the weapon.”

  Her mouth dropped. How dare he?

  “And what gave you that impression?”

  “I can just tell.”

  Her glare hardened and she raised the gun up again, pointing it at him. “I’m as confident as Annie Oakley.”

  Drake shook his head like he had no clue what she was talking about and then he walked forward again, prompting Myka step back.

  “Put the gun down,” he said again. “It isn’t a toy.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m well aware that it isn’t a toy.”

  “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Myself?

  “I’m being serious,” he said as he took another step forward. He gently raised his left arm as if sudden movements might make her do something crazy. Little did he know it was his slow, patronizing movements that were going to make her do something crazy.

  “Give the gun to me,” he said in a soft tone, enunciating every word like she was stupid.

  This Drake guy was really starting to get on her nerves. Maybe she should teach him a little lesson. Just a tiny one, for all of the other Annie Oakleys out there.

  He took another slow step forward closing the gap so that he was only a few feet from her. “You clearly don’t know how dangerous they can be.”

  Oh, now he’s gone too far!

  Just a tiny lesson.

  Myka’s gaze shifted to the side of his arm and her breath stilled as she pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through the air. Drake yelled out in pain and he doubled over.

  A bubble of blood seeped out of the side of his arm.

  “You shot me!” he yelled.

  Myka gave him a satisfied smile as she lowered the gun. “I grazed you. But I could have shot you if I’d wanted to.”

  His eyes narrowed in on her with disgust before he stomped off to the pump. “I knew you would hurt somebody with that thing,” he called over his shoulder.

  Myka had shot the arrogant man, and she was proud of it. She’d nicked the side of his arm, hitting her mark perfectly. “You should be thanking me that I have such excellent aim,” she said, following after him. But something about his hard expression told Myka he wouldn’t be celebrating her precise accuracy.

  “Thanking you?�
�� he snapped, letting go of his injured arm long enough to pump water. The clear liquid mixed with the blood, creating a mess of crimson everywhere.

  The water cleaned his skin off enough to see the wound. There was a quarter-inch gash on his bicep where the bullet had grazed his skin. Grazed being the keyword. He was fine. The bullet wasn’t stuck in his arm or anything, and the wound wasn’t deep—definitely survivable. “You’re not bleeding out. It’s a flesh wound.” She straightened and smiled. “It was the perfect shot.”

  He shook his head at her. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want your honest answer. “Are you all there...like in your head?”

  A puff of air escaped as she dropped her mouth. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you crazy?” he clarified.

  Myka was privy to the thoughts inside her head, and yes, she probably was a little crazy.

  She raised her eyebrows. “There’s no shame in being crazy.”

  He grasped his arm again, and his mouth twisted into a grimace as his fingers skimmed across his injury. He walked to his horse and grabbed some kind of cloth out of his bag, pressing it against the wound to stop the bleeding.

  “We’re lucky guns are quieter nowadays, or else the shot might have spooked your horse,” she said.

  “Yeah, so lucky.” His words were rich with sarcasm as he adjusted his hold around the cloth. “I’m in actual pain here, so you can quit with the bright-eyed optimism.”

  She frowned. “Why are you acting like a baby? I would’ve assumed someone like you to be tougher than this.”

  He eyed her. “Someone like me?”

  She waved her hand in front of his toned abs. “You know, someone with so many muscles.”