I, not for the first time this hour even, picture her in a little maid uniform beset with frills. Her older—by eight minutes—twin sister, Maelin, could easily use her magical seamstress abilities to create such an outfit from nothing more than hope, dreams, and my overflowing Pinterest boards on the topic. Then, once I’ve managed through nefarious means to con Morana into it, I could take five thousand pictures and wallpaper the black walls of my room with them. My future could become living eternally beneath the bliss of my mistress’s curled lip. It would be wonderful. Majestic. All I could ever ask for.
Oh, Morana. If only you understood how lovely we could be—together.
“You’re disgusting,” she mutters, doing quite the opposite of understanding anything, tbh. “I’m yoursister.” She saysthatword very, very slowly, as though maybethis timeit’ll sink in.
Spoiler Alert: it won’t.
Crossing her arms across her chest, she huffs. “And you’re being abadbrother.”
Just so every last person in the universe has this clear: she’sonlymy sister-in-lawbecause my older brother Zakery snatched Maelin up before I could snatch Morana up. Really unfair, that. But what makes it mega unfair is that Morana is committed to the bit of us being ahappy little siblingshipwhen I’d prefer she be mygrumpy little wife.
I mean, really.Lookat her.
Tiny scowl. Vehement glare. Wittle nose scrunch.
Delicious. I’ll have another. Every day. Always and forever. Thx.
Laborious, I sigh and march my two whole legs up to my shirt, bend, and retrieve the article. Despondent, I sigh and march the entire abusive length between my present location and my closet hamper. Pitiful, Isighhh. Then, I turn back, look Morana in the eye, and drop the shirt an inch from the opening.
Delirious laughter pours out of her, and she rakes her fingers into her long dark hair. “Fine!” Her hands go flying up, out of her shiny locks. “No clean clothes for you.”
“No, please,” I drawl. “Anything but that. How will I manage? How will I go on?”
She stomps across the white wood floors toward my black door. Everything in my personal bedroom is pure monochrome—including my cat, Ender…who is…surely around here somewhere. I can’t help but think that all Morana’s lovely shades fit so nicely amid the decor…
Which, for the record, is nothing but the white floors and black walls. No other furniture beyond the bed. No otheranythingoutside my closet. For the sake of my mental health at night, when any and all shadows try to eat me, I keep my personal space pristine. Completely and utterlypristine.
Unless, of course, having a crumpled t-shirt in the exact center of the barren floor makes the pretty maid burst a blood vessel. Then I’ll allow it. I might even encourage it. I may even be convinced to make putting that crumpled shirt in the center of my floor a task on my to-do list. And I will, most certainly, check it off, too.
Before Morana can toss open my door and leave me all by my lonesome, I say, “What are you saving up for today?”
Her glass-green eyes skid toward me, and I soak in the regret that reflects in them. She wishes she never told me about hersystem. Even though knowing about her system is my favorite thing in the world. Right this very second, her pockets are filled with task cards that she made for all the chores she must complete here in my home, theBachelor manor. Each day, she goes through her complete stack, picks out the ones she needs to do, then moves the completed tasks from one pocket to the other. When she goes home, she counts up the points she’s earned and either buys a treat from this mysteriousstoreshe’sput together or puts the points in a mysteriousbankto save up for a treat later.
When begrudgingly relaying the information about her system to me after I caught sight of her pocket cards, she seemed to imply that herstoreandbankweren’t just lists of items or notes of amounts.
I would kill to see her whole setup. The cards alone are preciously covered in adorable doodles, but I want to know what this store and bank look like. I want to know what she uses to represent the points she saves if she isn’t just keeping a tally on a notepad. I want to wander into her bedroom and learn things about her that maybe only her sister knows about. I want all her dirty little secrets.
I want her to bemine.
Hands tucked in my pockets, I hold her gaze, scoop my shirt up between my toes, and dump it in the hamper, showing off my impressive flexibility and dexterity.
Because, surely, this is flirting.
Her eyes roll, and she can’t help herself. She trudges toward me, then past me, toward my hamper, because the points for doing my laundry are just too good to pass up, aren’t they, mistress? You aresoeasy to read, to play, to adore.
“Well?” I prompt. “Not gonna tell me? I’ll assume you’re saving up to commission Zakery for furry art if you don’t.”
She mutters, “It’s nothing big or important.”
“I love small, insignificant stuff. You’ve seen my gaming room.”
She shudders. “I’d like to never see that place again.”
It’s only alittlecluttered. But what can I say? Fans love seeing their fan mail on camera almost as much as they love making remixes with shots of my face cam every time I’ve almost smiled.
The obsession among my viewership isreal. And it used to be overwhelming, but now I’ve found peace with it. What I do makes people happy.
I can live with that.
