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Clearing my throat, I force my brows to unclench. I force my voice to be soothing instead of angry. “Hey,” I whisper softly. “What’s the matter, Ava-bug?”
Silence greets me. She’s small enough to be somewhat comfortable in our hideout. Her knees are bent, but unlike me, they’re not shoved up into her nose. Still, she leans forward to press her eyes against the backs of her hands. Her glossy brown hair is short around her ears and falls onto her cheeks.
Our parents were classic movie buffs, naming her after Ava Gardner and me after Scott Fitzgerald’s crazy wife Zelda. We pretty much lived up to our monikers, since my little sister wound up having emerald green cat eyes and wavy dark hair. She’s a showstopper whereas I’m pretty average—flat blue eyes and dishwater blonde. So far no signs of schizophrenia (har har), but you can bet your ass I can keep up with the boys in everything, which brings us to this lowly state.
“Come on, now,” I urge. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
Her dark head moves back and forth. “I’m sorry.” Her soft whisper finally answers my question. “This is all my fault.”
“What?” Reaching for her skinny shoulder, I pull her up. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who looks pretty even when she’s crying. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I tried cutting my hair off. I tried not brushing my teeth—”
“Don’t be doing shit like that!” I snap, turning to face front. The rain keeps splashing on my side getting me even wetter. “We can’t afford a dentist.”
“I don’t know what to do, Zee.”
Pressing my lips together, I clench my fists on top of my knees. “We ain’t going back into no foster home. I’ll take care of us.”
“But how?” Her voice breaks as it goes high in a whisper.
“Hell, I don’t know, but I got all night to figure it out.” I press my front teeth together and think. We’re not that far from being legal. I’m seventeen, but Ava’s only fifteen. Looking at the sand on my shoes, I get an idea. “We got one thing going for us.”
“What’s that?” My little sister sniffs, and I hear the tiniest flicker of hope in her voice. She’ll trust whatever I tell her, and I take that responsibility very seriously.
“We live in the greatest state to be homeless. Sunny Florida.”
“Okay?” Her slim brows wrinkle, and the tears in her eyes make them look like the ocean.
“We don’t have to worry about getting cold or anything. We don’t have to worry about snow…” I’m thinking hard, assembling a plan in my mind. “During the day, we fly under the radar—keep your head down, don’t attract attention. I’ll see what I can find us to eat. At night we can sleep on the beach. Or here, or hell, maybe one of these rich assholes forgets to lock his boathouse. Have you seen how nice some of these boathouses are? They’re like regular houses!”
Her eyes go round with surprise. “Why are they like that?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Rich people are crazy. Some rich men even get their nails polished, and they aren’t even gay!”
Air bursts through her lips, and she starts to laugh. I smile and pull her arm so she can lie down with her face on my bony, empty stomach. “Now get some sleep.”
The rain is tapering off, and my little sister is laughing instead of crying. I don’t have any idea if anything I just said is possible, but I’m going to find out. I’ll be damned if I let another foster asshole touch her. It’s what Mom would expect me to do. I’m the biggest. I have to take care of us, and I intend to do it.
* * *
Crown Prince Rowan Westringham Tate
The navy fabric of my father’s uniform coat stretches taut across his shoulders. It’s the tangible warning sign his anger is rising, and the person addressing him would do well t
o shut up.
“Monagasco has been an independent nation for eight hundred years.” His voice is a rolling growl pricking the tension in my chest.
The last time my father started on our nation’s history, the offending party was thrown out of the meeting room by the neck. He’s getting too old for such violent outbursts. I worry about his heart… and my future. My freedom, more specifically.
“I think what Hubert was trying to say—” The Grand Duke, my mother’s brother Reginald Winchester, tries to intervene.
“I KNOW what Hubert is trying to say!” My father (a.k.a., The King) cuts him off. “He thinks we should cede our southwestern territory to Totrington! Even though their raiders and bandits have pillaged our farms along the border for generations!”
Leaning back in my heavy oak chair, I steeple my fingers before my lips and don’t say what I want. As crown prince, I’ve attended these meetings for three years, since I turned nineteen. I’ve learned when to speak and when to discuss things in private with my father.
I could say I agree with Reggie, we should consider a trade agreement with our neighboring nation-state, but I’m more concerned about the King’s health. I’ve never seen him so worked up before.
