6. The Wrong Princess

Anastasiya Van Houten

My breaths came out in harsh, heavy pants as I shot upright, my chest burning as I gulped greedily for air.

I was drowning.

My hand immediately reached for my throat, rubbing it furiously, trying to ease the burning sensation. My skin felt clammy, and my hair was all over the place—wild strands clinging to my face and slipping into my mouth.

I swiped them all away, taking a moment to steady myself before my eyes finally focused, and reality came flooding back.

It was a dream. All of It.

A horrible nightmare. My hands shook as I rubbed my temples in a bid to ease my throbbing head.

Where was I? What was going on?

Despite the worry etched on my face, my instincts kicked in, and I found myself glancing around the room, eager to identify where I was, to keep myself grounded.

I was at a hospital. The strong smell of antiseptics lingered, just as potent as the loud and obnoxious beeping of the heart monitor beside me.

A dreadful thought rushed through my head, and my palms flew to my body, patting for injuries. Beneath the blankets, I flexed my toes and knees to test for nerve responses.

“Am I alright?” I voiced to myself, an edge of surprise lacing my tone. I remembered falling from a cliff and crashing into rocks before falling unconscious immediately.

Why was I on a cliff?

My memories seemed jumbled, and I was having problems discerning reality from dreams.

I was on my way to kill someone… Who was it, exactly?

Think, Anastasiya…

After several minutes of tiresome effort, a sharp gasp escaped me as my memories crashed into my mind like a tidal wave, each fragment more vivid and horrifying until one name stood out more than the others.

Malcolm Reece.

I had been shot off a cliff by Malcolm Reece.

I wasn’t supposed to be alive. My lungs had been pierced. I had felt the searing pain, the rush of air escaping me as I plummeted toward certain death. How was I still breathing, let alone conscious?

Something didn’t add up.

Before I could make a move to push myself off the bed, the door slammed open with a deafening crash, eliciting a startled yell from me that echoed around the room. The sound shot through me like an arrow, sending bolts of adrenaline through my entire body.

My heart pounded erratically as I froze, sitting rigid on the bed, caught between the desire to fight or run. Shadows spilled across the room as numerous figures rushed in, their movements frantic and overwhelming. They were a blur of shapes and motion, their presence unfamiliar and discomforting.

I felt my chest tighten, panic threatening to take over as my mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. Who were they? What did they want? Did Malcolm Reece send them?

Instinct overrode reason. A surge of desperation coursed through me, and I threw myself off the bed. My legs wobbled unsteadily beneath me, a wave of dizziness crashing over me as I stumbled. My body felt weak, as if I were dragging heavy chains.

My eyes darted around the room, scanning wildly for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon. They landed on the large decanter sitting on the side table, its glass glinting faintly in the dim light.

Without hesitation, I lunged for it, my trembling fingers curling tightly around its narrow neck. The smooth, cold glass pressed against my palm as I brandished it in front of me, my grip firm despite the trembling in my arms.

“Stay back!” I croaked, my voice raw and uneven but expressing my intention to hurt anyone who tried to come closer. My chest heaved with exertion as I pressed myself against the edge of the side table, using it for support. My legs felt like they might give out at any moment, the weakness in my body a cruel betrayal at a time like this.

I tightened my grip on the decanter, raising it higher. It felt heavier with every passing second, but I refused to let it drop. My gaze darted between the figures, trying to gauge their intentions, their movements, their faces—anything.

But I was so disoriented, I couldn’t make sense of anything.

“Stay away!” I tried again, my voice breaking as I forced the words out.

The figures didn’t stop. They kept moving, advancing cautiously yet purposefully.

I stumbled back a step, my balance faltering as my legs quaked beneath me. A cold sweat slicked my skin, and my breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. The room felt like it was spinning, the oppressive weight of my fear and confusion bearing down on me.

“W-what do you want?” I managed to rasp, my voice trembling as much as my body. My knuckles were white around the decanter, the only semblance of control I had in this terrifying moment.

They didn’t answer.

Instead, one figure stepped closer, their movements slow and deliberate. Their face was obscured by the dim light, and the silence that followed was deafening. My pulse thundered in my ears as I tightened my grip even further, the decanter shaking in my hand.

“I said stay back!” I screamed, the words tearing from my throat with a raw desperation that echoed through the room.

“Please drop the glass, miss,” a voice called out, almost pleading. “You could hurt yourself.”

I stood still in my tracks, squinting as I tried to focus my vision, but I couldn’t see. Everything away from me was blurry. I held onto the decanter tightly as the figure moved closer, stepping into the light.

I was ready to swing it right into his head when my eyes refocused, and a man clad in white came into view.

My eyes darted from his face to the name written boldly on his chest.

Dr. Yaxel Tyrol.

His hands were raised above his head in surrender, a concerned expression adorning his face.

“Please drop the glass, miss,” he repeated, imploring me with his gaze.

The decanter lay limply in my hand before I slowly lowered it back onto the side table.

It was just a doctor and a few nurses.

A woman stepped forward, clad in a simple gown with a distressed look on her face, almost as if she was about to burst into tears.

Well, not almost—the tears had already begun to leak down her reddened cheeks before she suddenly leapt forward, gathering me into her arms.

I stood rigid with shock in her embrace, my fingers curling into fists as she sobbed into my chest.

“I…I thought you were going to d-die, princess,” she croaked, pulling me closer. “You were bleeding so much, Valencia.”

Valencia?

Was she off her rocker?

I pushed away from her embrace, totally sick of all the drama I had found myself in.

She looked startled, her eyes widened with sadness. “Are you angry with me, princess?”

Princess?

“You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not Valencia,” I stated bluntly.

She stared at me blankly, as did the rest of the hospital staff. The doctor looked like he was trying to read through me.

This wasn’t a soap opera, and I definitely wasn’t going to believe any of this nonsense. I rolled my eyes at their reactions, settling back onto the bed.

She moved closer to me again, hesitantly, almost as if she were afraid to come any closer.

“Then who are you?”