Marta De La Reina Novels & Stories

“Mother, how have you been?” “I am great dear. I’m glad you came early, I have something for you,” the Queen said. She followed the queen to the salon room where she found a nice white and sky-blue attire hanged on the hanger. Of course, it was meant for her, no one in the whole of Qarth dressed like her unless they wanted to. “Thank you, it’s beautiful,” she said touching it. “I knew you would like it. Wear this when the party starts.”

“I hate to be the bearer, of bad news and all, but it’s time that I killed you!” To be honest she did not look like she hated to be the bearer of this particular bad news. She only staggered slightly and made a few small steps forward when the chair that Belinda was now clutching, was smashed over her back. It broke into pieces, once again looking more like something from a movie. Belinda was sure that there would have been a sickening crunch under other circumstances and, judging from where she hit the woman, there might have been a fifty/fifty chance she would have ever walked again.

Vincent blinked innocently. The captain took a moment to grasp Larissa's words. He turned, took out his longsword at his waist, and pointed it at Ray. "You dare to disrespect the countess? Are you crazy?" Agnes stared, wide-eyed, as her clenched fists trembled slightly. She asked in disbelief, "Is she really a countess?" The captain replied coldly, "Yes, she's the only countess in the royal family. The person beside her is the Queen's daughter, Princess Rachel."

Then Magdalena rented some old car so that getting around would be easier for her. Sona really was at home. Her way of life was written all over her face. She smelled of alcohol and cigarettes and was dressed in cheap, vulgar clothes. Aunt Tamia was awake too, but she could not get out of bed. Tamia was very happy to see Sara, but the same could not be said about Sara, she was frightened. Age had made Tamia’s deformity even worse. The poor woman was horrible to look at, but she was still the one Magdalena loved most in her family. More precisely, she did not love anyone else at all.

But it never hurt her to try and be like her mother, even though she could never be exactly like her. Maria was not some ordinary girl, she was the Princess of Crasatra until, she decided to marry Arthur, who was just a baker. But she believed that love is greater than any wealth or status, and left everything for love. Then her little sister, Diana became the queen and married the general. Diana also had a daughter, Elizabeth, who was just like her, arrogant, rude, and would always think that she's better than everyone else. But Maria was the exact opposite of her sister, beautiful, lovely, sweet and pure. No wonder, why people wanted to marry Maria so much but her heart was stolen by only

"I found the cook. Her name is Marta. She is old. Her memory is not perfect. But she remembers." "Remembers what?" "She remembers the Queen being confined to her chambers after Asher was born. Not for recovery. As punishment. Lord Kael told the staff she was unstable. Dangerous. That she needed to be kept away from the baby for everyone's safety." My stomach turned. "That is how you isolate someone. Make everyone believe they are the problem." "It gets worse. Marta said the Queen tried to send letters. To her family. To wolf packs who might have helped her. But Kael intercepted everything. Told the staff she was trying to incite a rebellion."

She stopped just when her hand made contact with the door knob. “Alpha Isabel Martinez” she replied in a voice that wasn’t hers.

I’d been sleeping in the arms of the storm and hoping the thunder wouldn’t ask questions or sweep me away. “You think I’m weak?” I asked. Marta shook her head. “I think you’re in love,” she said. “And that makes you brave—but also very, very breakable.” I took a step closer. “So what’s the plan? Let the brothers kill each other and you take the crown?” “If I wanted a crown,” she said, “I wouldn’t be drinking lemon verbena out of chipped English porcelain in a borrowed wing of a crumbling mansion.” “Then what do you want?” I asked louder than I intended.

Clara smiles, as she points to the other woman, “and this is Marta. We are your handmaids.” Marta is the tall and statuesque with jet-black hair pulled into a severe bun. Clara is shorter and more petite with soft, honey-blonde hair cascading in gentle waves, offers a small, kind smile. “Miss please undress and step in the tub,” Marta firmly says.

Her thoughts did somersaults in her head. “Prince Adrián Isidro Mateo de Córdoba y Zamora the Third.” He states matter of factly. Elsida’s eyes widen as the title slips past his lips and a wheezing laughter slips past her lips. “Ha ha nice one, I was only joking you know . I heard about the royal line of Spain that resided in Murcia but…” Elsida’s eyes trail to Adrian and his face holds stark sincerity . “Wait, you're not joking?” She bellows and throws her hands in the air dramatically.