Bookish Princess Read online

  Bookish Princess

  Modern Princess Collection, 5

  Clare Lesbirel

  Copyright © 2020 by Clare Lesbirel

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Touch Creations Designs

  Editing: Dr. Plot Twist & Dr. Book Nerd

  Proofread: Cam Johns

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations for review.

  The characters in this book are works of fictions. Any similarities to persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.

  This book may contain sensitive aspects which may not be appropriate for all people.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Modern Princess Collection

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for Clare Lesbirel

  Desperate to escape the responsibility that came with her gypsy roots, Bella buries her head in books and does everything she can to hide her true identity.

  Hunter was born to fight and win, but fighting for Bella is a losing battle from the very beginning.

  When she is forced to marry a monster, will she take a chance on love and see beneath the beast, or will she run away and turn her back on everything she knows?

  If you enjoy angsty love stories and need to know what happens when love is unrequited, you’ll love this new adult, Beauty and the Beast re telling.

  For Natasha. My kindred spirit xo

  Bookish Princess

  Prologue

  Bella

  Every girl pretends to be a princess at one point in her life, no matter how little her life is actually like that. Every girl except for me, that is. I knew my reality from the day I was born. I was a gypsy girl. Some called it wanderlust. Other’s called it Roma culture; all I know at the tender age of ten years old is that I’m nothing like them.

  “Bella, you forgot to clean the sink again. Get on down here, little girl.”

  I ignore my mom but the yelling only grows louder until I eventually cave and run downstairs to find her standing with her hand on one hip, scowling at me.

  “What do you say, Bella?”

  “I’m sorry, mommy. I just hate cleaning so much. Half the things aren’t even dirty, they don’t need washing and I was just about to finish the most amazing story about an evil witch and a handsome prince who loved her so much that it made her heart turn kind.

  “What have I told you about reading those stupid stories?” She sighs heavily, placing her hands on my hips and giving me a nasty stare. I don’t think she doesn’t love me; she’s always telling me she does, and she gives me plenty of cuddles. I just don’t think she likes me very much. She thinks I’m bad because I like to read and always complain when it’s my turn to clean up. But all she ever does is clean up, and it seems like such a waste of time.

  As soon as I finish cleaning the sink, I beg her to let me play outside with the other kids. Not because I want to play with them, but because it gives me a good enough reason to get out of the house for a while. When she isn’t looking, I’ll slip through the fence, away from the caravans, run all the way into town, and sneak into my favorite place in the whole world: the library.

  When I get there, I slip in beside a grown-up by pretending to be their kid. Once I’m inside, I run straight up the winding staircase and to the corner where brightly colored cushions are scattered across the floor. Sometimes it’s too busy and every cushion is taken, but most of the time, the other kids are all in school, so I get the pillows all to myself. I squish them up in a line, carefully choose a stack of books from the shelves, and lie across them on my tummy, reading all the stories.

  I’m always late getting home which means I am always getting into trouble. It doesn’t bother me, though. It’s worth it to read so many stories for free. To me, my secrets trips to the library are like Christmas Day, and the books are special gifts for everyone to share.

  “Shouldn’t you be over there in the princess section?”

  I glance up from between the pages of the most gruesome part of a Goosebumps novel. I glare into the palest of green eyes, instantly disliking the boy in front of me because of his dumb comment and the fact he interrupted in the middle of a really good part. Boys are the worst.

  “Shouldn’t you be over there, in the beginner’s section? Learning to read?” I say the last part as though I’m talking to the most stupid person on the planet, which I probably am.

  He doesn’t say anything; he just stands there with The Two Towers tucked under his arm. I’d heard about Lord of the Rings, but I haven’t dared to read it yet. It’s supposed to be really scary. I like action and adventure stories, but anything too scary gives me nightmares. That’s because I have this weird power. No one else knows about it because I’m worried if I tell them then it will stop working or they will somehow take it away from me.

  When I read a book, I don’t just read it. The words make movies in my mind, and I can see the story inside my head. I can feel it too.

  Like, when Anne of Green Gables finally moves in with the Cuthberts and becomes their real daughter, I cried happy tears for almost an hour. Or when Anne Frank’s diary ended, and then I found out why, I felt like a sharp, big, dangerous knife had stabbed me straight through the heart.

  “I think you’re the one who needs to learn to read. Everyone knows gypsy girls can’t.”

  I sit up from my cozy position on the cushions, wanting to punch him in the face. But he’s much bigger and taller than me, so I don’t.

  “You like scary books?” he asks.

  I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to speak to him after what he said.

  “Listen to this then.” He grins at me, and I notice it’s not a happy grin. It’s a mean grin that upsets my tummy and makes me feel a bit panicky, but I don’t know why. I should tell him to stop, or run away, or something, but I don’t. I just sit staring up at him and his narrow, weird eyes that flick through his book. He flips his head to get rid of the flop of brown hair shadowing his face.

  My legs tremble as he reads, slowly and moodily, every now and again looking up from the page to check if I’m scared or not. I pretend not to be, but what he says is so nasty and gross; I can’t get the stupid image out of my head. He must know it too because he keeps grinning that wicked grin at me.

  “You’re nasty! Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Only if you tell me your name.”

  I have no idea why he would want to know anything about me, and the even weirder thing is I wanted to know about him too. His eyes are such an unusual green color, and his face looks older, than I’m guessing, he is.

  “You first,” I demand.

  “Hunter.”

  “Mine’s Bella,” I blurt out, without even thinking about it.

  “Nice name scaredy cat,” he fires back, staring into my eyes one last time before he disappears.

  I wonder about him. I wonder why he seemed so excited to scare me. Why I care, and why I’m thinking about him and his nasty grin so much. Why I’m still thinking about it when I close my eyes to go to sleep that night. I don’t have a nightmare, like I think I will. Instead, I dream of pale green eyes staring back into mine.

  Chapter One
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br />   Bella

  Hating him is easy. Avoiding him is where things get complicated. See, I didn’t choose my future husband, that’s not the Pavee way. At least, not in our neck of the woods. I’d been promised to a monster before I understood the meaning of the word marriage, and I’d hated him ever since I met him in the library when I was only ten years old. Back then, he was mean and I needed to avoid showing him my true feelings at all costs. He’d clearly got off on scaring the shit out of me, but even now, I don’t think he has any idea of how deep my hatred for him runs.

  Usually, I avoid him as much as possible, but for appearances’ sake, we agreed to have dinner with my family. He had politely offered to drop me back off at college. Of course, I had to accept to avoid the scrutiny of both sets of parents if I had declined.

  So, here we are: me riding in his backseat with not a single thing to say to each other and nothing but a world of torture hanging in the air between us. It’s petty, but I know refusing to ride upfront irritated the crap out of him, and I have to get my kicks somehow.

  He breaks the hideous silence first.

  “I meant what I said back there. You have a seat ringside if you ever want to come to a fight.” Our eyes meet in his rear-view mirror, and I immediately avert my gaze as though I might turn to stone if I look at him for too long.

  “Thanks, but I think we both know watching you beat the shit out of someone for entertainment is really not my idea of fun.” He doesn’t respond, and another awkward silence ensues. I resist the urge to taunt him by asking if I bruised his ego. Who am I kidding? Nothing could bruise this guy, inside or out. Not that I’d ever seen him fight, but I’ve heard from my brothers that he’s more than capable of handling himself in and outside of the ring. He has earned a reputation as one of the gypsy world’s toughest cage fighters, and based on his formidable appearance and apathetic persona, I believe every rumor.

  Hunter’s green eyes look right through you; his cheekbones are as square as his jawline, and he has a mop of brown hair that sweeps to one side in true rockstar fashion. When he makes an effort, like today for dinner, he dresses as though he’s just stepped off stage at a rock gig, all leather jackets and low-slung jeans. But, most of the time, he wears loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms with a T-shirt that clings to his huge shoulders and hard wall of toned abdominal muscles.

  “What’re you scared of?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Enjoyin’ yourself?”

  “Hardly.” I roll my eyes and fix my stare on the passenger window to block him out for the remainder of the journey. My mind involuntarily takes me back to the summer of 2007 when I’d watched my brothers kicking seven kinds of shit out of each other behind our caravan. I wasn’t particularly close to either of them, but it was the first time I’d been around such violence. I hated it so much. Even though I was half the size of both of them, I’d jumped right in the middle and tried to split them up.

  My nose ended up bloody and swollen when one of them accidentally elbowed me in the face, and they had both struggled to move around for weeks. With Mommy preoccupied, looking after the little ones and doing her precious cleaning; I’d ended up having to look after them for what felt like forever. It was the only summer where I hadn’t been able to visit the library, and it had been the longest few weeks of my life. I despised both of them for ruining my summer, and they milked having me as their personal maid for all it was worth.

  That was before. Before my brother, Romeo, almost lost his life in a back alley so-called ‘cage fight’ that went wrong when his opponent, Theo Milarani, kicked him so hard in the back he’s never been able to walk again. He spends his life in a wheelchair because of the fights, so you can understand how much I loathe fighters.

  He walked into the ring and never walked out again. For some fighters it was expected. For every young boy willing to put himself in danger, there were ten more willing to replace him. My brother was just another in a long line of idiots willing to put their life on the line in order to gain power, social status, a reputation in the Pavee community, and most importantly, money.

  Another thing in this world I can’t stand.

  As the Pope says, “When one lives attached to money, pride or power, it is impossible to be truly happy.” My brother sat in the same church I did every week, he was aware of the teachings, but unfortunately for all of us, they fell on deaf ears. He had learned the hard way that a quick buck always costs more than it’s worth.

  “Here will be fine,” I indicate, as we near the outside walls of Camelot University.

  Of course, he ignores me completely, pulling right into the grounds and only stopping when we are directly opposite the library; meaning my best friend sees me getting out of his supped-up truck.

  I inwardly cringe as Harlow waves at me from her spot on the wall where she’s waiting for me.

  “You need a ride later?”

  “No. And for the record, if I did, I’d call an Uber before calling you.” I smile sweetly, jumping out and slamming the door before he decides to get out and make a scene. He revs the engine, clearly pissed, and a small sense of satisfaction settles somewhere inside me.

  “Who was that?” Harlow asks as I walk toward her.

  “No one.” I shrug before quickly quizzing her about her date with Gav to change the subject.

  She babbles on about how amazing her new man is and how he could be the one, but I’m too wrapped up in my own thoughts to listen. My mind is working overtime, trying to figure out how I’m ever going to get out of this mess without disrespecting my family and being shunned by my entire community.

  Dinner with my parents was a total failure, and my secret conversation with Mom had left me with less hope than I had to begin with. I thought once she’d heard how unhappy I am with Hunter, she’d take pity on me and agree to talk with Dad. Instead, she lectured me on being less of a spoiled brat and gave me tips on how to adjust to life as a fiancée, so the wedding would be smooth sailing. Clearly, she still has no idea there isn’t going to be a wedding. There’s no way I’m going to marry him. I can’t even stand to look at him, let alone think about becoming his wife. Hunter. Theo. They were all the same.

  There was the option of trying to talk to Dad myself, but we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I love him like he is my real dad. For all intents and purposes, he is. He’d taken me on as his own before I was born and never once made me feel like I was anything less than blood.

  My dad was a man’s man, and I am his only baby girl. With two older brothers tripping over themselves to follow in his footsteps in the equestrian world, he spent most of his time showing them the ropes and had strict ideas about the role of a Catholic girl within the home. He knew from very early on I didn’t fit that bill, but it never stopped him from trying to mould me into the perfect little princess he so desperately wanted me to be.

  Apparently, they hand-picked Hunter from a family that’s almost as well respected in the gypsy community as mine due to the success their men have had as fighters. Rumor has it the dowry his parents had given mine was well over the usual amount, and it had been agreed we would be married five years ago, when I was just fifteen years old.

  We have already had a handful of conversations in the same vein, and both my parents have made it perfectly clear: they are willing to ‘entertain’ my ‘hobbies’ by allowing me to attend CamU and gain my English degree, but only on the understanding that immediately after, I return home, marry Hunter, and take on the commitments of a gypsy wife.

  Dumb huh? I think so too, but arranged marriages are all my parents know. It’s all I know. I can’t bring myself to break their hearts, and even though I don’t agree with some of their dated and weird traditions, I’m not sure I’m ready to turn my back on my entire community, which is exactly what will happen if I don’t go through with this wedding. My studies might have bought me some time, but I am well aware and continuously reminded that the clock is ticking, and soon everything I love abo
ut my life will be taken away, one way or another.

  I’ve come to accept there’s no good option.

  If I choose the life I want, I lose my entire family and I’ll be heartbroken.

  If I marry Hunter, I’ll be trapped forever in a life I hate with a man I detest and be equally heartbroken.

  In the end, it comes down to damage limitation.

  A simple trade off.

  Their happiness, for mine.

  “Are you listening to anything I’m saying, right now?” Harlow demands, snapping me from my self-indulgent daydream.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Gav? The kiss?”

  “Oh. Yeah, it sounds dreamy,” I mumble, shuffling my handbag onto my other arm as we follow the tree-lined gravel path to class.

  Harlow is an English major, the same as me. Apart from that, we have nothing in common, except for the simple fact we adore each other. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had and loves books almost as much as I do, which means we always have something to talk about. As far as I can tell, Harlow is from a well-to-do family who she has very little to do with. I haven’t trusted her to let her know my background yet because you can never be too careful when it comes to letting settled people know your business. If word gets out at Camelot that I’m a traveller, my reputation would be down the drain, and I might as well kiss my English degree goodbye.

  We take our seats on the front row. The English class is relatively uneventful until we are handed our exam papers back. Mr. Mculloch praises me as he lands my marked test paper down on my desk, and I immediately notice the giant red A in the top corner. Seeing me slump back into my chair in disappointment, he murmurs under his breath, “See me after class, Miss Thomas.”