Yvonne's POV
Calm down, calm down. Take a chill pill.
Those were the words I repeated to myself in my mind, inhaling deeply, forcing each breath to steady the confusion and anger inside me.
There was no need to go berserker on these people. They seemed to be the ones who saved me, after all. The least I could do was be grateful, right?
So, I forced a smile onto my face. It probably looked a little deranged, more teeth than charm, but hey, I was trying my best here.
"Look, mister, I'm really grateful for saving me. I don't know how you did it or how the hell I'm alive with no bruises," I said, glancing down at myself.
I'd already stripped off the heavy, layered clothing they'd dressed me in earlier. Now, I was left wearing a thin white chemise that clung to my skin like it had a personal vendetta against comfort. The loose sleeves tickled my arms, and the hem barely grazed my knees. But that wasn't what was bothering me. No, the real issue was the complete and utter lack of wounds.
I had fallen off a damn cliff. There should be bruises, cuts, something. But no, not even a scratch. Not even at the back of my head, where I was sure I had landed. There should be signs, shouldn't there?
Well, whatever. I didn't have the time, or the energy, to dwell on it right now.
I turned my attention back to the ruggedly handsome man in front of me, also dressed in historical robes—just like everyone else I could see—but his was different, more regal, more refined.
"So, could you just let me leave? I really have to get to work, well... after I get my revenge on that bitch." I rubbed my hands together, a slow grin spreading across my face. Naomi was going to pay for what she did.
Suddenly, his voice cut through my thoughts. "¿Dónde está el médico real?" (Where is the royal physician?) he said, his tone firm yet distant.
Of course, I still didn't understand a word he said, and it made no sense why he didn't just speak English. But what really threw me off was that he wasn't even looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the middle-aged woman behind me.
The same woman who had been in the strange room I woke up in. But that wasn't the only odd thing about this place. The entire setting was off. I mean, castles still existed all around the world, but this... this was something else. It felt more like I had stepped into a time machine. How much did it cost to make a place look like this?
The middle-aged woman stepped forward, her head bent down respectfully. But was this all part of some scene? Were they still filming something?
"Su Majestad, el médico real está en camino, se retrasó por un problema con los suministros médicos." (Your Majesty, the royal physician is on his way, he was delayed by an issue with the medical supplies.) She said, her voice barely a whisper. She was literally trembling, and I just stared in confusion and awe. Damn, they were taking this seriously.
The man nodded, then turned his head to me, but the woman didn't even lift her gaze. My eyes darted around—every other woman who had been chasing after me had knelt on the floor, their heads lowered in silent submission.
"Vas a entrar y detener esta locura, cúbrete y espera al médico real," (You will go inside and stop this madness, cover yourself up, and wait for the royal physician.) he said again, his voice stern. And I have never been so angry at another language in my entire life. Why the hell was he still speaking Spanish?
My chest heaved, the surge of anger rising within me. "Who the hell do you think you are? Speak English, for fuck's sake, or just get me a car to leave this place. I don't understand a thing you're saying, and I don't even know where the hell I am!" I yelled, my voice shaking with frustration. There was a flicker of shock in his eyes, but before I could even register it, it was gone—vanished like it had never existed.
His face hardened, his expression turning as cold and impenetrable as stone. He took a step forward, and despite myself, my body instinctively tensed, like a deer sensing danger. I wasn't one to be intimidated, but something about his presence made my heart race, and I took a step back.
"¿Qué te ha sucedido?" ("What has gotten into you?") His voice was low and menacing, a dangerous edge to his tone.
"¿Cómo te atreves a alzar la voz frente a mí y hablar en palabras que no comprendo?".(How dare you raise your voice at me and speak in words I don't understand?)
His gaze was as cold as ice, the kind that could freeze you in place. "Recordarás tu lugar, o yo te lo recordaré." (You will remember your place, or I will remind you of it.)
I just stared at him, the way he glared at me. It should've brought a lesser woman or man to their knees, but what he didn't know was that he had just met a mad woman. And even though I didn't understand a word he was saying, I could feel it, the tone, the expression, all of it screamed threat.
I scoffed and laughed, the sound sharp and defiant. I heard a gasp from behind, or maybe beside me, but honestly, I couldn't care less. My mind was entirely focused on this son of a bitch in front of me.
"Ain't this about a bitch,"I muttered quietly, a smile on my face as I raked a hand through my hair in frustration.
"Who the hell do you think you are threatening? Do you think I won't catch on just because you're speaking in a different language?" I sneered, my voice venomous as I slammed my palm against his chest with every word that tumbled from my lips.
"You bald-headed bastard," I growled, slamming my hand against his hard, thick chest again. But he didn't flinch, didn't budge. He stood there like a damn block of stone, completely immovable.
Of course, he wasn't actually bald, that would've been too easy. If he were, I might've smacked some sense into that thick skull of his.
"So you better send me on my way, or you will regret it," I added, challenge lacing every syllable.