Meet Park Sparrow, a feisty and reckless outcast who's just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. Except Park is the Princess of Cimeria, a potential heir to one of the last monarchies in the world. All her life, Park has known nothing but po...
dedicated to @AndroidFetish for making all of these jaw-droppingly amazing character aesthetics -- since wattpad is stupid (or i am) and i can't seem to feature multiple images in one chapter, u will be graced with multiple chapters where their edits are featured!!
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I avoided cars for two reasons:
1. It was difficult for me to be in without remembering all the wonderful times I'd been locked in some pitch-black trunk and being shoved against the walls because my kidnapper didn't realize that speeding was only going to garner him more attention from the police, not less.
2. Elijah was always too lazy to take me to get a driver's license.
But I had to get a head start on Logan, so that meant stealing his keys and racing his car down the mountainside at a dangerously fast speed.
And doing so invoked a feeling in me--a desire to drive the car all over town and steer it down the empty highways until it died from lack of gas, allowing me to begin my life as a hermit princess on the run.
I wonder if this is how Archer felt.
But no. Logan would probably find me somehow and then force me to pay for gas--not something I could afford at the moment.
Instead, once I entered downtown Paradise, I parked Logan's car in a well-lit lot belonging to one of two grocery stores the town had (the other one existed on the opposite side of town, nestled in the suburban neighborhoods). Afterwards, I walked to the only other apartment "complex" in downtown Paradise, which had four stories instead of three, unlike Elijah's. The building was far enough from the car that Logan couldn't immediately deduce my whereabouts. Even Elijah was unaware that I frequented the rooftop here.
Inside, I took the steps two at a time all the way to the top. There, I was met with a heavy set door secured by a rusting padlock and chains. I knelt down and fished out two bobby pins stuffed in the breast pocket of my dress shirt. I bent them to their necessary angles and set to work.
A princess should not know how to pick locks. A true princess has doors opened for her.
Or whatever lame quote my mother would say if she saw what I was doing.
