Page 34 of The Prince of Power

When the driver dropped me off at a part of the castle I’ve never seen before, one of Damian’s consorts led me inside. She didn’t introduce herself, just guided me to a private dressing room and handed me the dress on a velvet hanger. She’d told me to put the dress on. That Damian had expected me earlier and was a little…irritated.

I’d rolled my eyes at that when she wasn’t looking. As if I had any control over when the driver arrived in the parking lot of my dorm.

I walk into one of the great rooms. It’s nothing like the ballroom from the Michaelmas party. This is darker. Lower ceilings. Mahogany walls. The furniture is deep leather and arranged in clusters.

Everyone turns when I step inside.

I inhale a deep breath. There are only twenty or so people here, and their eyes are fixed on me. It takes all of my willpower to keep my head held high.

I don’t like this kind of attention. I don’t like that I’m wearing this slinky dress.

My thoughts scatter when I see Damian.

He sits in a high-backed leather chair, like a king on a throne. A glass of amber liquid rests in one hand. Four women hover near him—more consorts, I assume. One of them has a hand resting on his shoulder.

My cheeks grow warm. I don’t like this. I don’t like seeing him with all these women.

Is it because I don’t want to see myself as one of them?

It’s crazy to have that kind of pride now, after that psychopath made me get on my knees and pledge my life to him.

Damian’s eyes lock on mine, and his posture shifts. His gaze drags down my body in a way that makes me warm everywhere. One of the girls leans forward and whispers in his ear. He doesn’t even blink.

He lifts his hand and taps his thigh.

I shut my eyes for a moment and take a breath. He warned me of this yesterday, right after he made me lick his blood. I shouldn’t be surprised.

After squaring my shoulders, I walk toward him. I won’t look nervous.

Even though I am.

When I reach him, he says nothing. I lower myself onto his lap. His hand slides around my waist. His touch is gentle and possessive at the same time.

“You’re late.” His voice is hard.

“By, like, ten minutes.”

“Still late.”

“Your driver got lost on campus. He had to call me.”

“I guess I’ll have to fire him.”

When I stiffen, he squeezes my waist. “Relax. I won’t fire him. It was worth the wait.” His hand roams from my belly to my thigh. “You look beautiful.”

My stomach flutters at his words.

Crazy.

Sometimes he feels like a normal, cocky college boy, and other times, like the Devil himself.

“This dress is too tight,” I say.

“No. It’s perfect. I get to see every inch of what’s mine.”

“Gross.”

He laughs—a deep, rich sound. I try to keep my breathing even, but his proximity is overwhelming.

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