Page 101 of The Cornish Princess
Forcing Málik out of her mind, she started for her dowry chest, to locate that special gown her mother had given her, only hoping Prince Locrinus—her husband—would give her time alone, to prepare for the coupling.
“Sit,” he said, and the single word was a command.
Gwendolyn froze midway across the tent, turning to face her husband with her back toward the canopied bed.
The golden lamplight shone upon him as fiercely as it did the sapphire eyes of his dragons. Like a golden statue, he shone. His hair, long and fine, was loose, flirting with the breeze at his back. And suddenly, Gwendolyn was cold, and far too aware that she was so far from home. She rubbed her arms for warmth as he grinned at her, and the grin transformed his face—both lusty and greedy at once. But though she recognized lust, something about it gave her pause.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket, advancing upon her, his look so dark that she instinctively stepped backward, and kept stepping backwards, until the back of her knees encountered the bed—and still he advanced, his eyes burning with a strange, unnerving light—a fire not unlike the fire in his dragon’s eyes.
Once he reached her, he shoved her back none too politely onto the bed, and Gwendolyn landed on her rump, throwing her hands behind her to support her fall.
“Loc?” she said.
Still without speaking, Prince Loc settled himself so Gwendolyn’s knees lay nestled between his hard thighs. And gods—she swallowed convulsively. Something about his demeanor was different tonight, though he didn’t touch her, nor did he move to disrobe. Instead, he revealed what he’d taken from his pocket—a shining blade, sharp and gleaming against the lamplight. Smiling now, he reached out and rudely pulled Gwendolyn closer and before she knew what he intended, he had already sliced the first lock of hair.
It fluttered to the bed.
But it was only hair.
Not golden.
Not gold.
Only hair.
The sight of it suddenly enraged him.
Rudely, growling like a beast, he seized Gwendolyn by the hair to cut even more, tugging at her curls, until she cried out in protest.
Snick.
Snick.
Snick.
Hair.
Not gold.
Not golden.
Only hair.
There was a growing pile now, and Gwendolyn blinked herself out of her stupor, finally comprehending.
He didn’t care about her.
He only cared about her hair.
He wasn’t her true love.
Snick.
Snick.
Snick.
More hair.
