Page 42 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
But maybe they cried when the fiendish princely husband looked so heartbreakingly thin and pale. Maybe they cried when they could see Death slinking up behind him with a great scythe. Maybe then a warrior princess could cry, and rage, and catch Death by the wrists, and hold back that scythe with every ounce of will and strength she had.
The Fiend Prince was already slinging a towel around himself. He snatched one for me and offered me his hand, so I let him help me out of the tub. We dashed into the bedroom together and the Prince cried, “Out, out!” to the servants. While they scuttled into the corridor I plaited my hair into a quick braid and blotted the drenched, dripping end with the corner of my towel.
Then the towel was gone, torn free by the eager fingers of the Prince, and he collided with me, hard planes of ascetic flesh and bones. Our mouths crushed together and our bodies tangled, frantic and frenzied.
We crashed onto the bed. He was breathing so fast that concern spiked in my brain, cutting through the haze of lust. I drew away a little and put my hand on his chest. “Take a minute,” I said. “Breathe. Calm yourself.”
He nodded, sucking in deeper breaths, closing his eyes while his heartbeat skittered wild under my hand. After a moment, when his inhales were less shaky and shallow, I kissed him again, slowly, luxuriating in the hot, silky feel of his mouth, spiced with peppery darkness. We were amber honey and red wine, melancholic sweetness and sharp richness mingled.
His palms skimmed my body, and I put my hands on him gingerly at first, then more boldly, gauging his preferences by the hums of pleasure in his chest, by the jerk and throb of his length against my thigh. He liked my nails running over his shoulders, grazing his back. He liked my kisses along his collarbone, across his chest. He liked a teasing touch on his inner thigh, and a stroking finger along his spine, all the way down to his backside.
But it was hard to focus, hard to take note of what he wanted because all the while he was so skillfully manipulating me, eliciting delicate tingles and surges of pleasure, stimulating those nerve endings until I was squirming, nearly squealing. This time I knew exactly what kind of release lay ahead. I’d reached that pinnacle once, and now my body knew what to do. My stomach tightened, but other parts of me softened, turning liquid and ready.
“Lie back,” I whispered to the Fiend Prince. “Let me do this part.”
He stretched out, and I took a moment to delight in every inch of him. Not gloriously muscled, not a perfect male specimen—scarred and faded from what he once was, but I loved him in that moment, with a glowing intensity that threatened to explode through my skin and shine for all of the Cursed Palace to witness.
I arranged myself over him, fitted him into me, and he released a blissful moan. He was so much longer than the stable boy—so much more satisfying. Slowly I moved at first, experimentally, then faster—and the faster I rode him, the better it felt.
The Prince half-sat up, lips parted, eyes hooded with luscious want, and I leaned in to kiss him. That shift, the new angle of our bodies—it sent a thrill deep, deep through me and I said, “Oh,” softly into his mouth. I’d never felt anything like that tantalizing friction, inside and out.
He clutched me while my thighs flexed, moving me up and down. Our voices chorused desperate, creating the symphony we’d tried to imitate on our wedding night—but nothing could ever be as lovely as the real thing. My voice went shrill, wild, and far beyond my control as my body spasmed around him, quivering and pulsing. A throaty groan exploded from him, synchronized with his hot release inside me.
And it was done.
Not to please the Dreadlord, but to pleaseus.To protect us from his prying eyes and punishing orders.
The Prince and I slid apart, and when he turned on his side, slack and panting, I arranged myself at his back, with my body curved protectively around him.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Better than all right,” he answered. “Weary, though. I should sleep.”
“I wish there was a way to get back your magic,” I whispered against the crisp edge of his shoulder blade. “You could have your strength and your other abilities again, without resorting to ichor.”
“If there was a way to restore me, Andreas would have found it, and my father would have told me about it,” he said. “The Dreadlord wants nothing more than for his weakling son to return to his former strength and glory.”
I chewed my lip. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. That’s why he’s making me drink the ichor, so I’ll be strong again and I can fight for him.” The Prince’s voice was getting muzzy with sleep, so I didn’t press the matter—but I wondered.
The Dreadlord wouldn’t be the first ruler to feel threatened by his rightful heir. Galanrae was far into his twenties. If he were healthy, strong, and magically gifted, he’d be the ideal choice to take the throne—the great Seat of Ghast. In fact, a prince like that could have galvanized the entire country, rallied them behind him.
Maybe the Dreadlord didn’t want to risk such a coup. Maybe he planned to use up his son’s remaining strength and then let him die, hopefully after he’d fathered a grandchild or two. Then the Dreadlord could have many more years in power, with no threat to his position. He could brainwash and manipulate his vulnerable little grandchildren for years—and then, when he was old, one of them could take the throne and carry on the Dreadlord’s legacy.
It’s what I would have done had I been a malevolent, rapacious ruler completely lacking in all natural affection.
If the sorcerershadfound a cure for Galanrae, would the Dreadlord have shared it with him, or kept it a secret?
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My mind would not stop churning through everything I knew, all the facets of the ichor situation, and all the possible strategies the Dreadlord might have. I had to scoot away from the sleeping Fiend Prince, lest I wake him with my fretful movements.
Finally I flounced out of bed and padded across the floor to the door. I could have rung for a servant, but I didn’t like to make a fuss, not in the middle of the night.
When I poked my head into the corridor, Betta pushed herself away from the wall and straightened. The other guard stiffened as well. “Your Highness?”
“Would you mind asking someone to get me some warm milk, or tea?” I asked.
