Page 7 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
“If you remove it,” said the Fiend Prince, “I will bed you in truth, whether I find you appealing or not.”
Alarm flooded my nerves, and I retreated, nearly tumbling off the edge of the bed. The Fiend Prince chuckled. “Only a joke. Maybe. Go to sleep, wife.”
“Don’t call me your wife,” I snarled. “You are not the husband I wanted.Iprefer big gleaming warriors with abdominal muscles like the Oreyan Hills and skin with somecolor, not this dead fish-belly white of yours. You’re barely more than a skeleton, just some fragile bones and a bit of pale skin.”
He sucked in a quick breath, but he answered smoothly, “I’m well aware.”
“And you won’t tell me what’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve only just met you. And I’m disliking you more by the second.”
“The feeling is emphatically mutual,” I snapped.
“Go to sleep.”
“You first.”
In the end I wasn’t sure who fell asleep first—only that when I woke up, the Fiend Prince was peering down at me in the faint light of a sickly dawn, holding the jeweled dagger in his hand—and he wasn’t wearing a mask.
7
The Fiend Prince had a shock of glossy black hair, swept back from a high, pale forehead. Thin dark eyebrows arched over deep-set eyes—I couldn’t quite determine their color. He had a neat straight nose and cheekbones that looked as if they might cut through his skin any second. His crisp jawline swept down to a chin with a slight cleft. But it was his mouth that caught my attention—sweet gods, his mouth—beautifully full and pliant and kissable. I’d never seen such a pretty mouth on a man.
“Good morning, my sweet little wife,” he said, with a sardonic hitch of those beautiful lips.
I scrambled upright, conscious of my scantily-dressed state and the snarled mess that had once been my wedding-night coiffure.
“You needn’t get up,” he said. “You won’t be required until tonight’s gala, at which the entire kingdom will celebrate our marriage properly. It may have been certified and consummated in secret, but now my father is eager to make it widely known. And he’ll be equally eager for us to keep working on that all-important task of producing an heir.”
“So I’m nothing but the bakery oven for the royal loaf,” I muttered, swinging my legs out of the bed. As I stood up and straightened, every cell of my skin prickled with the awareness of how close I was to the Fiend Prince. It was my inner alarm, my personal threat gauge kicking in. Nothing more. Certainly nothing illicit or tingly, even though he still wore only the undershorts, and his thin body had a spare, severe beauty to it—
Amarylla, I scolded myself.Shut up.
“You thinkyoufeel objectified?” The prince snorted. “I’m only the yeast for the dough. It’s my father’s loaf, you see. He’ll take whatever child we produce, and—” He cut himself off. “But no need to worry. I won’t be injecting my seed into that hot little womb of yours anytime soon. Notever, if I have any say in the matter. The servants will be in soon to bring us breakfast, and I wanted to be sure we are still in agreement about our ruse. You will pretend that you coupled with me, and in return I shall ensure that you have whatever you want—clothes, books, pretty dresses, jewels—”
My brain was still circling the phrase “hot little womb” and wondering if I was offended or aroused by it—but when he began listing the things I might want, I stiffened. “How about a training space and some equipment for exercising?” I asked.
He quirked an eyebrow. “You want to exercise?”
“I enjoy it. It calms me. When I don’t burn enough energy I get a bit savage.”
“More savage than last night?”
“Much more.”
“Very well. I’ll see what can be arranged.”
The door behind him opened and he quickly leaned in to kiss my cheek—a show for whoever might be entering the room. He smelled of something dark and sharp and exotic, with a bitter twist—licorice, pepper, and myrrh. But his lips were petal-soft against my skin.
“A most satisfying night,” he said, loud enough for the servants to hear. I managed to give him a fake simpering curtsy before he turned and walked toward a doorway, with a commanding, “Jai! Dex! My clothes!”
Two of the servants hurried with him into what I assumed was the bathing and dressing area of the suite. I followed timidly, because my bladder was aching. The Fiend Prince was standing in a long room lined with clothes, and as I crept past on my way to the washroom, he dropped his shorts and I got an eyeful of a very firm and nicely shaped backside.
The bathing area offered little in the way of privacy, since it was designed for the prince’s sole use. I used it quickly, washed, and found some of my cosmetics and personal items set out on a little stand near the sink. I wasn’t surprised that the Cursed Palace had running water—most royal families had access to emerging technologies. My father had always vowed to get running water into every Brintzian home—but with the war efforts draining our coffers and workforce, his vision hadn’t taken shape. Another promise he had not been able to keep.
Maybe now, with the war over thanks to my marriage, our people could have improved plumbing systems. That is, if Terelaus didn’t tax us unbearably—which they were likely to do. The Dreadlord didn’t seem the type to hold sway over a nation and not ask for a share of its goods.
When I had washed up, a servant guided me to a back section of the prince’s enormous closet, where a few gowns had been hung on a metal rack. I raised my eyebrows. “Where are the pants? The shirts?”
