Page 12 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
I circled the Fiend Prince slowly, then laced my right hand with his. His fingers slid, warm and supple, right into the sensitive notches between my own fingers. His left palm found my waist, and we began to dance, cautiously at first, with simple steps—and then, as he kept pace easily, with more complex steps, weaving a pattern across the glossy black floor. I glimpsed our reflection in its lake-smooth surface—a figure in a ghost-white gown, dancing with a skeletal black-clad wraith. Wilder we danced, faster we whirled—the prince whipped me around and pulled me against him, my back to his chest, his hands clasping my wrists. I broke his grip easily and twirled away, only to be recaptured as he quick-stepped after me.
More couples joined the dance, but I barely noticed them, so intent was I on my dance-fight with the Fiend Prince. Every intricate sequence of mine, he matched to perfection. His dark eyes mocked me, challenged me; his slim legs and lithe body mimicked every sway and swerve of mine, every arch and slither. I found myself testing more salacious moves just to watch him follow them, just to see how well he could synchronize himself to the melody and to my whims.
But he was breathing fast, and a hectic flush burned in his cheeks. The set of his mouth spoke of something beyond determination—it hinted of pain. I was pushing him beyond his physical limits, and he was too proud to say it.
I stepped in close, my breasts grazing the front of his fine tailcoat. Again I smelled his unique fragrance—licorice and myrrh, spices and darkness.
“Are you tired, sweet husband?” I murmured. “Shall I go a bit easier on you?”
“No,” he growled.
“Are you certain?” I twirled away, but he yanked me back with a frenzied strength I did not expect.
“You may be stronger in body, for now,” he hissed. “But I have the stronger will.”
“Unlikely. And I think, strong will or no, you are nearing your physical limits. After just one dance, too. Such a pity. What were you saying earlier, about your stamina?”
He seethed at me. “Lower your voice.”
“But my darling husband, I want everyone in Terelaus to know of your incredible stamina, and your prodigious length, and how deeply you satisfy me, your fortunate wife.”
From the sidelong looks of several dancers, I was clearly overhead. My joint purpose, of feigning satisfaction with my marriage while embarrassing the prince at the same time, had been achieved. I gifted him with an angelic smile and whirled into his arms as the song ended. He embraced me a little too tightly, and with his mouth at my ear he said, “You think you’ve won, little wife. Wait until we return to my rooms. You will be thoroughly punished for your insolence toward me tonight.”
Something dark crawled through his tone, and I shivered in his arms—partly from apprehension, and partly from a strange kind of anticipation. What punishment could he intend to inflict on me? Would he actually harm or torture me? Have me whipped, perhaps? He seemed too genteel for that, but he was the Fiend Prince, relentless warrior and slayer of countless soldiers, men and women. Perhaps he was not above bringing bodily harm to his rebellious wife. And since he knew I was strong enough to resist him, he would probably ask a sorcerer or his guards to do the job.
The next song began, a slow, sultry melody this time, meant for quiet swaying in the arms of a lover. The Fiend Prince gathered me close, my body pressed to his, and he smiled warmly, as if he truly cared for me. But I could see the daggers glinting unsheathed in his eyes.
12
By the end of the dance, the Fiend Prince’s breath was labored, although he was taking pains to hide the fact. He dragged me to the front of the room for a farewell obeisance to his father, and then the herald made a hasty announcement of our sudden exit. As the Fiend Prince and I left the ballroom, I heard the Dreadlord’s sonorous voice making some comment about newlyweds and their urges—and a chorus of titters followed his words. My cheeks heated, but a moment later I forgot my embarrassment, because the Fiend Prince was gripping my arm desperately, putting much of his weight on me.
I considered telling his guards of his predicament and asking them to help him along; but when I glanced at him, he looked so fiercely determined, so intensely, painfully proud—I couldn’t betray that pride. So instead I shifted, moving my arm around his body, giving him the support he needed.
When we reached his room he dismissed the guards and servants curtly at the door, and I wound my other arm around him, too, giggling. “We can undress ourselves,” I said, with a saucy wink, and they retreated quickly.
The instant the door closed, the Fiend Prince sagged against me, gasping. I knew that sound—not pleasure, but pain and exhaustion.
“Come this way, you skinny idiot.” I hustled him toward the bed. “How are you still this heavy when you’re so thin? I suppose it’s your height. You’re so damn tall—gods, it makes this a lot harder. Why couldn’t I be married to a short little twig of a prince?”
“For stars’ sake, shut up,” he groaned.
“I think you mean, ‘Thank you for your help, my beautiful and powerful wife. Please allow me the honor of setting you free and sending you home at the next available opportunity.’ That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” I dumped him on the bed, clothes and all, and he lay there, panting, his cheeks still flushed with exertion. His dark hair clung to the film of sweat across his forehead.
“You shouldn’t have danced so much.” I fought the urge to scrape that damp hair back from his face. “But you were a passable partner.”
“Passable?” he wheezed. “I suffered all that forpassable?”
I turned my back to him. “Undo my buttons, if you have the strength for that tiny task. Otherwise I’ll have to call the servants back in and they’ll see you like this.”
He moaned, but I felt him undoing the buttons, one by one. With each button released, my dress fell wider apart, baring more of my back to the cool air of the room. “You Terelonians like it a bit chilly, don’t you?” I shivered.
“You could stoke the fire, add a log,” he suggested, undoing another button. This time his fingertips grazed my skin.
“It must take so much wood to warm your kingdom every winter,” I said. “How do you manage?”
“Our forests are carefully guarded and preserved,” he said. “Else we’d have none left. We ration the firewood.” He undid the last button. This one lay near the base of my spine, and when his fingers brushed my skin again, I couldn’t suppress another shiver.
I slid off the bed quickly and faced him. “So your people suffer while you burn as many logs as you like? What do they do when they run out of wood?”
