Page 16 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
Once, months ago, I’d heard a cook in my father’s palace talking about how she persuaded her husband to buy her things by doing him ‘special favors.’ I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I did hear enough to know it involved her mouth on that male part of him—something I’d never done for the stable boy.
Was I so desperate to know the Prince’s secret that I would do such a thing for him? In my current position, I had little else to trade. And despite the Prince’s claim that he didn’t like women who were stronger than him, I felt sure he’d react to my attentions. He’d gotten excited when I unbuttoned his trousers last night, and he’d fondled my ass this morning.
“If you’ll tell me what your father is looking for,” I said, “I will do something for you in return.”
“Hm?” he said absently. “What will you do? Teach me how to dance like a possessed eel? How to snuggle with my mortal enemies? How to lace a corset?”
“No,” I snarled. Licking my dry lips, heart pounding, I rose and walked up behind him. I slid my hand past his waist, down to his crotch, and stroked gently. “I will let you put this in my mouth.”
15
The Fiend Prince sucked in a harsh breath and knocked my hand away from his crotch, whirling to face me with a look of utter disgust on his face. “I won’t exchange information for pleasure,” he said. “I don’t pay anyone for sexual attentions, least of all you. You are my wife, not a whore. You should have more self-respect.”
And of course the servants chose that very moment to walk in with the breakfast trays. I was fairly sure they’d heard him say, “You are my wife, not a whore,” and so on.
The Fiend Prince went white and gritted his teeth. I could tell he didn’t know what to say, how to fix what they’d overheard to make it work with the charade we were presenting to everyone else in the palace.
“My self-respect means nothing compared to your pleasure, Illustrious Prince of Darkness,” I said quickly. “You don’t want to ask this of me, and this brusque refusal is really your kindness, trying to spare my dignity—but I have no dignity where you’re concerned. I want none.” I moved closer to him, aligning my body with his, tilting my face up. “Let me do this for you.”
His pupils dilated, and his chest lifted against mine. “Maybe after breakfast, dearest,” he said, loudly enough for the words to carry. “See, the servants are here. We must curtail our passion in their presence.”
“We can leave, Your Highness,” one servant said. Her cheeks were scarlet. The other servant, a man, set down his tray hastily and hurried from the room without being dismissed.
“Come back in half an hour,” the Prince called after them.
When the door closed, he backed away from me, his eyes dark with admiration and something else, something hotter. “You ingenious vixen.”
I smiled. “Quick thinking is my specialty.”
“An admirable quality in a queen. As are your fighting skills, your humor, your strength, your intelligence, your beauty—” He stopped, puckering his lips.
Curse my foolish heart for fluttering, and for sending a fresh wave of blood into my cheeks. “That’s quite a list of compliments,” I said. “Did you forget no one is listening?”
“Youare listening,” he replied. “And I believe you could do with a few compliments. Your father clearly did not value you enough. He should never have sent such a treasure to my father. The Dreadlord respects no one, and gave you to me as a broodmare, little knowing how much I—how much you were really worth.”
My cheeks flamed hotter. “And how much am I worth?” I seethed. “What price would the Fiend Prince pay for me? Two kingdoms’ ransom? Three?”
“You are finding offense where there is none intended,” he said softly. “But to answer your question—I would pay everything, and nothing at all.”
His fingers drifted along the slope of my neck, and his thumb brushed the tender skin below my earlobe. His hand slid to my nape, cupping it. Caution flared through my body because even a man of his lesser strength could snap my spine easily with that grip—yet it wasn’t a grip after all, but a warm and gentle caress. I tilted my head back without thinking, tipping my mouth up as his descended.
The door of his suite burst open, and in glided the sorcerer who had brought me to the Cursed Palace. He wore elaborately styled purple robes, and his unmasked visage had all the softness of a spiked iron mace. Two guards accompanied him. “Your Highness, as soon as you have breakfasted, the Dreadlord requires you. There is an uprising in Purnyal, and your aid is needed to quell it.”
An uprising? And the Prince was needed to quell it? But last night he’d been shaking, sweating, weak as a lamb. How could he possibly be expected to fight? It didn’t make sense for the Dreadlord to send his son, frail as I knew him to be, to the battlefield.
I glared at the sorcerer. “The Prince isn’t well. He—”
“I’m perfectly fine,” the Prince interrupted. “I will go to the Dreadlord at once. I have prepared a special room for my wife’s enjoyment—see that she is escorted there during my absence, whenever she likes. And give her whatever she wants.”
He strode away from me, snatched a sausage roll from a breakfast tray, and disappeared into the closet to dress. I plopped into a chair and took a sweet roll and some bacon, gnawing both while eyeing the sorcerer with all the malevolence I could muster. He couldn’t touch me with magic now, not when I was so obviously in the Fiend Prince’s good graces.
A few minutes later the Prince swept out of the room with barely a glance at me, and the sorcerer followed him. The two guards remained, presumably to escort me when I was ready to visit my new room.
As soon as I had finished eating, I braided my hair, dressed in more of the Prince’s loose, comfortable clothing, and went with the guards, following them through the maze-like passages of the Cursed Palace to a pair of glossy red doors. The guards turned aside, their backs to the wall, flanking the entrance. “The room, Your Highness,” said one of them.
I pushed the handle and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut at my back.
The room stretched out before me, what seemed like miles of padded mats, leather-covered hanging bags, beams, bars—everything I could want or imagine pertaining to exercise and training. On one wall, a bracket contained blunted swords, staffs, and knives for practice. Along the opposite wall was a clear track with a target at the far end—a range for shooting. Practice bows and arrows were set up nearby.
