Page 8 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
“Excuse me?” The servant looked confused.
“I’m used to having training clothes, comfortable clothes. Breeches, leggings, tunics, blouses?”
“All royal females wear lovely gowns in the Cursed Palace,” said the servant meekly. “Are these not to your liking?”
“They’re all right.” I trailed my fingers over the material—dark, heavy velvets and brocades, all except for one white gown, an off-the-shoulder style with a sweetheart neckline and silvery swirls all over its surface.
“That one’s for the celebration tonight, Your Highness,” said the servant. “What would you like to wear in the meantime?”
My gaze traveled to the right, where shelves held countless pairs of the Fiend Prince’s trousers, shirts, and doublets. I smiled at the servant. “I’ll dress myself,” I told her.
She left without protest. When I emerged from the closet, I was wearing a pair of the prince’s lounge pants—probably loose on him, but nicely snug around my thighs and rear—paired with a silky embroidered shirt. I had combed out my hair, which fell below my waist, and I’d woven it into one long braid.
The Fiend Prince was sitting in the breakfast nook, the only part of his suite that had a window. He wore a dramatic outfit of black brocade with a high collar, satin ribbing, and blousy sleeves. When he saw me, a lump of egg fell from his mouth onto his thigh. A servant rushed forward, snatched the lump, and dabbed at his pants with a cloth.
“Wife.” The prince cleared his throat. “What are you wearing?”
8
“You can call me Amarylla, you know,” I said, seating myself primly across from the Fiend Prince.
“What would Her Highness like to eat?” stammered one of the servants. “We have ham, eggs, puff pastry, fruit tartlet, candied almonds, creamed wheat with sugar and berries—”
“Eggs and fruit tartlet, please.” While they served me, I busied myself with spreading my cloth napkin across my lap and smoothing a crease in the tablecloth, looking anywhere but the Fiend Prince’s eyes.
“Amarylla,” he said.
My heart jumped. “What?”
“You said I could call you Amarylla. I was testing it out. I don’t like it. It sounds like a poison.”
“That’s amaryllis, and yes, I was named for a beautiful toxic flower. What’s your name?”
“You don’t know?”
“Everyone here calls you ‘Your Highness,’ and to your enemies, you’re ‘the Fiend Prince.’ But I’m your—” I nearly gagged on the word, but I forced it out— “your wife, and I should know what to call you.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “You want to have something to scream when we’re making love.”
At his words, I choked, and the chunk of ham I’d just swallowed stuck in my throat. I struggled to swallow it back down, but it was stuck. Frantically I beat at my own chest, unable to breathe or speak.
“Princess?” said a servant tentatively. “Are you unwell?”
The Fiend Prince lunged out of his chair and hauled me out of mine. Black spots were dancing before my eyes, thickening and swirling. He pulled my back against his chest, wedged his fist beneath my ribs, and capped his other hand over it. A quick jerking squeeze, and the stubborn chunk of ham dislodged, flying onto the tablecloth. I gasped, inhaling the blessed, blessed air.
He pressed both hands flat against my stomach, holding me against him for a second. “I believe I just saved your life.”
Damn it. He did. Just when I didn’t want to owe him anything else…
“Thank you,” I gritted out.
One of his hands slid to my hip, then to my ass cheek, cupping it through the soft material of the lounge pants. “My clothes fit you well,” he said.
I acted on pure instinct, born from years of training. My hand latched on his wrist, jerking it forward and twisting. In a split second, I had him on the ground with my bare foot pressed to his neck.
The click of a crossbow, and the threatening voice of a guard. “Release the prince at once.”
“No, no,” gasped the prince. “It’s fine. She promised to show me that move—really, it’s all right.”
