Page 10 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
So I cut him.
It’s an instinctive reaction, one I scarcely think about until the blade whips through the flesh of his right breast. The slice is shallow, but the blood oozes out instantly, a ruby line to match the scar on his left pectoral.
He puffs out a sharp breath.
“Go away,” I order. “Stand over there, in the corner. No—first go into the bathing room, there, and fetch a cloth to hold over that cut. I don’t want you dripping on my rugs.”
He gives me a baleful glance and stomps into the bathing room.
That’s something I’ll need to train out of him. He can’t look at me with that kind of rebellious malevolence when we’re at Summerglee.
The Captain is thumping around in the bathing room. I suppose I should begin using his name. Adraxas Ducayne—that was the name written on his intake papers. I always read my victims’ intake forms so I can glean every possible bit of personal information to help with the interrogation. There wasn’t much on this one. He’s young, a newly minted Captain, a good fighter and apparently intelligent enough to be trusted with a whole company. Or perhaps I shouldn’t count intelligence among his qualities—maybe his family has money and paid for the commission. That would explain why he was stupid enough to march his people into a trap.
He returns with a folded white cloth pressed to his bleeding chest. “Shall I stand in the corner, Princess?” His voice is a steel blade sheathed in fire.
“Yes. For now. Until—”Until I decide what in Arawn’s Pit I’m going to do with you…
But I’m spared from finishing the sentence, because there’s a muffled cry from one of my guards out in the hall, and then my sister explodes into my room.
“You obnoxious bitch!” Vienne flies at me, her hand whipping across my face. Her nails rake my skin, and she snatches a handful of my hair, twisting, pulling.
I slash at her with my knife, but she catches my wrist in a death-grip. With a warrior’s practiced skill, she wrenches until pain stabs through my wrist bones and I cry out, dropping the blade.
I twist, ducking under her arm, but she claws my throat, trying to get a chokehold.
“Darling, you’ll ruin your nails.” A soft voice slithers between us, the voice of her thrall Ethwyn. He’s standing to one side, fingers clasped anxiously, trying to break us apart the only way he can.
I buck free of Vienne and shove her away, but she twirls, slams a kick to the back of my knee, then barrels me to the ground. With both arms I shield my face from her punches and her wicked nails, catching a glimpse of my pleasure thrall as he stands in the corner, watching.
Judging from the horror on his face, this isn’t the kind of thing noblewomen do in Yurstin. But ever since Vienne and I were small, my father has allowed Vienne to attack me like this. He enjoys watching us brawl.
When I was younger, after Vienne was done bruising and shredding me, Padra would take me to the dungeon and make me vent the hurt and shame I felt on someone else’s body. Only after I’d tortured a prisoner for what he deemed a sufficient length of time would he allow the palace healer to attend me. He doesn’t force me to do that anymore, but the habit is deeply ingrained in my mind.
Even now, as my sister pummels me, I begin to feel the itch for a shining scalpel in my hand, and pliant flesh beneath its blade.
I’m strong. I excel at climbing and archery and swimming. But Vienne is a warrior. She has skills I’ve never been allowed to learn, and a lightning storm of manic rage I can’t match. My anger is low-burning, constant, ever-present, while hers explodes like a thunderburst between bouts of sunshine.
When I stole the Captain from her, I knew there would be a yelling match between us, maybe a bit of hair-pulling. But she is enraged beyond what I expected. Maybe because I have never truly beaten her at anything before. Or maybe I underestimated how much she wanted him as her prize.
Whatever the reason, this is the worst beating I’ve ever received at her hands.
Vienne breaks through my defense and pins my arms out of the way with her knees. Her fist crashes against my cheekbone, my jaw, my eye socket. I don’t scream. I smile through the blood.
“Will you not intervene?” It’s the Captain, speaking to one of my bodyguards who are watching my sister pulverize me.
“We cannot intervene,” they answer.
Vienne is the Crown Princess, the heir to the throne. My bodyguards can protect me from everyone but her and my father. If they challenge her, she will kill them.
It doesn’t matter. I have learned to welcome pain, to swallow it whole. I take the agony, let it flood my body, feeding my inner darkness.
Vienne may rage and scream. She can crush and bruise me, but she cannot change Padra’s written edict.
The Captain is mine.
She lurches off me. Slams two solid kicks into my gut—two bursts of nauseating agony. I choke and nearly lose my dinner.
My sister spits on my cheek. Then she grips Ethwyn by his beautiful hair and drags him out of the room with her.
