Page 112 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“An extra jug?”
“Indeed.” I lean close to the bars. “Maybe a bottle of wine? Or two? A nicer selection of extra goods—dried meat, fruit, pie, cake—a few books and blankets. You’ll be living it up in here while the other two languish.”
From the next cell, Stefa snorts a laugh. “Cowen is a better man than that. He knows our travel papers are worth more than a few paltry comforts.”
“Ah, but paltry comforts are so damncomfortable, aren’t they, Cowen? I’ll bring some of them down here for you, and we can talk business.”
When I return with an armful of wine bottles and blankets, Stefa and Cowen are shouting at each other, arguing over principle and loyalty in strident tones. Such precious music. I smile and make no effort to stop them.
When I bring down more delicacies from the kitchen and line them up outside his cell, Cowen watches with undisguised craving. This is a man who enjoys luxuries, who has spent his entire life indulging himself in various ways. And I suspect that’s not about to end because of a passionate liaison with an idealistic healer.
“I’ll sweeten the deal for you,” I tell Cowen, letting my tongue glide out briefly. “I’ll give you all thisandI’ll give you head before I leave. Could be your last bit of pleasure for a while, except what you get from your own hand.”
“Cowen loves me,” Stefa says tersely from the next cell. “He wouldn’t agree to—”
“Done,” says Cowen under his breath. “Push all the goodies through the bars, and I’ll tell you where the papers are. And then I want head, not from you, but from the Princess. I want to see that arrogant little mouth of hers wrapped around my cock.”
I swallow my rage and say smoothly, “She’ll bite you. I won’t.”
He gnaws his lip. “Fair enough. But you swallow it all.”
“Is there any other way?” I grin and wink at him. Then, one by one, I pass the items I brought through the bars.
With a low, greedy grunt, Cowen unbuttons his pants and pulls out his dick. But I shake my head. “I gave you something, now you tell me where the papers are. And then you get the rest of your reward.”
He eyes me suspiciously, but he says, “There’s a loose hearthstone in my room. Pry it up with the poker, and you’ll find a leather-wrapped packet underneath. The papers are inside.”
“You realize if you’re lying to me, there’s a torture session in your future,” I tell him.
“Yes, yes. Now kneel, and open your mouth.”
A sound of pain echoes from Stefa’s cell. I step over and look in. Her back is hunched, her hands clutching her chest.
“They are all the same,” she moans. “I thought he was different, but they’re all the same. Immune to anything true, anything pure and real. Drunk on pleasure, devoted to cruelty.”
“I suspect Cowen has always wanted to kill,” I say quietly. “And he used your passion and goals to do it. I’ve seen a few like him before, in the Yurstin army. Men who joined because they craved violence and they wanted a way to sanction it. I’m sorry.”
“Ducayne!” Cowen hisses. He’s got his dick out between the bars, and he’s waggling it slightly. “Our bargain?”
I sneer at him. “Put it away, filth. And count yourself lucky that I’m letting you keep it. Enjoy your stay in this lovely beach palace of death, until the King’s men come to investigate. I’m sure they’ll treat you well.”
As I ascend the dungeon steps, he roars after me, “I’ll tell him, you know. I’ll tell the King about you and Ruelle leaving from Oleyra. There’s only a few ships that make port there this time of year—he’ll track you down easily. His fastest ships will intercept, and you’ll both be taken. She’ll be disgraced, you’ll be executed. You’ll die, thrall, with a cock in your throat, if I have anything to say about it!”
I slam the door at the top of the steps, cutting off his tirade.
He and Ward and Stefa have enough supplies for a week, if they’re careful. By that time, probably sooner, merchants will arrive at the palace to resupply the kitchens, and they’ll discover the massacre. They’ll report it, and a group of royal soldiers will be sent to investigate. They’ll count and identify the bodies, and eventually they might check the dungeons—or not.
I pity Stefa, but not the two brothers. They deserve their fate.
37
I’ve completely wrecked Cowen’s room, and not a damn set of travel papers to be found. My skin feels grimy, thick with sweat, smoke, and the stench of death. I want to rip my gown to shreds and burn it.
Shrieking, I pick up a lovely painted vase and hurl it into the fireplace.
A hideously sharp memory lacerates my brain—Vienne smashing a vase on my dressing table.
I’m her.
