Page 19 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Ducayne is better off with me than he would have been with Vienne. Yet I’m still planning to use him for my own benefit. So am I really any better than her, or any of the other spoiled nobles I’ll interact with at Summerglee?
The enslavement of prisoners of war is a longstanding tradition on this continent, but many of the thralls come from impoverished families who sold their own children. Others are young and desperate and sell themselves into the life rather than stay on the streets or go to prison. And some choose this path for no other reason than a deep delight in the sexual arts. They enjoy taking a submissive role, and they enjoy the privileges that go along with a life of serving the wealthy.
Ducayne had no choice about becoming a thrall. He is an enemy to my family. His people and mine kill each other for land, for resources, and for prestige. Perhaps, as a murderer and a war criminal, he deserves this fate. At least, that is what I tell myself.
If there’s one thing I detest, it’s guilt. I usually drown it with action—torturing a prisoner, exercising my body, sharpening my knives, or riding. Today, I feel the itch to do all those things at once.
I close the window and pull the gauzy curtains across it to shut out any possible glimpse of Vienne.
“Is he done yet?” I snap at the two servants who are working over my thrall. There’s a sheet spread over the floor of my room, and he’s lying on it naked, face-down, while they apply the hair removal cream to his entire body—except for his head and throat, because I have a strange liking for the dark scruff along his jaw. I’ve been through the same magical treatment, though personally I don’t mind body hair. But in this kingdom, the fashion is to have none of it anywhere.
“We did the front already, leaving his jaw and throat untouched as you requested,” the servant says. “A few more minutes, and the back will be done as well. Then we’ll touch up any spots we missed.”
“Hurry up,” I order. “I want to do the training course a few times, maybe go for a run.”
“May I come?” asks Ducayne from the floor, and his voice is so smooth, so mellow, that my breath hitches. An image of the harpist at Khal’s flashes into my mind—her lovely body arching with pleasure.May I come?
“Um… what?” I say breathlessly.
“I asked if I might accompany you, Highness,” my thrall answers. “I need to keep my physique in top form if I’m to entice any allies at Summerglee.”
He wants to join me. For training. To stay in shape.
I can inhale again. “Very well. Come find me when you’re done.”
I enter my study and remove the drapery that usually covers my shrine to Arawn, the god of death. My prayer book is well-worn, speckled with notations and changes I’ve made to the prayers. I take my time filling the burners with incense, lighting them, and polishing the statue of Arawn. He’s carved from soapstone, with a deer’s skull and wide branching antlers. His form is multi-limbed and misshapen, yet somehow regal.
Kneeling, I begin murmuring one of my favorite chants—a celebration of the expectation of death.
I’m nearly done when I sense another presence in the study—a blackberries-and-fresh-grass fragrance I’m beginning to recognize. There’s a male warmth to his scent that quickens my pulse.
I hate him. Stupid thrall, entering my life and laying these choices before me, bringing guilt and agitation into my soul. I don’t entertain moral dilemmas. I simply dowhat I want, and I ignore the right or wrong of it.
Even though I don’t look at him, I can sense when Ducayne kneels to my right, slightly behind me.
When I’m done with the prayer, he says quietly, “You worship Arawn?”
“What of it?”
“It’s unusual for a young, beautiful princess to worship the god of death.”
“I’m an unusual person.” I turn and meet his soft dark eyes. He’s on one knee, and he’s entirely naked—all carved abs and sinewy arms and golden-smooth skin. Bracelets chink on his wrists when he moves. His cock is fully erect.
“You didn’t put on any clothes,” I say in a choked voice.
“I thought you might want to practice with me first, before training. You know—testing my skills and stamina.”
I swallow, my fingers curling into the fringe of the prayer mat. “You don’t seem to have trouble getting aroused.”
“No,” he replies. “I don’t. Especially not around you.”
“You said you don’t like me,” I breathe.
“I don’t have to like your personality to appreciate your body.”
That hurts. And I hate that it hurts.
No one likes me, ever. Not for myself, anyway. If they pretend to like me at all it’s because of my position and wealth, and when they find out I’m not prone to doling out meaningless gifts and foolish favors, they quickly drift over to Vienne’s circle of sycophants.
