Page 2 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
He screams at the sudden shock of pain.
“Oh, hush,” I snap. “It’s just the meat, no vital blood vessels. You’ll live.” I jerk the weapon out again.
The door to the torture chamber bangs open. And I hear the voice of the person I hate most on this continent. My sister.
“Good gods, Ruelle,” she drawls. “Have you killed him already?”
My sister.
Oh, my beautiful, beautiful sister.
My clever sister. First-born. Beloved by all, though gods know why. She doesn’t even try for the people’s love—they just give it to her, as if she deserves it, as if she’s owed it.
She can chop a finger off a random market-goer for touching an item she wanted to buy, or have a young man beaten for ogling her maid instead of her—andstillthe people adore her. Worship her. Because she throws money at them, lures them with parties and pleasure. Because she can beat any man in a duel or a shooting match. Because she will be queen one day.
I am the Second Princess. Slim, small-breasted, with fine blonde hair. Compared to her luscious curves and glorious auburn curls, I look like a pale, sour ghost.
I haven’t learned to smile when people want me to.
Vienne smiles all the time. She is smiling now, her bright blue eyes shining at the sight of the prisoner.
“This is the Captain from Yurstin?” she exclaims. “Gods, he is beautiful! So much better than I expected. I feared he would be paunchy, or old, or terribly scarred, but this is perfect! Now if only he has a decent dick—”
She snatches away the cloth covering my victim’s crotch. The guards placed it there when they chained his arms and legs to the table, so this is my first glimpse of his equipment—long and thick, but not so large as to be daunting. To my surprise, he is partly erect.
“What have you been doing to him, you vile thing?” my sister asks. “You’re supposed to be torturing him, not tantalizing him.”
“I’ve done nothing but cause him pain!” I stare at the cock, which is stiffening noticeably. The prisoner’s jaw is clenched, his teeth compressed as if he’s willing himself not to react, and it isn’t working.
“Perhaps he’s charmed by my presence,” Vienne says, with a jaunty flounce of her shoulders. “He has a good piece, and he’s clearly sensitive. I’m going to claim him as my new pleasure thrall and take him along to Summerglee with me. Picture it—me, walking into the coastal palace, leading a Captain of Yurstin by collar and chain! No one will so much asglanceat any of the other thralls when I have such a handsome, powerful new one. Once he’s been trained a bit, he’ll be worth three of my regulars. Let me know when you’re done with his torture session, so I can ask Padra for him. I must start his training as soon as possible. Summerglee is next week!”
She sweeps out of the room, followed by her two maids.
Once the door closes behind them, I begin swearing vehemently, punctuating each swear with a tiny cut along my victim’s shin.
“I guess you’re happy now,” I mutter, tossing the cloth over his privates again. “You get to live, and you get full access to my sister’s beautiful face. Your life will never be boring again, that’s for certain. She treats her thralls like kings or like dogs, depending on her mood, which can change from hour to hour.”
“What if I try to assassinate her and escape?” the prisoner grits out through my rhythmic cutting.
“You’ll be marked with a magical tattoo that prevents you from trying to escape, or from causing mortal harm to any member of the royal family.”
“Your kingdom has a tattoo mage?”
“Not a very good one,” I admit. “Her marks aren’t particularly powerful, and they tend to fade over time. But they work well enough for subduing muscular captives such as yourself, until you can be fully trained.”
“And this Summerglee,” he says. “What is it?”
Anger rolls inside me, anger at Vienne, at him, at everything. Vindictively I swipe the knife-tip across one of his perfect abs, and he grunts with pain.
“I can do whatever I want to you now,” I tell him. “If Padra agrees to give you to my sister, you’ll receive healing after this, so I can have as much fun as I like. They’ll heal your wounds, and then they’ll soap you up, shave you from jaws to balls. She’ll have them shave your head too.” A pity. I rather like his hair—It’s long and dark, rather lovely despite being tangled and dirty from the battle and the trip to my father’s palace.
“What is Summerglee?” he asks again.
“You are not interrogatingme,” I point out, dragging the knife up his breastbone. “I am still interrogatingyou. You have to tell me everything you know about the upcoming offensives your king has planned, any cities or watchpoints he’s reinforcing with troops, how many ships he currently owns, and any other pertinent military information.”
“If I tell you about the fleet, will you tell—gods, woman, will you stop cutting into me for two seconds so I can speak? Damn you!”
Startled, I pause.
