Page 25 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“If you don’t, I’ll punish you,” she replies.
“How?”
She turns and glares. “I’ll make you sleep on the carpet again.”
“And if I do well? May I sleep in your bed with you?”
“No!” she whispers harshly. “Shut up.”
I grin at her.
“Behave,” she hisses. And with a sharp tug at my chain, she draws me into the dining hall.
I follow her with my head bowed submissively. I won’t give her sister the chance to mock her, or her father the excuse to take me away from her. She is my best option for a decent existence.
The King isn’t present yet, for which I’m glad. My nerves tighten at the thought of seeing the ruler of my people’s enemies. I’ve seen his generals, heard his voice in the Princess’s room, but I haven’t gotten a glimpse of him.
Crown Princess Vienne is present at the table. She’s truly a stunning beauty, like a glorious, vibrantly colored painting. I can’t help marveling at the lustrous, fiery scarlet of her hair. And those lips—plump, rich crimson, kissable enough to make a man insane with want. I don’t look at her face for more than a second, though. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
Vienne’s chair is flanked by two kneeling male thralls—a man with olive skin and one with a rosy, freckled complexion. Behind Vienne stand two more thralls, the pale-skinned blond one I saw when the princesses were fighting, and one with glossy black skin. Three of the men have been shaved bald. Apparently the only male thrall of Vienne’s who is allowed to have hair is the blond one. Her favorite, maybe.
I’m glad I got to keep my hair. A silly thing to be grateful for, but I am.
My Princess takes her seat and gestures toward the floor on her right. I kneel beside her, knees apart, with my spine straight and my head slightly bowed.
The two princesses don’t acknowledge each other at all. But Princess Vienne says, “Hennessy, wine.”
The ebony-skinned man standing behind her moves to a sideboard where glass bottles of liquor are set. From the corner of my eye, I can see him pouring out a glass of wine. Every movement of his is graceful, sensual.
He hands the wine cup to the blond thrall with the long hair, who sips briefly before handing it back. Then Hennessy gives the wine to Princess Vienne.
Am I supposed to test my Princess’s food and drink? I risk a tiny glance up at her, seeking a sign.
She’s looking at me, and my heart trips over itself. In her splendid dinner gown, with her blonde hair twisted up in a fancy style, with that glittering diadem set on her head—she looks every inch a queen worthy of my worship.
“Wine, Ducayne,” she says quietly.
I bow my head to her and rise, mimicking the way Hennessy moved. My chain has just enough slack for me to reach the sideboard and pour the wine. When I return to her, I lift the cup to my lips and taste a little before handing it over as carefully as I can.
Her silky fingers slide over mine as she takes the cup, and a thrill races up my arm to blaze in my chest.
A little awkwardly I resume my kneeling position, just as the King is announced. I keep my head down, but I sneak a look at him. Roughly hewn features, a short black beard. The thin lips and sharp eyes of a man who does not show mercy. Earrings, medals, a giant collar of gold. A puffed doublet in a style from a decade ago.
“I’m pleased to see your new thrall behaving, Ruelle,” says the King. “And you, Vienne, you look beautiful as ever. I hope the two of you will let this matter rest now, and look forward to a productive and pleasant stay at the beach palace.”
“Yes, Padra,” they chorus.
The meal begins. It’s interminable. Miserable. I’ve never had to sit by and watch everyone else eat during a splendid feast—not for years anyway. When I was a child and my mother hosted parties, she would trot me in sometimes and let everyone coo over me— “such a beautiful boy,” and then she would have my nurse hustle me back upstairs. Even though my mouth watered for the delicious food she and her friends were enjoying, I knew better than to ask.
Even more than the rich food, I would have enjoyed a little time with her. But I was a false trophy, trotted out briefly and then hurried back into seclusion lest I betray my true nature of “willful, wild wickedness," as Mother put it.
The ache of those memories hasn’t surfaced inside me for years—at least, not that I let myself acknowledge. But now it rises, dark and bitter, until I can practically taste the loneliness, deprivation, and rejection on my tongue.
But I try not to show it. I keep my expression steady and placid. I wait, though I hate waiting. I kneel for the entire hour and a half of awkward, scanty conversation and familial tension.
By the end, one of my legs is asleep. When my Princess finally requests to be excused, I try to shift my weight subtly, desperate to wake up the leg.
“How is his tongue work, Ruelle?” the Crown Princess says abruptly.
