Page 34 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“A—a spider.” I stare at the squished evidence. “Oh.”
Reluctantly, I pull away from him. He’s very big and warm and solid. Hard muscle, firm flesh. So un-ghostly.
Ducayne backs away and reaches for my corset, which he laid on the seat of the only chair in the room. He returns to me and hands over one of the tiny knives I hid in the corset’s concealed sheaths. It’s the knife with which I nearly killed him.
I take the blade, breathing easier once it’s in my hand. My eyes meet his.
“Anticipating your needs,” he says, low. His expression is warm and tender, with the faintest trace of merriment. I’ve had very few such looks from people in my lifetime, and it frightens me.Hefrightens me, because he has already changed me—I can feel it—and I don’t want to be changed.
“You’ll sleep on the floor,” I snap. “With the spiders.” And then I climb into the comfortable bed, sighing at the sensation of soft pillows and clean sheets. I tuck my knife under the pillow.
“Of course, Princess,” says my thrall smoothly. “You’re right—it’s time for bed.” He blows out one lamp and moves to blow out the other.
I sit up abruptly. “Wait—”
But he has already blown out the second one. The room is plunged into pitch blackness.
Did I see a smirk on his face just before he extinguished the lamp?
I clutch the blankets to my chest and wait, desperate for my eyes to adjust. But the only glimmer of light comes from the tiny triangle window in the privy, and it’s not enough. Long minutes later, I still can’t see anything. I have no idea where Ducayne is, or where the ghosts might be floating, waiting for me to fall asleep. I can’t lie down. I can’t relax.
Silence crystallizes in the room like ice on a windowpane, like the breath of dead things.
And then a clicking sound—a chittering, creaking, scuffling noise along the slope of the roof.
My hand slides under the pillow. But this time, touching a knife isn’t enough.
“Ducayne,” I whisper.
“What?” His hoarse whisper comes from the floor at the end of the bed. The chittering stops.
A cold puff of air floats across my cheek, and I bite back a whimper.
I want him. I want his solid flesh as a wall between me and whatever malevolence haunts the night. But I don’t want him to think that I pity him and care for his comfort, or that I’m frightened of spirits, or that I desire pleasure.
A low, moaning whistle comes from the privy window. I know it is only the wind leaking through a crack in the frame—I know it—yet I can’t keep goosebumps from breaking out all over my body.
“Ducayne, come and sleep in the bed,” I order. “Stay on the left side, and don’t touch me.”
I hear the faint clink of his bracelets as he moves through the dark. “As your Highness commands.”
The bed is wide enough for two, barely. But I didn’t count on the fact that, comfortable though it is, it’s an old mattress, and it dips in the center. Which isn’t a problem for a person sleeping alone, but for two who want to remain apart, it creates a difficulty, especially when one of the two people is as broad as my pleasure thrall.
I can feel Ducayne’s heat beneath the sheets, and it seems as though my body and the bed are conspiring against me, forcing me to roll into that delicious warmth.
He held me in the carriage tonight, just for a moment, and even though I panicked and nearly killed him, it felt good. When he pulled me on top of him that first night, I almost choked him unconscious—yet that, too, wasn’t terrible. It was shocking, certainly. I’ve never felt a man’s erection against my body before.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to touch him again. His presence in the bed should be enough to calm me, but it isn’t. My heart is still thundering, and I feel horribly open and unprotected in this room. I hate it.
Gingerly, cautiously, I let myself ease toward the center of the bed, until the heat of Ducayne’s body intensifies and I can tell there is only the slimmest corridor of space between us.
And then I move a little more.
I’m touching him now. My shoulder against his.
Panic thrums along my nerves. Touch is the prelude to torture, to punishment, to pain. Touch is weakness waiting to be hurt.
Ducayne shifts, rolling onto his side—his warm breath gusting over my cheek. He’s too close. I’m letting him get too close.
