Page 53 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“He’s been tattooed,” Penn says, as if he’s talking to a very young child. “He can’t hurt her. They’re alone together every night, you idiot. Besides, the Princess can handle herself.”
When she has knives, maybe. Not when a trained warrior like Vienne flies at her in a rage.
“I’ll go find her.” I start for the path.
But the second guard blocks me. “She said she wants to be alone.”
Of course she does. She came against my cock, and she’s panicking now. I need to go with her, to tell her it’s all right, that she shouldn’t be ashamed, that I enjoyed it, that we can have fun together, she and I…
Or maybe none of those things are what she needs to hear. Maybe she doesn’t need my presence right now.
I step back, nodding. “I will wait for her return.”
I head toward the pool, but I stop in the shadow of a tree when I see the bombastic lord, Bazra, near the edge of the water with his little redhaired thrall, Nonni. She’s upside down, with her ass and legs above the surface, and he’s holding her under with one hand while he fucks her. After a moment she starts to splash and struggle, while he laughs.
My heart pounds heavy in my chest, my rage building. I start forward—but someone is already intervening—not a noble, but Umari’s thrall Keb, one of the triplets. He seizes Nonni and pulls her off Bazra’s cock, helping her upright so she can breathe.
Keb gets a fist in the face for his trouble. But Umari steps in before Bazra can damage her thrall anymore. She and Bazra begin a spirited argument.
I don’t stay to watch the outcome. If I stay, I’ll be tempted to get involved, and that won’t end well for me or the Princess.
Hatred for the nobles of Thannira coils in my chest, squeezing tight. I need to walk it off.
I stride among the trees, my bare feet pressing into lush green moss. I duck under low-hanging branches and dodge thorny vines that might tear my skin. I am the Princess’s prize, and I must stay flawless. Healers have better things to do than mend scratches on a careless thrall.
The healer serving at Summerglee, who mended my knife wounds this morning, is the same one who healed Ruelle after her beating from Vienne. Meldare told me that the healer who was supposed to be at Summerglee was needed to handle a putrepox outbreak, so the King sent a Royal Healer to catch up with us on horseback. The poor woman looked exhausted and unhappy when she repaired me today, and the last thing I want is to inconvenience her again. All these vain, careless nobles will give her more than enough work, no doubt.
A whining insect hovers near my throat, and I smack it away. My neck twinges a little where my Princess sucked my skin. I touch the two marks, relishing the soreness. Proof that she wants me, despite what she tells herself.
I pluck a few purple flowers from a damp hollow, but then I toss them aside. Ruelle would sneer at me if I gave them to her.
At last I find a sun-soaked patch of thick grass, and it looks so inviting I stretch out in it, full-length. The bright heat saturates my muscles, my bones—it feels almost as good as climaxing with the Princess in my arms. But no—nothing can compare to that.
Nearby is a clump of bushes with fat blossoms the color of Ruelle’s cheeks when she’s angry or embarrassed. Fuzzy bumblebees alight on the nodding blooms, their tiny black legs clinging softly as they crawl about, collecting sustenance. Listening to their humming flight from flower to flower, my eyes close.
I waken to the sound of a piercing scream.
I jolt upright, heart hammering. Was that scream a nightmare, or real?
Another scream, sharper and shorter, and then a man’s shout.
Groggily I get to my feet and brush bits of grass off my backside. I hurry through the trees, back toward the waterfall and the pool.
More shouts, a cacophony of distant voices filtering through the forest.
I’ve been around death enough, both in my civilian life and my military service, to know the sounds human beings make when someone has been killed or severely wounded. These are the shocked cries of people who have just been reminded of their mortality.
I break into a run, an illogical fear clutching my chest. What if something has happened to my Princess?
If she died, I would be free from the tattoo’s magic—at least the part that binds me against escaping from her specifically. But if I couldn’t manage an immediate escape, I’d be killed or given to someone else—probably Vienne.
I don’t want Ruelle to die. Not just because my fate is tied to hers, but because her continued existence means something to me.
I burst out into the clearing by the waterfall. Across the pool, servants are carrying something out of the trees—a body. I squint, trying to make out who it is—wavy brown hair, brown skin—Keb?
Lady Umari approaches the bearers. Leans over the limp form, brushes her fingers through his hair. Then she waves to the servants to continue their progress.
She doesn’t seem too distraught, so Keb must only be injured. But the way his head lolls as they carry him away—the way the other nobles and thralls are clustering and exclaiming—
