Page 60 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
He laughs. “Nothing is ever forbidden for the rich. You’re not going to turn me in to the King’s enforcers, are you, Princess? If you knew the pain of existing as a man with a dick the size of a woman’s little finger—”
“Gods,” Ducayne murmurs, pity coloring his tone.
“Hush.” I run my fingers into his hair, pressing the top of his head. Which is a mistake, because his hair is soft and incredible, and I want to leave my hand in it forever. “No, Cowen, I wouldn’t turn you in. Friends protect friends, don’t they?”
Understanding and interest lights in his eyes. “Friends!” he exclaims. “Of course, Highness. Friends. If you’re interested, perhaps we could confirm our friendship later? My thrall Anvel in exchange for this fantastic piece of Yurstin ass.” He leans forward and chucks Ducayne under the chin.
“Perhaps.” I drink down the last of my juice and pick up myhannasstick. “I’m meeting your brother by the water today. We’ll see you there, I think.”
I nod to Meldare, and she comes forward, heavily laden with blankets, towels, and a giant parasol.
“Help her, Ducayne, for Arawn’s sake,” I mutter.
My thrall hurries to assist, while I descend the sunny steps to the beach. I feel less wild and desperate today. Strange how a night of sleep and a dose of hot sun can change one’s outlook. My plans are taking form—I’m creating connections here, just as I planned, and it makes me glad and triumphant. Though I feel a little less so when I picture Cowen bending Ducayne over a table, or my thrall’s mouth between Umari’s legs. In fact, when I imagine those things, all the joy drains right out of me, bile creeps up the back of my throat, and I feel downright murderous.
I glance back at Ducayne, laughing with Meldare as they carry the beach supplies. His strong throat bears two small marks. My marks. The sight of them calms my stomach again.
Even if I have to share him a little, he is mine.
18
The Princess lets me do as I like all morning, and what I like is to feel the crash of the waves against my body, over and over. The rules seem to be relaxed here, on the edge of the roaring ocean, and once I realize that, I allow myself a little extra boldness. Once, I lift tiny Lady Imrissa in my arms when a giant wave seems about to knock her off her feet. She laughs and kisses my cheek before dancing off through the waves to clasp hands with her thrall Gem.
And then, when Nonni is about to step on a jellyfish that lies swamped on the shore, I pull her away just in time. Her body presses briefly to mine, and she looks up at me with a grateful smile that breaks my heart—right before Bazra drags her roughly away from me.
Ruelle is deeply engaged in conversation with that skeletal chemist Ward. They sit close together, smokinghannas, shaded by the immense wooden parasol I helped Meldare unfold and set up. They seem to be inspecting the contents of one of Ward’s chemical cases.
Around midday, servants come down from the palace with food and drinks. The healer accompanies them and doles out individual bottles of a special potion she has made to protect our skin from the bright sun. I walk right in front of the Princess, rubbing my bare skin with the potion until I gleam. She barely glances at me as she accepts her bottle of potion.
“Jilleen and Lombard went off that way.” She points out the direction to the Healer. “I can hold their potion bottles. When they return, I’ll deliver them.”
The healer agrees. “Be sure it’s these two bottles. Yours is of higher quality, for a royal.”
“Thank you,” says Ruelle. She hands me a plate of food and returns to talking with Ward.
She and Ward would make a good pair, I suppose. The same darkness hovers around both of them. What horror they could dispense together, she with her knives and him with his poisons and drugs.
I think I hate him.
After luncheon, to distract myself, I begin a game of ball with Anvel, Ethwyn, and a few of the other male thralls. After Jilleen and her thrall return and apply their sun potions, Lombard joins us as well.
It’s a fierce game I used to play with the other soldiers in our off-duty hours. One man must seize the ball and try to race across a line with it, while those on the opposing team try to drag him down, and his own teammates attempt to defend him.
I’ve never played it in the sand before—it’s far more challenging, but just as fun. It feels good to exercise my body and work my muscles.
Our game of ball seems to fascinate all the nobles, and before long Cowen shouts, “Let’s have wrestling matches!”
Countess Jilleen claps her hands. “Nakedwrestling matches!”
The Crown Princess rises from her blanket, wine in hand. “So shall it be! Off with the clothing, thralls, and let your Queen-to-be admire the goods. And I will give you a reward, to inspire your struggles.”
She hands off her wine to Hennessy and unwraps the covering over her breasts. I caught a glimpse of them yesterday, in the pool, but there was water and smoke, and I was distracted by my Princess. Now Vienne’s breasts are in full view, bathed in sunlight. They are undeniably exquisite, and enormous. I’ve never seen any so large and perfectly shaped.
“The winner receives the privilege of touching and tasting them,” Vienne says. And she looks directly at me.
I almost laugh. Yesterday she nearly forced me to lick shit from Bazra’s foot, and now she expects me to compete for the chance to squeeze her breasts?
Ruelle’s words drift back into my mind:She treats her thralls like kings or like dogs, depending on her mood, which can change from hour to hour.
