Page 14 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I’m either going to come underneath her or pass out.
The Princess releases my throat and lurches off me. “No more snoring, or I’ll choke you unconscious next time.”
I prop myself up, wheezing and coughing as quietly as I can until I’ve recovered. There’s nothing I can do about the aching boner I have for her. So I run through military protocols in my head and replay the events of my last disastrous battle until my cock calms down and I drift into sleep again.
I wake early, as I’m used to doing back in camp. It’s jarring to me how far my reality is from what it was a week ago. Back then it was training exercises with my soldiers, stark tents and thin bedrolls, slim rations, cold mountain winds and half-frozen buckets of questionable drinking water. I wore my uniform and a heavy coat with a furred collar that my mother sent for my birthday. Well, the note said it was from my mother, but I know our housekeeper chose it, wrapped it, and dispatched the messenger.
Today I wake on a plush rug, nearly naked yet comfortable despite the fact that the fire died hours ago. My bare skin feels softly warm all over. There’s pale yellow morning light sifting through the sheer black curtains and the mild air of early summer flows into the room.
I feel gloriously rested. Not just awake, but alive.
Climbing quietly to my feet, I pad across the room to the privy. The Princess is twisted up among her sheets, her mouth open and her cheeks pink. She’s so much less intimidating like this. I can’t help smiling at the sight of her.
In the tiled bathing room, I piss and wash up, smoothing my hand over my chest and jaw. This “shaving perfectly smooth all over” thing is going to take some maintenance. I’m already stubbled again. It’s strange seeing my cock and balls without their usual nest of hair. Not sure if I like the look better or worse.
Returning to the Princess’s room, I step through the tall open window onto the balcony. The stone beneath my feet is cool, but the freshly risen sun bathes my chest with faint heat. I lift my face to its light and breathe as I take my first look at my new home. My temporary home, at least, until Summerglee.
The Princess’s balcony opens onto neatly kept gardens—boxy hedges, lacy flowering trees, smooth green lawns glistening with dew. Birdsong quivers in the air.
There’s another long wing of the palace to my left, a cluster of towers to my right, and the palace wall far ahead, in the distance beyond the gardens.
A rustle of sheets behind me, and a thump of bare feet. I turn as the Princess shuffles toward me, her eyelids heavy with sleep, her blonde hair rumpled, and her nightdress hanging off one shoulder.
By all the gods in the pantheon, she is beautiful.
Until she opens her mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing up at dawn?” she growls.
“It’s a beautiful morning.” I grin at her.
“Don’t smile at me this early.”
“Apologies, milady.” I try to force the smile away, but it creeps back. She sighs, exasperated, and shuffles away to the bathing room. She doesn’t emerge for nearly an hour, which I don’t mind. I take a book from some shelves near her bed and sit on the balcony, reading about the history of weapon design in Thannira, until she comes to the doorway to frown at me again.
Her hair is in a high, curly knot now. She’s wearing a corset-like contraption, all black leather straps and metal studs, over a blousy shirt. Her dark pants are embellished with silver embroidery. Several tiny knives fit into sheaths here and there on the corset, and more knives are strapped to her thighs and waist.
“Did I say you could touch my books?” she asks.
“I was bored.”
“You’re the worst thrall ever.”
I stand up, stretching to my full height, not missing the way her eyes widen and skim my form. “Your pardon, Highness, but I’m rather new at this,” I say quietly, leaning in, planting one hand on the door frame near her head. “And you’re rather new at owning a thrall, are you not? So perhaps the fault doesn’tlie with me.” I infuse the last three words with sultry emphasis.
She backs away, frowning more thunderously. “I’ll call a servant. We need breakfast, and some clothes for you that are more—that are justmore. Then we’re going to see Khal, the sooner the better. He can tell me how to deal with you properly.”
The maid serves us breakfast in another room, one I haven’t seen until now. It’s a study, lounge, and breakfast nook combined, with a curtained god-shrine at one end. I like it immediately. The scent of incense and ink, the gleam of weapons in racks, the shimmering green of the hanging plants by the window—it all reminds me of the breakfast room in my family’s house, the home I will probably never see again.
The Princess makes me sit on the floor while I eat. I didn’t mind it last night, when I was eating a quick snack before bed, but now, in the bright morning, being ordered to stay on the floor and eat beside her table feels humiliating. I must get used to these little indignities, in preparation for greater ones to come.
If I were a better man, or a wiser one, I’d worry more about our upcoming stay at Summerglee. But I have always been one to enjoy the comforts of the day, of the moment, without thinking too far ahead. So after the first few minutes of indignation, I manage to enjoy my breakfast—eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and toast. Better than any I’ve had in the army for a long time.
Afterward, the Princess orders me to go with the maid to prepare for the day. I return to the privy and shave thoroughly with the provided implements, and the maid informs me that soon I’ll be treated with a magical substance that permanently removes body hair.
“All the Royals and thralls use it,” she says. “It’s very safe. One of the Royal Healers is preparing a fresh batch as we speak.”
“Do I have a choice about using it?” I ask.
