Page 47 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Blood roars into my face, and my heartbeat kicks up. After what I did for her—and what I didn’t do, despite her commands and pleas—
Last night she cut me for being honorable. And she is brushing that off as if it’s nothing. As if I deserved the pain.
“You act as if your sister is so terrible, as if I’m so much better off with you,” I say. “Yet you abuse me whenever you please.”
“Youarebetter off with me. My father would have killed you. My sister would have broken you.”
“So I should be grateful that I’m your slave? That you can slice me up whenever you want? Tell me, Princess, if our roles were reversed, and you were my pleasure thrall, would you be grateful?”
I take two strides forward, crowding her against the wall. She looks around, her fingers curling and twitching, aching for a knife, but there are none within reach. For once I let myself glory in my physical dominance over her. When she lunges for my throat, I catch her wrists and slam them back against the wall, on either side of her head.
She’s seething, her breasts surging with harsh, quick breaths, but she doesn’t call the guards. She doesn’t order me to let her go—she doesn’t beg me—gods, if she begged me for mercy I would melt at once.
But she looks into my eyes, and her expression is poison and passion, hate and hunger.
“If you were my pleasure thrall,” I say, low and fierce. “If I was your master, and you were bound to yield your body to me whenever I wanted it. If I could make you crawl to me. If I could order you to put your lovely lips around my cock and suck me until I came on your tongue. If I wanted your mouth and fingers on my chest. If I wanted you to sit on my face and let me feast on your sweet wetness—if I wanted you to choke me while riding my cock—would you be grateful?”
I have the dizzy feeling I meant to make a different point. My words and my imagination got away with me.
“You’re a crude man,” she hisses.
“And you’re a cruel princess,” I reply. “The Princess who begged me to fuck her last night.”
I still have her wrists pinned. My tattoo hasn’t pained me at all, perhaps because the magic in it can discern that I intend no serious harm to her.
Her obstinate chin tips up. Her lips are parted, showing neat white teeth.
I can’t look anywhere else. Her mouth, her beautiful mouth, her sweet soft mouth—
“I’m still not apologizing to a thrall,” the sweet mouth says, curling with derision.
Swearing, I push myself away from her and stalk to the slatted balcony doors. The hinges squeak when I fold them back. Bright sea air rushes in, cooling my heated face, soothing the angry cuts on my chest.
I can tell when she comes up behind me. There’s a faint smell of citrus and cinnamon. When she was in the bathing room she must have applied whatever scent she usually wears.
“Are you really going to fuck a priest? Or Ward?” I say, low.
“No. I’m not ready for anyone.”
“Are you unable to feel arousal?”
“I feel it,” she says. “Sometimes I pleasure myself.”
“Then why not enjoy pleasure with another person? Has someone hurt you, frightened you? Tell me who it was and I’ll kill him. Or her. Them.”
She gives a rueful laugh. “Many people have hurt me, Ducayne. Everyone close to me. Mother, father, sister, servants, and the few friends I’ve had. It’s my choice not to let anyone put himself inside me, to have me in a way that feels—frightening and open.”
“Sex doesn’t have to mean that you’re opening your heart. Many people do it without letting their emotions get involved.”
“Do they really, though?”
I’m about to answer, but—maybe she’s right. Maybe the involvement of emotion, positive or negative, is unavoidable.
“Do you prefer women?” I ask. “Is that why you don’t react to me?”
Silence.
“Gods. I’m so sorry.” I turn to face her. “I thought because you claimed me, that you were inclined to men, but—”
