Page 4 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“What are you doing, Princess Bitch?” His lips move against the pad of my thumb.
I push his face away roughly. “Stay,” I snap.
“And here I was planning a lovely stroll.” He twists his arms so the chains clank. “But since you asked so nicely, I’ll stay.”
Ignoring him, I run from the room.
2
I am such a failure.
A failure as an infant—so sickly and whiny that I drove my own father away, or so my mother says.
A failure as a child—so annoying and ill-behaved that my mother had to leave the house for days sometimes, “for her sanity,” and commit me to the care of a governess.
A failure as a young man—performing badly in my studies. My mother had no choice but to send me off to war the moment I was old enough.
I did well for a time—so well, in fact, that I was rapidly promoted. I began to think maybe I wasn’t a failure at all.
And then I failed again. Against my better judgment, I followed orders, and my entire company died as a result.
I should feel guilty about it. I should be broken for the loss of those men and women—soldiers under my command.
But I am not torn with regret, nor am I especially sad. I did not know my soldiers well, having recently taken command.
And I am a failure in even this, that in my lowest hour I feel nothing except a kind of abject relief—and a strange impulse to laugh at myself, my situation, and my future.
My freedom and control are gone now. I have no more choices, no more chances to fail.
The mistake that killed my company wasn’t mine. Perhaps that has something to do with my lack of guilt. We were given erroneous orders based on bad information, and everyone paid the price. Those of my people who survived the initial slaughter surrendered and were executed by Thannira’s soldiers—all except me.
I’m the lucky one. The Captain. The big prize, dragged back to the Thanniran royal seat for interrogation and execution.
At least, that’s what I expected, until a few minutes ago, when the Crown Princess of Thannira breezed into the torture chamber and announced her plan to claim me as a pleasure thrall.
Apparently I am fuck-worthy enough to be allowed to live. How thrilling.
When I was first chained to this table, I expected a horrifying torture-master to have his way with me—perhaps some burly, scarred, greasy man with tattoos who would hack my flesh with cleavers and twist my thumbs off.
Instead of that fate, I got the soft, serpent-like voice of the cruel Second Princess, and the terror of never knowing where she might cut next. It drove me mad not to be able to see her, to lie here blindfolded while small fingertips traced the contours of my body and opened lines of liquid pain through my skin.
She probably expected me to hold out longer before giving her information. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about the nation that bred me for death and trained me for slaughter. I don’t care about the king whose pompous generals and inept spies caused so much loss in that battle two days ago. My king, my country, my leaders, my parents—they can go to the Pit of Arawn for all I care. Perhaps the antlered death-god will praise them for the sacrifices they have made in his name.
How long am I to wait here before the Second Princess returns? She went running out after snapping at me to “Stay,” and it has been an hour since then. Well—perhaps half an hour. At the very least it has been several minutes.
Gods, I hate waiting. I detest waiting in lines, waiting for an audience at court, waiting for orders. I've hated every minute of guard duty I have ever had. And now I’m to be a slave, which means there will be more waiting in between the bouts of service and sex.
Pleasure thrall to the Crown Princess. Better than death, I suppose. I do like to fuck, but on my terms, and with people of my choosing.
Nausea coils in my stomach at the picture the Princess Bitch painted for me—Summerglee, where thralls are exchanged and shared. I will have no choice in the matter.
And the Crown Princess spoke of “training” me.
I was never noble or wealthy enough to own or partake of a pleasure thrall, nor have I wanted to, though I’ve seen some beautiful ones in the cities back home. I know that many of the thralls go through a period of training so they are perfectly suited to their owner’s liking, skilled in all the gratifying arts. Some are taught to behave like pets or objects, while others act more like servants.
I hope I don’t have to pretend to be the Crown Princess’s dog, with a collar and leash. I saw the Lord of Emlam with his twin thralls once—beautiful girls, dressed as cats, with tails and ears. He made them crawl before him as he walked.
Gods.
