Page 81 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
The pain constricting my throat won’t let me speak.
He believed my sister. Believed the others. Suspected me of a triple murder.
“What was my motive?” My voice sounds cool, remote.
“A mercy killing for Keb, after Bazra raped him.”
“Most thralls are raped at some point. It would be idiotic to kill them for what someone else did to them.”
He winces. “For Lombard—another pity killing, maybe? He was obviously suffering in his mistress’s hands.”
“Forced to accept a cock cage and drugs. Still not a reason to end his life. And why did you think I killed Jilleen? Because of the way she treated him?”
“Yes. It all seems stupid now.”
I face the statue of Arawn again. The joy I felt earlier today has drained away.
The one person I thought could see me, doesn’t see me at all. He views me the same way my subjects do—as a twisted, maniacal, murderous creature.
“I had reason to believe you did it,” Ducayne says. “After Vienne left your room, you basically admitted to it. You told me, ‘I am all that she said.’”
“I was referring to the death fixation and the skull collection, the weirdness, the wretchedness, and the incident with Padra!” I exclaim. “Not the murders! I never expected you to believe that accusation!”
“Maybe you should have chosen your words more carefully, then,” he grits out.
Brimming with hurt and rage, I take a step toward him, my fingers creeping to the hilt of a knife.
“Are you going to cut me? Kill me?” He vents a broken laugh. “You are so selfish, so blind. Do you understand the pressure you have put on me? Me, a stranger, your enemy, killer of your people—yet you expected me to suddenly become your loyal slave, your ally, companion, friend, fuck-toy, bargaining chip—I can’t handle it, Ruelle. I don’t know what I really am to you. You cannot begin to understand what I’ve gone through since I was captured. Sometimes I fear that my mind will break.” His voice cracks through, and his fists tighten at his sides. “You say that your sister is cruel and changeful—and she is, but so are you.”
“So first you believe me capable of murder, and now I’m like mysister?” My voice rises, shrill in the echoing gloom of the chamber. “This is hard for me, too. I prefer being alone. I’m not used to having anyone around me all the time, much less someone like you.”
“Selfish,” he hisses. “Turning everything back toyourself, as usual.”
“Stop acting as if you’re my equal,” I shout. “I own you. I am the Princess, and you’re a slave—the lowest tier of society in any kingdom. You shouldn’t be arguing with me. You should be crawling at my feet, begging for my pity.”
His jaw is granite, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing. “You want me to grovel? To lick your feet?” He takes two steps, closing half the distance between us. “Why don’t you make me?”
“Youhaveto obey me,” I say, breathless. I can feel my control over him slipping away, and it terrifies and tantalizes me at the same time. “You can’t hurt me or escape me, which means you’ll be going back to the palace when I do. And if you don’t obey me right now, I will have you put in the dungeon when we return.”
“So you want me to kneel for you, Princess?” he snarls. “Like I did last night?”
A flicker of arousal trickles between my legs at the memory, but I refuse to show weakness. “I want you face-down on the floor, begging for my mercy.”
His eyes flash, and I realize, with a shock of fear and excitement, that the dance between us is done. His willing submission to me is over.
I have finally pushed him too far.
“No,” he says, deep and dark as the cave-rock itself. “I will not.”
I snatch a knife from my corset, but he moves lightning-quick, the side of his hand chopping at my wrist. My knife flies out of reach, so I pull another. As fast as I draw them, he takes them away, never seriously hurting me—except for my pride.
“You need training,” he says. “Natural instinct and torture skills aren’t enough against a warrior like your sister—or one like me.”
His large hand wraps around my throat. He grimaces, and I realize that his tattoo must be paining him. Which means that somewhere in that broad chest is the desire to seriously hurt me.
Why does that knowledge make me immediately, helplessly wet for him?
Ducayne shoves me against one of the carved stone pillars. In the green half-light, he looks monstrously beautiful. The chains glitter across his chest as he moves in, slamming his form against mine.
