Page 23 of Prize for the King
Before I have time to reply, Magnar grabs my waist from behind and lifts me up into the saddle in a shocking display of strength. I barely catch my breath, desperately holding on to the pommel when I see how far away the ground is, when he puts his leg in the stirrup and hoists himself on behind me.
When his hips touch my bum, I try to pull away, but there is nowhere to go. He grunts and puts his palm on my belly, tugging me back into him.
“Stay close. This is how the weight should be distributed.”
Cool breeze slithers over my legs, and I look down, belatedly realizing my dress rode obscenely up, uncovering Magnar’s underthings on my thighs. I get to work trying to lower the hem, but it’s impossible in this position.
“Settle, dear,” Magnar says, his voice strained. “Stop squirming!”
I freeze at the barked command, my hands gripping the green fabric bunched up around my upper thighs. A sob tears from my throat. I’ve never been so humiliated before, and I don’t even dare look up for fear of seeing the Agnidari warriors looking at my legs and the male underthings I’m wearing.
“I swear,” Magnar huffs, sounding exasperated. “What is it this time?”
“The dress,” I choke out. “It doesn’t cover me.”
“Khradgah,” he mutters under his breath, the word harsh, sounding like a curse. “You’ll be the death of me, little prize. Stay still. And better close your eyes, or you’ll panic and fall off.”
I have no capacity left for making any decisions for myself, so I squeeze my eyes shut, listening to the sounds of male shouts and the horses snorting around as Agnidari warriors prepare to ride off.
There is another sound, too—of tearing and ripping. A heartbeat later, the layers of my dress and petticoats fall down my legs, though one still feels uncovered. Behind me, Magnar settles with quick, shuffling movements that bring him unpleasantly close, until my spine tingles from his body heat.
“Ready. Open your eyes.”
I look down and release a small sigh of dismay. He’s cut a long slit into my skirt and petticoats, running from my hip down to the hem. On the one hand, one of my legs is fully covered now. On the other, one is bare, and the dress is ruined.
“I’ll get you a new one,” Magnar mutters, his arm coiling around my upper chest as he presses me to his front. The back of my hat’s brim gets squished against his torso. “I’ll get you a hundred new dresses. Just don’t cry.”
I stiffen, anger replacing my sadness over the ruined dress. “I wasn’t going to,” I hiss. “Princesses don’t cry.”
“Good. Hold on to the pommel and try to relax. And for fuck’s sake, please, donotsquirm.”
I huff in annoyance. “You mind my dress, my different customs, and everything about me, and now you have a problem with the way I move. Why?”
“It’s for your own good,” he says through gritted teeth. “Or do you want to feel my hard cock against your ass? If so, squirm away.”
I freeze completely, closing my eyes and refusing to breathe for fear of humiliating myself with whimpering sounds of pure misery. Why, oh why, would his… his organ get hard? Desperately trying to calm myself, I think back to the books I read on the matter. The royal library only had husbandry manuals, so my knowledge is limited to animals.
“The horse’s organ hardens and elongates, emerging from the sheath, upon meeting a fertile mare or due to manual stimulation.”
Well, I can only surmise mysquirmingconstitutes a type of manual stimulation to Magnar. Or could it be the riding, as well? Oh, how I wish someone had spoken to me about these matters, but the few times I dared to ask, I ended up in the cellar.
Magnar says nothing more, and when a horn trumpets ahead, he urges the horse into a slow walk. We ride in formation, two dozen soldiers in front of us, then Khay, Arvi, and Raduna around Magnar and me, and the others behind.
We leave the greensward and trot onto the main road, thudding against the cobbles. The castle is up on a hill, surrounded by a park that we soon leave behind. The capital stretches ahead, humans going about their day scattering to the sides of the road when they hear our approach.
When I look up at the window of a tall townhouse, three bright-eyed children stare at me with open mouths, their noses pressed to the glass. Surprisingly, the city doesn’t look the worse for wear. No dead bodies are heaped on the streets, and the people I see don’t seem too frightened. Few are out, that’s true, but I think it’s understandable after everything that happened.
Or maybe most townspeople are dead.
“How many people did you kill in the city when you marched through?” I ask Magnar as we ride down the main street, people peeking at us from upper story windows above shops and taverns.
“All of the soldiers and a handful of civilians,” Magnar replies easily. “We conquer, darling, but we do not destroy. You asked if I burned down the stables before. Why would I? Stables and horses are useful. As are people, in general.”
It seems like he’s telling the truth, and I shake my head at the lies I’ve been told.
“They slaughter every human they see and burn down their houses. They are beasts who live in tents and don’t understand the value of permanent dwellings.”
“What?” he asks, clicking his tongue to slow down the horse when we approach the city gate. It’s closed.
