by Ella Ardent
I poured another chalice of wine and saluted her with it. “My birthright,” I informed her, then slowly drained the cup of its contents. “Just as you are.”
I compelled her to come again.
Then I punished her again. I bound her ankles together and hooked the rope to the frame of the canopy over the bed so that her feet were pulled high over her head. That second time I used the riding crop. I liked the welts it left on her buttocks and hips, and made a pattern with them, marking her as my own. I unbound her ankles to take her the second time, crushing her into the mattress with my weight before she could roll away. I locked my hands around her bound wrists as I drove into her, so that she fully understood she was captive.
Mine.
I left her bound in the bed when I put on my chausses and summoned a bath.
Both footmen both stole glances at her as they brought the tub. She was splendid in her deflowered state, her hair disheveled, her skin glowing and the chamber filled with her scent. I didn’t deny them the pleasure of that view.
I had another cup of wine, then changed her bonds. I knotted her ankles together, then bound her in a kneeling posture with her hands tied behind her back. I plucked off her mask and cast it into the cage. I removed her pearls and placed them in the cage, as well as her glass slippers. I then carried her to a chair before the fire and sat with her in my lap. I fondled her as the last of the bath water was poured.
“The bedding will have to be changed,” I said. “The blood of her maidenhead is on it.”
The footmen bowed and cleaned the chamber, as I sat, a trussed beauty in my lap, and pinched a welt on her thigh. She shivered and looked up at me, doubt in her eyes. I smiled and eased my thumb over her labia, then pressed upon her clitoris. She closed her eyes and shivered in my embrace, her vulnerability making me want to train her even more.
I might have dismissed the footmen and done as much if Lascivia hadn’t appeared at the door.
“So, the great deed has been done,” she said, bringing a vessel of wine into my room. She curtseyed to me, as if she were a servant. “I wish I could have witnessed it.” Her gaze flicked to my pet and I saw her lips tighten. I didn’t trust her then, and wanted her gone.
I knew Lascivia meant to interfere with my pleasure, to turn it to something of her own doing, and I wouldn’t let her do it.
“We did well enough without witnesses,” I said, speaking more calmly than I felt. Was it my imagination that my helpless pet nestled closer, as if seeking my protection? She would have that and more.
“You seem quite enamored of the charms of this rustic,” Lascivia said. “Perhaps you will share, that I might understand the appeal.”
The footmen left, the bed pristine once again. The second one closed the door behind himself.
“I will not share,” I said firmly. “And I will not be watched.”
“What I ask of you is simply given. It will cost you nothing.”
“Yet I will not cede to your request.”
Lascivia’s eyes narrowed. “Surely your father made it clear to you that there is diplomatic import to my visit.”
“Surely he did.” I finished the wine and stood, leaving my pet on the chair. “Why don’t you say it aloud? Why don’t either of you tell me that I am supposed to marry you to create an alliance with Imperium?”
“It seems neither of us need to.” She reached out and ran a hand down my chest. “I like men of wit.”
“And I do not like women of cunning,” I said, well aware that my captive watched and listened. “I do not wish an alliance with Imperium enough to marry where my heart is not engaged.”
Lascivia laughed. “Neither your heart nor your desire is of any import in this. The decision is made.”
“And it will be unmade.”
“You have not been crowned prince yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. I am the only son of the king. He can’t stop what he has begun. I will be king.” I leaned toward her, filled with the confidence that the wine awakened in me. “And you will not be my queen.”
She struck me then, slapped me hard across the face. When I took a step back, she followed, her eyes dark and her voice low. “You are a fool. A rustic and an imbecile. You will not last a week on the throne of Euphoria without my help or that of my father.”
“Do you offer a wager? Because I will take it willingly and enjoy proving your assumptions wrong.”
She smiled but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “And too stupid to know when the odds are formidable against you. You wouldn’t have suited me for a spouse, after all, not even with that cock.” She sneered at my captive. “Fuck your villagers. Savor the luxuries of the palace. Enjoy the peace of Euphoria while you can.” She paused on the threshold. “It won’t be long before you and this kingdom are obliterated, and I will laugh over the ashes that you were too proud to save yourselves.”
Lascivia was gone then, possibly to complain to my father, possibly to ride for Imperium to complain to her own. I didn’t care. I locked the door again and advanced upon my captive, my mind more happily occupied with the delight of having her in my thrall.
I crouched down before her. “And still, I do not know your name.”
She shook her head.
“You are stubborn,” I charged mildly but she shook her head again. I removed the gag then, once again running my hand over her soft mouth, once again kissing her until she was breathless. Her lips were wonderfully swollen and red when I was done, and my cock was hard again. She made me insatiable.
“I think a woman should have at least one secret.”
“You’re welcome to have one, just not your name.”
“But it is the only one I possess, sir.” Her expression was teasing, cautiously so, as if she thought denying me was a jest.
I left her there and shed my chausses. I climbed into the tub but couldn’t enjoy the hot water. I scrubbed myself clean, then stood so that the water splashed over the sides. “It’s not your place to defy me,” I reminded her, hearing the threat in my own tone.
“Yet I cannot do as you command, sir.”
“Because you are willful,” I replied, my patience wearing thin. “Because you do not understand that you and every other soul in Euphoria is subject to my will and my whim.” I seized her then, intent upon teaching her a lesson. I felt her stiffen and knew she was utterly in my power.
I held her over the tub of steaming water, a tub much deeper than any she would have seen in the village. She licked her lips and I smelled her fear. It blended with the wine, making a seductive and heady sense of power.
“Tell me,” I invited, steel beneath my words.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
I dropped her.
She fell into the tub with a splash. The hot water closed over her and I saw her flail, as much as she could. I didn’t mean to injure her, but to make a point. She couldn’t grasp the side or get a footing. I left her just a moment, then hauled her from the tub. She sputtered as I gave her a shake. She gasped and coughed, then looked up at me, helpless and clearly terrified of what I might do next. “Please, sir,” she entreated, but I wasn’t interested in her begging.
I was interested in her surrendering to my will.
“Tell me,” I commanded.
Something changed in her eyes then. They cooled to a steely hue, one that made me think I hadn’t seen even a small measure of how resolute she could be.
It was a hue that made me think she was disappointed in me.
And I wanted to roar at her audacity in judging the merit of the man who would be her king. How dare she?
“I would rather die,” she said, the words fierce.
“Perhaps you will,” I retorted and dropped her again. She deserved no less, this was what the wine sang to me, and in that moment, I believed it.
But this time, she didn’t struggle. She went limp immediately, as if she was dead. As if I had killed her. I thought she meant to trick me but she floated to the surfa
ce and bobbed slightly, her face pale and her body utterly still.
I snatched her from the water and she opened her eyes, triumph in their depths.
I saw red, a fury of greater magnitude than anything I had ever felt before surging through me. She was defiant. She had to be taught to obey.
I. Would. Be. King.
But the wine and our pleasures combined to make it impossible for me to take my rightful due in that very moment. The realization did little to improve my mood. I wrapped her in her robe and flung her into the golden cage. I only unfastened her bonds once she was inside it.
“My father always warns of repercussions,” I said to her, speaking through my gritted teeth. She tried to reach the door, but I cast her against the far side of the cage, then stepped out and locked the door.
We glared at each other, each as angry as the other. “Perhaps you will have reconsidered your choice by the dawn,” I said, then turned my back upon her.
Perhaps my libido would recover before then.
I poured another chalice of wine, wanting to take the edge from my anger.
“You should not drink the wine,” she said quietly from behind me.
“It is my birthright,” I snapped. “And you are no advisor to me.”
“It poisons you,” she said. “It makes you less than the man you were.”
“I will be king!” I roared, my fury making the rafters shake.
“That may well be your destiny, but there is a difference between a good king and a tyrant.”
I crossed the room again and seized the bars of the cage, giving it a shake. “No one asks peasants for their views,” I reminded her. “You would do well to remember your place.” I surveyed the cage with satisfaction, then looked at her with a smile.
She stared back at me, undaunted. “The wine is your bane,” she said, a challenge in her voice, and if I could have taken her in that moment, I would have done so. She touched the mark upon her breast. “And when you kiss this, its spell is banished.
Spell?
Was it sorcery that stole the vigor from my cock?
“I will call you Witch,” I threatened. “What will they think of you in the village then?”
“If your mother’s place is any indication, they will be wary of me. I can find no fault with that.”
“They will see you burned.”
“Perhaps so, since no one will defend me.” She tossed her hair and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Even that has to be better than what you have offered me this night.”
“A reply for everything,” I mused, sipping the wine as I considered her. “I will see you taught obedience if it is the last thing I do.”
“I doubt that,” she said with a confidence I thought undeserved. “You are not the man you were, Royce, and I for one would mourn the loss.”
“How dare you?” I whispered.
“How could I not dare?” she replied. “You’ve ensured I have nothing to lose.”
There was fire in her eyes, a fire of conviction that might have been beguiling if she hadn’t found me so wanting. We glared at each other for a potent moment, then I turned my back upon her and crossed the chamber.
I stared out the window, feeling her watch me, and drank my wine.
As soon as possible, I would teach her another lesson.
The moment could not come too soon.
Chapter 8
Eleanor
What was in the wine?
I sat in the cage, watching Royce drink, and wondered.
Why did the mark on my breast dispel its effects?
It made no sense to me. Perhaps Marta could have told me, but so long as I was locked within this cage, I couldn’t ask her. I was exhausted but nervous, too. I didn’t dare sleep, not when I was at Royce’s mercy and he was so unlike himself.
The coldness in his eyes when he had dropped me into the bath had stabbed like ice into my heart. I had never felt so powerless before—which was saying something—and never wanted to feel thus again. All the joy that had come of these two journeys to the palace, the dancing, the attention, his glorious seduction, had too high of a price if it meant that Royce’s heart turned to stone.
He would be a tyrant instead of a king, if his own nature wasn’t returned.
The only good thing was that he had refused Lascivia. I didn’t trust her at all, and it wouldn’t have been good for this Royce to have been within her influence. The wine had fed his pride sufficiently to spurn her, but as the hours passed, I wondered at that.
The wine had come from Imperium, after all.
Did the Emperor mean to destroy Royce and his father? What repercussions would there be from Royce refusing to make an alliance by marriage? I didn’t know anything about diplomacy and the wider world, but I did know about life in a village. When the blacksmith’s son had decided to marry one of the plowman’s daughters instead of the silversmith’s younger sister, there had been many hurt feelings and hard comments. The disruption between the two households had taken years to mend. Indeed, it could be said that they’d never mended fully. It had to be worse when kingdoms were at stake.
As I thought, Royce finished the pitcher of wine. He stared out the window toward the village, or looked into the fire. He ignored me and I guessed that the wine had stolen more than his charm.
Truth be told, I was glad. I didn’t want to be used, even for his pleasure. I wanted to hold fast to the memory of the good mating, so that I could see some merit in this night.
I only eased my vigil when he climbed into his own bed, alone, and his breathing slowed. The fire burned down to embers and the water in the tub no longer steamed. I could no longer hear the revels from the hall or the sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond the heavy door.
I wrapped myself in my cloak and huddled in the bottom of the cage, wondering what would become of me.
Wondering what I could do to change my situation.
I must have dozed, because Royce’s sudden shout startled me to wakefulness. The palace was otherwise quiet and the fire was almost out. “No!” he cried again. “No, Lars!”
Lars. Lars had been Marta’s husband. I knew that, though I didn’t remember him. I stood up, gripping the bars as I watched Royce. He thrashed on the bed, clearly caught in a violent nightmare.
“No, Lars. No! Don’t reach out!”
Royce then groaned, the sound so heartfelt and filled with pain that I bit my lip. I wished I could console him but I couldn’t reach him. The key was on the table by the bed, six steps away and well beyond my reach. I whispered his name, not wanting to startle him to wakefulness but wanting to help.
If he heard me, he made no sign of it.
He wept then, pounding his fist upon the mattress and muttering the name of the man he had long believed to be his father. “No, Lars,” he whispered, but his resignation indicated it was too late. “No.”
He wept without awakening, wept with such despair that my heart fairly broke in two.
Then he whispered the words that sent a chill through me.
“Not my fault.” He shook his head and his voice dropped even lower. “Not my fault.”
Royce settled then, gradually drifting back to sleep.
What had happened to Lars? I wasn’t sure I’d ever known. He’d died, clearly, but I didn’t know how or exactly when.
And what did Royce insist wasn’t his fault?
I couldn’t even doze again, not after Royce’s nightmare. I sat in the cage and watched the hue of the sky, trying to work through the puzzles of the night. I couldn’t, though, because I didn’t know enough.
I needed to talk to Marta.
The darkness was receding and I feared what might happen next. The influence of the wine would fade with sleep, but more importantly, Marta’s enchantment would be dispelled by the morning light. The stars were disappearing and the blue of the sky had paled. Though I could not see the east, I guessed that there was a smear of gold on the horizon, where soon the sun would appear.
But when the door opened, it was the queen who eyed me from the threshold. I retreated to the far side of my cage, for her malice was more evident at close proximity. She had a ring of keys, clearly including one to Royce’s door. She spared a glance at Royce, who slept undisturbed, then hastened into the room.
To be sure, I feared her intent, but she snatched up the small golden key from that table and came to the door of the cage. She was muttering something under her breath but I couldn’t discern the words. Had she mentioned rosemary? I recalled all the tales that she had lost her wits, but couldn’t give them credence. She looked to be bitter and angry, but seemingly knew what she did.
Perhaps I only thought that because she let the door swing open and gestured to me. “Flee!” she whispered, mouthing the word as much as she uttered it. It was the barest breath of a command, and I didn’t need to hear it twice.
I seized my mask, my pearls, and put on my glass shoes.
I fled down the silent corridor.
I stumbled on the last of the steps and lost one of my shoes. I didn’t dare lose the moment required to retrieve it, for it would be cobwebs and starlight in moments anyway. I pulled off the other one and ran, clutching it tightly. I reached the great door of the palace before the mask shivered in my hand and became a fistful of raven feathers again.
I had one last glimpse of the silver carriage in the bailey before the first light of the day touched it. It shimmered, shivered, and turned back into a pumpkin again. The footmen reverted to mice and scattered in every direction. I seized the pumpkin, held fast to my pearls, and ran down the abandoned road to the village. I left a trail of footprints in the fresh snow, but when I looked back from the village, trying to catch my breath, the sunlight melted them all to oblivion.
A cock cried, my cloak became my old faded dress stained with soot, but the shoe didn’t turn to cobwebs. I held it close and ran for home before anyone awakened and saw me.
My father returned that morning.