Dirty Prince

by Sky Corgan

  “I was curious.” She shrugs.

  “You're with the rebellion.” I try to test her reaction. “A spy, perhaps.”

  “I'm displaced,” she insists vehemently. “I was just trying to find food so I can survive this bloody war. I didn't know you people were in the area.”

  I'm pissing her off, but there's something endearing about that. The longer we're together, the less I think she knows who I am. And I'm not about to peel the veil away from her eyes. I like that she's not groveling at my feet and begging for her life.

  “What's your name?” I need to know because I'm tired of her seeming like a stranger. I've spent weeks watching her, listening in for this tidbit of information. No one has spoken it, and it's driving me mad not knowing.

  “Anya,” she replies quietly.

  “Well, Anya, if you hear a large group of people talking and you're alone, you should head in the other direction, not towards the sound. It's dangerous for you out here.” I gesture around us. “And if someone starts to chase you, for the love of God, don't head up the stairs. Haven't you ever seen a horror movie before?”

  She folds her arms over her chest, looking stubborn. Her expression quickly softens, though. “So you're just going to let me go?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.

  I sigh, feeling an emptiness in my chest from the thought of being apart from her again. I just made contact with her. I've heard her voice and discovered her name and touched her skin. I don't want to lose all of that just because we're on opposite sides of this war. But I don't know what else I can do right now.

  “Do you have everything you need at your camp?” Now I'm the one looking away. Letting her go is bad enough. Offering her support is a betrayal to my people.

  “Of course, I don't have everything I need. Why else do you think I'm scrounging through abandoned houses.” Malice returns to her eyes.

  I'm annoyed by her hatred of me. I don't want her looking at me the way she is now. I don't want her thinking of me as an enemy.

  “Go back to your camp.” I move away from the door, half expecting her to bolt the second she sees an opening. She stands but doesn't move beyond that. “Make sure you stay out of sight.” I don't look at her, because watching her go would be too painful.

  She steps past me finally but pauses in the doorway to turn to me. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Fynn.” It's the only clue I'm willing to offer. Recognition doesn't seem to hit her, and for that, I'm grateful.

  “Thank you, Fynn,” she tells me with the tiniest hint of sincerity before disappearing out the door and taking my heart with her.

  ***

  Thinking about Anya scavenging for scraps, putting herself in danger day in and day out to feed her people...it doesn't sit well with me. I know I should mind my own business—that this is just part of what happens during war, but I can't let it be.

  When I'm not in the encampment, I'm at my temporary home, one of the largest estates in the area that didn't get destroyed during the bombings. I have all the creature comforts I would back at the palace. Servants. Finery. More food than any one person could possibly need. I'm the crown prince, after all, which means I get more than anyone else, even if I don't deserve it. Seeing all the poverty and strife around me, it feels like such a waste. There have been many an afternoon that I've invited my best men to dine with me.

  But now I've repurposed my excess. Ever since my encounter with Anya, I've had my servants load up the trunk of one of my cars with food and take it over to Anya's camp, only keeping enough to feed my household. I've had to be incredibly careful about doing it, swearing my servants to secrecy. If my father ever found out, he'd shit a fucking brick. Worse than that, he'd probably immediately ship me back home. Thinking about it makes me feel like a child, even though I'm almost thirty.

  Once the war is over, he expects me to settle down with a princess of his choosing, a political match to strengthen our country. Love doesn't matter when you're royalty, only securing political bonds. I've known that since I was a child. I've known my duties, and I've never really cared about the whole arranged marriage thing because love has never been on my list of priorities.

  But now, lying in bed at night thinking about Anya—about her cold blue eyes and soft olive skin, about her fiery attitude and selflessness—all I want is her. I want her stripped of her filthy clothing, laid bare before me. Her thighs spread, her lower lips fully engorged, her slit wet and ready to take me. I want to fill her with my cock, clutching her small body against me as I spray my seed into her, put a baby in her belly so that no one can tear us apart. I want to claim her and make her mine forever.

  Maybe it's just lust. But lust has never felt like this before. Lust has never had such desperation attached to it that I sneak out every chance I can get to spy on Anya's camp from afar and make sure she's alright. She's only gone out foraging once since I started making regular deliveries. The one time I went and found her gone, I was both enraged and frantic. I must have scoured an entire neighborhood looking for her before returning back to base. That night, I didn't sleep I was so worried that something had happened to her. But when I returned the next day, she was safely back at camp. It took everything in me not to barge in there and chastise her for leaving. After all, why else am I sending food to her people but to keep her safe?

  I'm glad that the war is mostly over because I'm wearing myself thin staying on top of my duties and keeping track of Anya at the same time. Apparently, my exhaustion hasn't gone unnoticed. Daniel brings it up while we're having dinner together one afternoon. We typically dine together to hash out the day's events and talk military tactics. Sometimes we just bullshit, but for the most part, we keep our conversations war-related. It's difficult for it not to be the most prominent topic of discussion when we're so immersed in it.

  “Looking forward to returning home and getting married?” He eyes me with a smirk from across the table.

  My thoughts immediately go to Anya in a wedding dress. Seeing anyone else in her place feels like a betrayal. “Not really,” I admit to the returning home part. Getting married has become debatable, but only if it's to Anya.

  “You've got to fulfill your duty to the kingdom,” he reminds me that marriage is a duty.

  “I'm fulfilling my duty to the kingdom right now.” I gesture around us, beyond the estate to the encampment, dragging the conversation back to the war.

  “It won't last forever.” He grabs a roll from the plate between us and tears it in two. Steam rises from its soft center.

  “I think you're looking forward to returning home and getting married more than I am.” I grin.

  Daniel has a woman waiting for him back home. A raven-haired beauty that he's been courting for the past six months. I've never seen him serious about a woman until Tanya. At this rate, he's likely to get married before me. I'm happy for him. He's been a great friend and an exceptional General, and he deserves all the good things that life has to offer.

  He nods. “I think I'm ready to start a family.”

  “It helps that you get to marry who you love.” I eye him over my plate.

  He snorts. “Love. That's never mattered to you before. Did you meet someone before we got deployed? Some common woman at a bar you secretly snuck out to?”

  I laugh. “You're right. It's never mattered to me before. And ending this war matters now more than anything. I'm tired of spending my days sending out units to chase down ragtag bands of people who can barely even be called a resistance. This country is so torn apart right now. People are just trying to get by. There's no reason for us to be here anymore.” No reason for me except for Anya. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm forced to leave her behind.

  “You've been different since we executed those rebels,” he notes.

  I want to avoid his gaze, but then he'll know something is up. If anyone can read me, it's Daniel.

  “I feel like we're hunting down people who don't deserve to be hunted down. People
are poor and desperate here. They're trying to defend a country that's already lost to them. Once we pull out the military and show them we're not a threat, things will change.”

  “That wasn't your stance before.” Daniel cuts into his steak. “You were all honor and duty.”

  “I want to make my father happy, but I also see the reality of the situation. And I've been thinking a lot about what it would be like if we were on the other side of things.”

  “We would have been on the other side of things if we had lost.” He points his fork at me.

  I shake my head. “That never would have happened. My father is one of the greatest military tacticians alive with one of the largest armies in the world. He wouldn't engage in a war he couldn't win.”

  “Indeed,” Daniel replies absentmindedly.

  We eat in silence for several minutes. My thoughts are still on Anya, playing a million impossible scenarios in my head. I wonder if her people cooked up the beef and potatoes I sent and are now sharing a meal similar to what we're having. Divided among so many people, the portions would be much smaller, I think with a frown. I wish there were fewer people in her group or that I had more food to send.

  “For as much as you're not enjoying this grunt work,” Daniel says, breaking me free from my thoughts, “we're going to have to do another sweep soon.”

  “Oh, goodie.” Sarcasm is thick in my voice.

  “I want to make sure that sector seventeen is cleared out. There've been reports of activity in the area. It may be nothing, but I'd rather drive out any potential threats than leaving it be and waiting for bad elements to move in.”

  My ears perk up at the mention of sector seventeen, and my immediate knee-jerk reaction is to tell Daniel that there's nothing there. I've been going to that sector almost every day because that's where Anya's camp is. If there were rebels in the area, I would know.

  “We've swept that place once already,” I remind him, knowing he'll argue with me about it. We haven't gone through that sector since shortly after the fighting ended two months ago.

  “Well, we're going to sweep it again,” he says firmly.

  Shit. He won't be dissuaded. It's no longer a question of if Anya will be pushed out of the area, but when. The thought that she might catch wind of the news of the sweep and disappear without a trace is unacceptable. I have to make sure that doesn't happen. Some way, somehow, I have to find a way to get closer to her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANYA

  It's difficult to sleep when there's the worry looming overhead that I might have brought down my entire camp by returning to it. After I left the house where I had the encounter with the handsome stranger, the thought crossed my mind not to return—to take what little food I had managed to scavenge and go off into the unknown—to survive as long as I could. The probability that the man had let me go so he could follow me and find out where my camp was was high. It was the only logical reason why he'd allow me to escape.

  But I'm not a selfless girl. And after feeling so isolated and alone and helpless, all I wanted was to be around other people—to feel some level of protection, even if it wasn't real. I wandered through the streets well into the night to return to the place I call home, this dingy, dilapidated warehouse that's only temporary until we have to move again—which will probably be soon thanks to me being caught by the blue suit.

  By the time I'm ratted out for my treachery, we'll probably all be standing in a row waiting to be shot. An image of those men being executed flashes through my mind. Except their faceless faces are replaced with those of my fellow camp members. The fear I imagined in their eyes belongs to us now. I've spelled the end for everyone, signed their death certificates one by one. I might as well be on the other side holding a gun.

  I lie on a crumpled up sheet on the hard concrete floor replaying my encounter with the blue suit in my head over and over again. How stupid I was to allow him to sneak up on me like that. I should have been more vigilant. One eye over the shoulder, that's what I was taught when I first learned how to scavenge. Why didn't I listen? He was so quiet. Like a ghost. I didn't even feel his eyes on me until it was too late.

  And then I made one bad decision after another. Up the stairs instead of trying to get around him or looking for another exit. Into a bedroom and not brave enough to immediately jump out the window. He could have done so many bad things to me. At the time, being dragged back to the military encampment and executed was the least of my concerns. When he had wrestled me down onto the bed, I feared my virtue was at stake. He could have put his hands on me—forced his way between my legs. It's not an uncommon thing. I've heard that women frequently get raped by soldiers when they become prisoners of war.

  But that's not what happened. He didn't rip at my clothing or try to force himself on me, though he could have. He was big enough, his body covering mine. Strong enough; I can still remember his large palms wrapped around my wrists, the way he pressed me to the bed. I can remember the scent of him, masculine and exotic. I can remember the light brown of his eyes with green flecks. The way his long brown hair fell from beneath his officer's cap and hung down between us. The soft pink of his lips and his jaw set in a look so serious. I gazed up at him with malice, but the same hatred wasn't reflected back at me.

  And then he let me go. Not only that, but gave me words of caution and concern in his deep voice. And when I left him standing there alone in the middle of that room, I didn't hear his footsteps behind me. Though I was incredibly paranoid, I never felt his presence as I traversed the neighborhoods to return to the camp. If he did follow me, he did a damn good job of staying out of sight.

  Why did he ask if I had everything I needed at the camp? Was that just a ploy to gain my trust? The whole interaction was confusing. He wouldn't have had to alert me of his presence to follow me. In fact, that would have been the unintelligent thing to do. It would have been smarter to wait in the shadows and follow me. There was no logical reason to make himself known.

  Then again, I wasn't that brilliant either. He told me to go back to my camp, and I did exactly that. A better woman would have taken one for the team, realizing she had royally fucked up and had to face the consequences that she might starve alone by breaking off from the group. Maybe we're both idiots. Or maybe he was genuine. That explains nothing, though.

  I grow weary of thinking about it and losing sleep over it. Whatever the case, what happened happened. He let me go, and I came running back to the camp. If shit hits the fan, I'm sure there's a special place in hell carved out for cowards like me.

  I pull myself from bed, groaning softly from the ache in my arm from having slept on it wrong. In some Asian countries, it used to be customary to sleep on your back on a hard surface. Supposedly, it's even better for you than sleeping on a mattress. I've never been able to sleep on my back. I always end up on my stomach or side. Usually, when I sleep on my stomach, I don't wake up in such pain. But since I was restless last night, my body was everywhere, trying to be comfortable—trying to force sleep.

  I sit crosslegged and rummage through the plastic bag with my belongings for my one change of clothing, preparing to swap out the black t-shirt and jeans I have on now for a white t-shirt and similar jeans. When the war started, and I was forced to evacuate my apartment, I carried a lot more clothing in a small suitcase. Since then, I've given most of it away to other people in need, figuring that one change of clothing was enough to get by with. Everyone has so little these days, but it makes moving from place to place a lot easier.

  I take my clothing and head to the tarped-off area where we bathe. There's one bathroom in the warehouse, and it's used exclusively for the privacy of people doing their business, not that any of the facilities are functioning. We use a bucket and dump it out when it gets full. Needless to say, that room stinks to high heaven, but that's one reason why it's closed off from everything else.

  “Going to get clean,” Jak notes as I pass by him. The comment forces me to stop out
of courtesy, but I cringe internally at the sound of his voice.

  He's one of the newer people, and he's had his eye on me ever since he first stepped foot into camp. Older than me by about twenty years with a barrel-like stomach and a cul-de-sac of white hair, he's not exactly the type of man a girl my age would want the attention of. I catch him staring at me more often than I'd like to acknowledge. One time, I even saw him licking his lips while he was ogling my ass. It made bile well up in the pit of my stomach.

  From what he's told me, he used to be an accountant before the war. Never married. One kid who doesn't speak to him. There's something off about him, and I'm not the only one who has noticed it. He's too friendly with all the women in the camp. Though I've heard no reports of physical sexual harassment as of yet, he doesn't think twice about saying inappropriate things.

  “Yep.” I keep my answer short, not wanting to engage him in conversation more than I have to.

  “Think of me while you're in there.” He winks at me before continuing on his way.

  I exhale a breath I didn't even know I had been holding. As if I would think of him when I'm naked and touching myself. And even if I wanted to, it wasn't as if there was enough privacy to do something like that. Masturbating has become a thing of the past—antiquated like so many things since the war.

  I note that there is no shadow being cast against the tarp, but still call out to make sure I'm not invading someone else's bath time. Then I slip inside and draw it closed as best I can before I start undressing. There's a bucket of water and a washcloth already waiting for me. It's the duty of the last person who used the bath area to dump the water bucket and refill it. That way the water isn't ice cold when it's the next person's turn. Well, usually it's not. That really depends on how recently it was refilled. Half of us bathe at night and the other half in the morning. That way there's not as much competition for the space. Sometimes, multiple women will bathe at once. We have a few extra washcloths, and it saves time.