Punished by the Prince

by Penelope Bloom

  “What has you so amused?” asks Dirk, who I didn’t even see moving to my side. He wears his Blade on proud display. The chrome of his weapon is polished to a mirror finish and his jacket carefully positioned behind the weapon to avoid concealing it.

  My own Blade is concealed. As a Prince, I have no need to boast about my social status by flaunting my weapon. It’s not a symbol to me like it is to some. It’s just a weapon--one I hope to need less with Elizabeth in my life. “Nothing,” I say.

  “If only nothing could amuse me so much, I would be a happy man,” muses Dirk.

  I glare at him. “Why is it that you talk to me like your equal?”

  “You’ve never told me not to. Would you like me to bow and scrape for you, My Prince?”

  “No,” I say sourly. “I just think you’re an asshole.”

  “That’s why we get along so well. You’re an even bigger prick than I am.”

  “I may have a bigger prick, but that doesn’t make me one.”

  Dirk sputters his wine, grinning. “I didn’t realize you were taking measurements in the bath houses. I would’ve made sure I came aroused.”

  I want to be annoyed with him, but can’t manage, so I crack a smile. “You didn’t know I was measuring? I’d think you would’ve noticed the magnifying glass.”

  Dirk barks a laugh. “Now you know I don’t treat you like anyone else, because you’re the only man I’d let get away with that joke.”

  “Speaking of tiny pricks, have you seen my brother?” I ask.

  Dirk gestures with his wine glass toward the far end of the ballroom. Titus stands in a large group of mostly women who are laughing at some story he’s telling. I spot Elizabeth among them, looking absolutely breathtaking in a sea-green gown that has a neckline leaving little to the imagination. Knowing she’s used to more conservative clothing makes the dress even sexier somehow. I’d wager no man has ever laid eyes on those heavy tits of hers, and call me barbaric, but I’ve always been drawn to the idea of exploring the unexplored. I suddenly regret not having her remove her bra for me back in the dungeon. I was so busy admiring everything else, I forgot I might never get a chance to take her again. If I have to die without having seen those tits… fuck.

  I nod my farewell to Dirk and move toward Elizabeth’s group, intending to find a way to separate her from the crowd, but instead I nearly run over my mother, who places herself directly in front of me. Relatively puffy dresses are in style with the women of the Shrouded Kingdom, but my mother’s dress pushes the boundaries with balls of fabric so large at her shoulders they nearly tower over her head. The rest of the dress hugs her small but severe frame. She was always accounted as one of the most beautiful women in all of the Shrouded Kingdoms, but I can only see the venom when I look at her.

  “Mother,” I say, trying to step past her.

  She looks up at me with pursed lips. “You need to come with me.”

  I look once more toward Elizabeth. She’s watching me, but turns away when I notice her. I motion for my mother to lead the way. She guides me out of the main ballroom to one of the side chambers reserved for guests, closing the door behind us once we’re inside.

  “I’ve heard whispers,” she says, pacing around the room without taking her bulging eyes from me.

  “You can afford a psychiatrist. Why are you talking to me about this,” I say dryly.

  She advances on me, pressing a well-manicured finger up to my throat like a dagger. “Don’t fuck with me,” she hisses. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You and Elizabeth. I know you’ve been seeing her when you shouldn’t.”

  I raise an eyebrow. That is a surprise. I was exceedingly careful, or so I thought, but I guess my mother has had a long time to get her claws dug into this palace and put eyes where I least expect them.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” she demands, finger still poised at my throat.

  I take her hand, pushing it away from me. “You want me to apologize? Make excuses? Fuck that. I was with her. Yes. But if you want to know what happened between us, I guess you’ll need to work on your little network of spies, because you won’t hear it from me.”

  “Listen to me you little shit,” she says through twitching lips. “You may not care about the future of this kingdom, but I’ve worked too hard to see it pissed away by you. Why don’t you do what you do best? Step aside and let the people who care handle it.”

  I clench my fists, skin heating. “Yeah. You care about the kingdom. So much you made sure father was out of the way so you could--”

  She brings her arm up as quick as a snake to slap me, but I catch her wrist.

  We both stare eye to eye for several seconds her face contorting from the effort of struggling against me, but I don’t let her go until she stops fighting. She glares at me, clutching her wrist. “You could have been so much more than you are, Roark,” she says, expression softening until there’s genuine sorrow in her face. “You were always the strongest and most clever in the room. When you spoke, people listened. All your father's advisors gushed and gushed about what a natural leader you were. We were so proud. But I know your dirty little secret. You think the little violent accidents that started to add up weren’t noticed? That you just got lucky and no one noticed?

  “No,” she says. “We followed behind you, cleaning up until you got your shit straight. But you never did. You never did anything of meaning. You pissed away potential marriages, alliances, and everything else. Princess Tyrene’s father contacted me yesterday. He says he is strongly considering canceling the offer of marriage and presenting her to the Acretians.”

  I shake my head. Hearing her version of the way things played out is almost laughable, but I’m not here to antagonize her. “Tell me something,” I say quietly. “Are you planning to try to put Titus on the throne instead of me?”

  She doesn’t answer for a long time. “You may be a disappointment, but you’re still my son, so I’ll tell you this much. Events are already in motion, and there will come a point where you’ll either have to break yourself against the waves or let them take you where they will. Don’t fight it, Roark. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  With that, she leaves, heading back to the ballroom.

  What a pleasant woman. My brother is a sociopath and my own mother just implied I’d be killed if I don’t step out of the way when Titus makes his move for the throne. It’s almost funny, though. Before, I was neutral at best on whether I wanted to make my claim for the throne, but I thought I would get around to it eventually if only to stop Titus from poisoning it. Now though? My mother just gave me a reason to want it, and a reason to watch the two of them fail. She thinks a storm is coming, and she’s right, but it’s not going to look like she expects.

  Outside, the dancing has become more fevered as the alcohol has had time to flow. One aspect of our culture here that has always struck me as odd is the way we hold on to so many of the old traditions, and yet we listen to the outside’s modern music. Turning even the most fanciful function into what could be considered a dance club, this particular song has a driving beat that the women shamelessly gyrate to.

  I scan the room, looking for Elizabeth, and I just barely catch her platinum blonde hair and the hem of her dress as she steps into a side room. I have to push through dancing bodies and crowds of people who want to stop me to suck up, but I pay none of them any mind, eyes locked on the door I saw Elizabeth go through.

  I pause outside the door at the sound of raised voices.

  “Stop!” I hear Elizabeth shout.

  I try the door but find it locked. I slam my shoulder into it, breaking it away from the hinges. Inside, I find Elizabeth with her back to the wall while Titus pins her there with his arms on her shoulders. Her head is pulled back and he’s leaned forward like he’s trying to kiss her.

  I draw my Blade, hating how good the weight of it feels in my hand right now and how hard it is to re
sist squeezing the trigger. “Step back, brother,” I say calmly.

  He turns, feet planted wide and shoulders pulled back proudly.

  “Or what?” he asks. “You’ll shoot me? Right here? For fooling around with this slut?”

  “Roark, don’t!” shouts Elizabeth.

  “Stay there,” I say to her. I spin the weapon in my hand, triggering the release of the knife from my weapon’s barrel. I hold it in a cross-grip, left hand extended with palm to the floor, ready to grapple for control of Titus' free hand.

  Titus smirks. “Oh? You just want to taste some steel?” he asks. “Why didn’t you say so, brother?” With a smooth motion, he draws his own blade and flicks the knife free, kneeling into an athletic stance, left shoulder facing me. “Fight till first blood?” he asks.

  “Fight till you agree to keep your fucking hands off her,” I growl. It’s a blood challenge, but I initiated it, so winning means nothing as far as Elizabeth and I are concerned, but right now I just want to see him bleed.

  He laughs, taking a step toward me and testing my guard with a wide, arcing swing. I don’t bother striking the blow away. Titus fights with too much flair and flash, he always has. He doesn’t just want to win duels, he wants to win in a way that leaves no doubt he was the superior duelist, even if it means putting himself at a disadvantage. A lesser man would’ve flinched back or swatted his strike away, but I don’t even blink.

  Titus’ cocky smirk falters when I don’t take the bait. He does a showy spin of his Blade, tossing it from his right to left hand before shuffling his feet and lunging in to jab for my stomach. I sidestep the attack and aim to slam the handle of my pistol down on the back of his neck, but he moves with surprising quickness, spinning out of the way.

  “Please!” shouts Elizabeth. “If this is because of me, I want you both to stop. Someone is going to get killed.”

  “Killed?” asks Titus, who is grinning at me while circling slowly. “A death won’t be likely here, my sweet. It would be a terrible, unfortunate accident if my brother were to die.”

  “So unfortunate it would land you straight on the throne,” I say, weapon at the ready.

  His lip pulls up in a snarl as he dashes toward me, arms a blur as he strikes, jabs, thrusts, and uses his free hand to grapple with mine between blows, both of us struggling for the upper hand, even if it’s only a split second of throwing our opponent off balance with a well-placed shove or tug. My hand rings with the impacts as I bash away attack after attack, waiting patiently for my opening.

  We break apart, both panting now. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and Titus’ forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, too.

  “You’re good, brother,” says Titus. “You always were. But you’re too timid. You defend when you should strike. You wait for an opportunity instead of making one. All the power is in my hands here.”

  “We’re dueling to first blood,” I remind him. “Unless you’re trying to make my ears bleed with your constant talk, I suggest you make your move.”

  He growls, launching into a furious assault. His blade is a silver streak as he spins into attack after attack, aiming high and low and never slowing. For a while, it’s all I can do to defend, but then I notice he’s entering into the same attack pattern he used in his last attack. Spinning backhanded strike to my neck, low sweeping kick followed by an upward jab to my stomach, and…

  I sidestep the thrust aimed for my chest, pin his arm to my side, and yank him toward me to add as much force as I can to the punch. My fist collides with his nose like a thunderbolt, blasting his head backwards and taking his legs from under him in a single instant. He slams to the ground, head bouncing off the carpet. His hand goes limp and the Blade thumps to the carpet. Unconscious.

  “First blood,” I say down to his unconscious form.

  “Roark!” cries Elizabeth, who rushes to my side and hugs me tightly.

  I put an arm around her, not wanting the embrace to end. “You feel good,” I say.

  She pulls back, frowning at me. “Don’t you dare try to make light of this. You could’ve been killed.”

  “I’m not going to let anyone put their hands on you if you don’t want it, Princess. I don’t give a shit if it’s a prince or a servant. No one touches you without permission.”

  She sighs, smiling a little. “So you’re not just my prince now, you’re my bodyguard too?”

  “Don’t you dare try to make light of this,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Very funny.” She pauses, shivering a little.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods. “It all happened so fast. He kept trying to get me to come away from the party with him. I refused politely and then even a little rudely. He finally just grabbed my arm and yanked me in here. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I screamed, and before I could decide, the door was closed. I thought--that--I thought he was going to…”

  “You’re okay now,” I say, brushing her hair aside and kissing her forehead. The door I kicked open doesn’t give anyone from the dance floor a view of us from where we stand in the room, so I know it’s safe.

  “Thanks to you,” she says. “Why couldn’t it have been you?” she asks.

  I grin. “Couldn’t what have been me?”

  “The one I was supposed to marry. Everything could be perfect if it was you and not him.” She suddenly looks away and her cheeks blaze with red. “I’m sorry, I am probably freaking you out. I don’t mean--well, I just, ugh. Please pretend I didn’t say--”

  I silence her with a kiss. She freezes when my lips meet hers, body rigid, then she melts into me, kissing me back until I pull away with a small smile. “Better if we don’t push our luck,” I say, nodding toward the open door. “But you’re not freaking me out. Not at all.”

  She bites her lip, still not making eye contact for a few seconds until her embarrassment seems to have passed. “Now, what are we going to do about the passed out prince whose bleeding all over this carpet?”

  “We leave him to bleed. He’ll live.”

  “Won’t you get in trouble for this?”

  I laugh. “No. Duels are a common way for gentlemen to settle disputes. If both parties agree to the terms, anything that happens within those terms is outside the reach of the law, even when royalty is involved.”

  “This is how gentlemen settle disputes?” she asks in disbelief.

  “Of course. What would you propose instead?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe talking about it? I just don’t see how beating each other senseless proves anything.”

  Titus sucks in a surprised breath, eyes fluttering open. He starts to sit up, but I drop to one knee and punch him again across his jaw, knocking him back out.

  “Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask.

  Elizabeth shakes her head. “You’re a barbarian. You know that, right?”

  “Perhaps it’s time I show you my cultured side, then. Let’s go out there and dance.”

  “Is that a good idea?” she asks. “What if Titus finds out?”

  “I hope he does,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “Come on.”

  I lead Elizabeth out to the dance floor with her small hand in mine, noticing the way we draw scandalized looks. We leave a trail of turned heads and pairs of whispering couples as we pass to an open space at the far end of the room. The song is slow, so I pull Elizabeth close by the small of her back, my hand nearly spanning her entire back.

  She looks up at me with wide, searching eyes. “What are we doing?” she asks.

  “Dancing,” I say, gently pressing her head into me so that her cheek rests against my chest. “That,” I say before adding more quietly, “and probably starting a civil war.”

  “That’s not funny, Roark,” she says.

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  I half expect her to pull away, but her hands only tighten around me and she presses herself to me more firmly, rocking back and forth with me was we step to the rhythm of the slow music
coming from the band.

  “This all still feels like a dream,” she says into my chest, voice barely audible over the music. “This place. These people. Not being constantly insulted by my family. You,” she adds after a short pause.

  “I hope it’s not a dream,” I say. “You can’t get away from me in this world, but I suppose waking from a dream would be a hard escape to stop.”

  She laughs. “Who says I can’t escape?”

  “Well, maybe it’s not a matter of can’t, but won’t. You don’t want to leave here because you know I’m still not done with you.”

  “Oh?” she asks. “So confident now, aren’t we? What makes you think I want to just be used until you’re ‘done’ with me and then tossed aside?”

  “See, that’s the thing,” I say, turning her head up so I can look into her face. “I have a lot of ideas about what I want to do with you, and to you. My best guess is it’d take at least a hundred years or so to do them all.”

  She gives me a skeptical smile. “This sounds like something a man would say to lure an innocent, naive girl into his trap. Tell me, Prince Roark, are you trying to trap me?”

  “No,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning down so my lips are near her ear. “I’m trying to fuck you. And we’ll see where it goes from there.”

  She pulls back and covers her mouth as she laughs, drawing looks from the couples dancing around us. “You’re direct. I’ll give you that.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “So, Mr. Direct,” she says, threading her fingers behind my neck, sending chills down my back at her touch. “What happens if Prince Titus doesn’t get the bride he was promised?”

  I watch her face as the speckled white lights play across her face and we twirl in the mass of moving bodies to a slow, steady song that’s in no rush to finish. She’s magnificent, from the tip of her pert little nose to the splash of freckles that span across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. There’s a lack of self-consciousness to her expression that I love. Everyone in the Shrouded Kingdom learns to guard their emotions from a young age and only show their feelings in extreme cases, but Elizabeth wears hers plainly for the world to see.