Prologue
RHOLKER
Four Months Ago…
“Ilove my gift. It’s so tantalizing to think that it came from those savages in the mountains,” Prince Rholker’s future bride says from the other side of their private table.
They are hidden away in a secluded gazebo for their engagement dinner while the rest of their people feast. Lady Marej has light red hair, the color of strawberries mixed with gold, and when the firelight hits it just so, it gilds her smooth skin and decorative scars. Beneath the large diamond hanging on a braided chain are her breasts that she’s gone through extra effort to display. Rholker notes that they pushed out of her tight corset, as if begging for him to touch them. By giant standards, she is everything that a prince would look for. For some reason, the Second Prince is not tempted in the slightest.
Rholker grunts in response. It’s nearly swallowed up by the echoes of ravenous partying happening in the palace.
This trollop comes from the Fektir house, a high-ranking lordship that owns most of the northern fields. She’saccomplished in weaving, hospitality, and the sexual arts. Lord Veklor told the prince that she could make even the most restrained men finish with two quick strokes of her pierced tongue. Even now, promises are floating in the air around them as she smiles up at him through her lashes.
There’s a male slave at her side and a short whip in her hand, prepared to punish the human for any misstep toward her prince.
Rholker swallows. His bride’s golden features only remind him of the impossibly tiny gold flecks in Estela’s eyes. It should be Estela holding that whip and torturing one of her own kind for his pleasure. His pretty little traitor.
The image relaxes something inside of him, and he allows himself to dream—to explore his most luxurious fantasy. His human bride. Rholker’s father has forbidden him from speaking about Estela in his presence, but that doesn’t stop the prince from planning.
Especially since he will finally be allowed a comfort woman, and the king has been distracted by the court lately. Not to mention that Erdaraj has always told his sons that giant princes do as they please.
Rholker’s gaze returns to Marej’s breasts, and he wonders what it would be like to have Estela perched on her chair dressed in a tight, low-cut dress instead. The slave’s curly hair would be oiled into gentle ringlets, her eyes and lips would be painted red with berries, and the most beautiful part of her would be on display for all to see—the brand he marked on her sternum. By this point in time, Rholker would have also found some way to erase or replace Keksej’s awful twin-mark he imposed next to his.
The image has blood pumping through his princely veins, mixing with the alcohol he’d been guzzling throughout the night. He’s drunk on wine and thoughts ofEstela.
“Like what you see?” Marej says.
Rholker doesn't respond, and the silence stretches out between them until it is thin and taut. The woman promised to him stands up, grabs her whip, and crosses over to his seat.
She pushes the wooden chair back and kneels between his legs. His jaw tenses.
“Are you shy, My Prince?” she says while reaching toward the bulge between his legs and tracing her whip against his thigh.
The prince reaches for his goblet once more, only for his fingers to knock the gem-encrusted gold right off the table. The human slave standing to the side flinches.
“Why don’t you pick it up?” Marej demands of the slave.
The man drops to his knees and fumbles the cup even further away. When it is placed back on the table with shaky hands, there are dents and scratches in the precious metal.
Marej’s face twists into a cruel expression as she stands and raises her hand. “Idiot. That goblet is worth more than your life.” Then she lashes the human man twice.
Rholker hears his gasps under the weight of her forceful blows and watches the graceful arc of her tattooed arms. Precise and lethal.
It’s over just as soon as it started, and she looks back at her betrothed for approval.
There is… nothing. No spark of pride. No lust, nor meager attraction.
Rholker pushes his chair back, and her red mouth falls open.
“My Prince,” she calls sharply. “Where are you going?”
He waves his hand over his shoulder. “I wish to retire.”
The sound of a fallen chair precedes her appearance at his side. She’s holding her skirts up, showcasing her tiny, neatly groomed feet.
“Shall I join you?” she asks.
Rholker gives her one sharp shake of his head.
