He shakes with all his might, and she screams. Stepping back, he lets her tumble into his arms. Pride swells in his chest when he doesn’t hear another voice—nor thud.
“Why were you hiding, my love?” he says down to her. She looks up at him, stunned and he realizes this is the first time he’s ever felt her skin for more than the brush of fingers through bandages and poultices.
“Put me down,” she says.
He pretends like he hasn’t heard her and reaches up to cup her cheek. Soft. So soft. Supple, too, like ripe fruit.
He wonders if she’ll bruise like an apple.
Something roars to life inside of him, and, before he knows it, he’s bolting away, back to his rooms. Past the slave pens, past the party. She fights against him, but her blows might as well have been the kiss of raindrops.
He’s high on the scent of her sweat and the smooth texture of her neck. When they arrive at his room, he locks the door behind him with one hand.
“No!” she screams.
“Shh,” he says, pressing his hand over her mouth and placing her on the bed. Her eyes are wide, and he realizes that her cheeks are streaked with dirty tears.
“Oh, small one. Don’t worry. I won’t be in trouble; no one will find us here.”
After an evening of that pathetic woman hurling herself at him, he feels he is where he’s meant to be. His other hand trails to her bare shoulder, and he groans as blood rushes below his belt. He pulls the fabric down farther, exposing the entirety of her arm and her breast as it springs out.
Pain bursts through his other palm, and he yanks his handback. Red blood is pooling on his skin. The heat pulsing inside of him is doused.
Sobriety hits him like a wave of ice water.
Rholker’s eyebrows scrunch together just as Estela screams again. Then there’s an audible bang on his door. It’s louder than a knock—almost like they’ve brought a battering ram.
“No,” he breathes.This is all wrong.
Another deafening bang.
“I hope they punish you half as much as they’ll punish me,” Estela spits through her bloody teeth.
The prince looks up at the disgusting woman who is supposed to love him just as they break down the door. There is no kindness nor shyness in her gaze, there isfire. Flames dance in her irises that scorch his very soul.
He whips around to find Keksej standing next to a smug-looking Marej. Six slaves are behind them, as are two giant warriors.
Rholker glares at his future bride, Marej.
“You broughtherhere?” His brother, Keksej, pinches the bridge of his nose. “For fuck’s sake. What the hell is wrong with you, Rholker?”
Rholker’s senses had been swimming in Estela’s skin, her smell, her legs, and then she was gone, leaving behind the sting of her rejection. The prince can’t believe that his brother barged in on this moment. Keksej will no doubt add it to the pile of humiliating moments he’s witnessed over the years.
The First Prince crosses the room in two strides and wraps one hand around his brother’s neck. “What am I supposed to do with you now?”
Rholker shoves him off, but Keksej grabs the prince again.
“Act like a child, and you will be restrained as such,” Keksej hisses.
Rholker can smell the wine on his breath.
Marej steps further into the room and laughs.“I was hoping that she was at least worth the trouble, but it seems you aren’t quite ascapableas I’d hoped.” Her eyes drop to Rholker’s now-flaccid groin.
The room fills with a sickening silence.
The Second Prince grits his teeth, and his hand flies out to strike her across the cheek. The slap echoes in the room, and Marej's responding cackle reverberates through his being. He can't stomach the audacity of her mockery, the injustice of her words. Golden-brown eyes flash in his mind.
Estela was supposed to love me.
