Page 26 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

“But have I note shown patience?” he continues, undeterred. “I even sought a jester to bring a smile to your sullen lips, tolerating your withheld affections, this coy game of yours. I’ve respected you, have I not? Shown you the deference of your station.” His voice tightens, edged with a feral anger. “You should know that I’m not a patient man by nature, yet I’ve been generous in my restraint.”

I swallow hard at the increasing pressure of his hands.

“My generosity can swiftly come to an end,” he says, his hands halting. “Although, showing some form of affection might pacify me.”

His thumb dips lower, and I shudder at his touch so near my cleavage.

“Don’t you have whores for that, Your Majesty? To keep you satiated?” The ire in my voice does nothing to back him off. Rather, I fear it only entices him further, a dare to strip me of my boldness as much as my gown.

Aldric’s chuckle is mocking. “You’ll soon learn that my appetite isn’t so easily satiated, love.”

Morrishan, still my tongue. Grant me the tolerance to keep my hands folded and not reach for the silver hand mirror on my vanity to drive through his eye—when every drop of poison in my blood is screaming to end him.

My knuckles turn white where I’m gripping my skirt. I measure my breaths. I measure the beats of my heart, which has begun to pound in a high, panicked rhythm I haven’t permitted myself to feel since the day I left Threnmere.

I think of every drop of poison I’ve built into my blood. My tolerance, my survival. My defense. This cruel king will soon learn that I’m not so easily cowed.

Aldric lowers farther, placing his mouth next to my ear, the blue of his eyes, ringed with that storm-gray, holding mine in the mirror. “Part your legs, Seravyn,” hecommands.

“My Lord?—”

His hand lands heavy on my thigh, forcing my thighs to separate. An involuntary swallow scrapes my throat as I ease my thighs farther apart. He slowly drags the hem of my gown up, his fingers curling atop my thigh to bunch the fabric until he touches skin.

He turns his head, releasing a rough groan into my hair. “I knew your skin would be soft,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t stop. My whole body stiffens at his persistent advance, the coarse drag of his fingers up the inside of my thigh. A gasp is pulled from my throat as his fingers find their way to the curved joint of my thigh, then press against the fabric there, intrusive, slowly swirling.

“Fuck.” The oath is torn from him, ragged and harsh. “You might play coy, but the feel of how wet you are…” He trails off, chuckling darkly. “I just knew Threnmere women were little temptresses. You may love to torture, but you want it, love. Filthy and rough.”

A hot blade of fear cuts through me as he applies pressure right at my entrance, drawing a trembling gasp from my throat.

It amuses him, the gleam turning dark in his eyes before he slowly withdraws his hand, but leaves his touch lingering on my thigh, as if savoring the imprint he’s left on my skin.

I force my gaze to hold his, to not waver, my heart pounding violently in my chest.

Aldric straightens behind me, his chin cocked, a devilish smile twisting at his mouth. “For you, love, I can continue to be patient,” he says, his voice abraded, his restraintfraying even as he claims it. “I have a feeling it will be worth the torturous wait.”

He sends me a wink, then turns and abandons me at the vanity, my mind and body left reeling.

The door clacks shut, and at last, I flinch at the sound. I hear his footsteps retreat down the corridor, fading into the drone of the palace, and I sit perfectly still at my vanity until I’m certain he’s gone.

I can do this, I tell myself as I stand and walk to the basin, loathing the betrayal of my body as I feel the slick heat between my thighs. I can do this—take his cruelty in doses. Just as I do with poison, training my body to carry what would otherwise kill me.

I pour the cold water with hands that have begun to shake, then scrub my neck where he touched me. My shoulder. My collarbone. My thighs. I tear my undergarments off, banishing the thin fabric to the bin with an aching knot in my throat. Then I scrub myself until my skin is pink and stinging, and I can no longer feel the caress of his fingers, and even then it isn’t enough.

His touch is in my bones, rooted in the marrow. In some place no cleansing water can reach.

Isolde finds me there. Without a word, she wets a fresh cloth to help me, her jaw locked tight with rage.

“Oh Sera, did he?—”

“No.”

Just one word, the only one I can manage, and I say it vehemently—owning some sovereigntyover my body.

And when I finally stop trying to scrub myself raw, I allow her to settle me into my bed, trying to comfort myself with thoughts of kings meeting their ends with choking poison on their tongues.

Still, I can’t find sleep. And my thoughts turn to the river, to its fresh, flowing water. Craving nothing more than to submerge myself in its cleansing current.