Page 63 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

I close my eyes and let him think the shiver that moves through me is anything but revulsion. I yank the sheet aside, escaping the bed and him, his dark rumble of laughter trailing me toward the washroom.

Breakfast is a private affair.

Aldric insists on it—the two of us at a small table set in his solar, the morning sun pouring through the tall windows, a feast of fruit and bread and honeyed things spread between us.

Servants hover at the edges of the room. Isolde is among them, her face a careful mask, but I catch the flick of her eyes over me, checking, cataloguing, and the minute tension in her shoulders eases by a fraction when she finds me unharmed.

Aldric eats with his fingers, his rings catching the sun like bands of light. He watches me the entire time, a smirk pulling at his mouth. And he has decided, it seems, to make a game of my composure.

“Tell me, wife,” he says, plucking a fig from the bowl, turning it in his fingers. “Did they teach you those naughty tricks in your temples?” He bites the fig in half, his pale eyes never leaving mine. “Because I’ve heard such stories. Daughters of poison, raised on the worship of some appetite-goddess, taught to please, to satisfy, the basest cravings.” His tongue catches a drop of juice from his thumb. “I confess, I didn’t believe the half of it. And then last night?—”

“Stop.” It comes out harsh, and I clear my throat. “Please, My Lord—Aldric,” I correct before he can.

His arrogant smile stretches, pleased. “Don’t be shy, Seravyn. Not after the filthy things I know you’re capable of.” He leans back in his chair, languid,predatory, every inch of him intent to wind his new toy until it breaks. “I’ve thought of little else all morning. Whether it was the wine that loosened you. Or whether my sullen, icy bride has simply been waiting for her king to thaw her.” His gaze drags down my throat, my chest, unhurried and menacing. “And I think it’s the latter. In fact, I think you’ve been squirming behind that sad little pout since the day you arrived, hating how much you wanted me.”

And here is the horror of it.

Here is the thing I cannot say to him, cannot say to Isolde, can barely say to myself.

But something in my body answers.

It rises unbidden—a flush, a heat low in my belly, an awareness of him that has nothing to do with the loathing and everything to do with the cruel, knowing curve of his mouth.

It’s the same betrayal that flooded me in the corridor after the feast, when his hand guided mine and my body responded to a touch I despised. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong, and I hate it—yet I can’t stop it.

No matter that I still crave the tender caress of Ren, there’s a part of me that now also craves Aldric’s merciless touch in equal measure. Maybe always has.

I press my thighs together beneath the table, continuing to hate myself for the way my pulse quickens.

What goddess did this to me? What cruelty of Morrishan’s, what design of Nythera’s? Does the goddess of appetite not care whether the body she stirs loathes the manwho stirs it? I was raised to be unashamed of desire, yes. But no one ever taught me what to do when desire turns traitor and points itself at a monster.

I loathe Aldric. I loathe him with every poisoned drop in my veins.

And my body, that treacherous thing, doesn’t seem to have gotten the message.

Aldric watches it happen like the predator he is. He reads his prey, watching the flush climb my throat, the way my breath shortens. His knowing smile spreads slow and triumphant across his handsome face.

“There she is,” he breathes, delighted. “There’s my filthy little Threnmere girl.” He sets down the fig. His hand drifts across the table, his fingertips grazing my wrist where it rests by my plate, and even that—even that small touch—sends an unwanted current up my arm. “You can hate me with that pretty mouth all you like, love. But your body and I have come to an understanding.”

I pull my wrist back. “You presume a great deal?—”

“I aim to prove it,” he interjects, his eyes gleaming. “It’s a king’s business to know what his subjects want, even when they won’t say.” He lifts his goblet, drinks, watches me over the rim. “Especially then.”

I reach for my own cup with a hand I will not allow to tremble, and I drink, letting the cool water steady me. I think of Ren, of the library, of his mouth at my throat in the dark. I anchor myself to it. The difference between what my body does and what my hearthas chosen.

One is a reflex. The other is a vow.

I cling to the vow.

“I’m excusing myself for the morning, My Lord.” I rise, and a servant is there to pull my chair back.

As I step around the table, Aldric’s hand snakes out and grasps my wrist, pulling me to a stop. Then suddenly, his own chair scrapes back with a loud sound, and he’s pulling me down onto his lap.

Taken off guard, I barely put up a fight, raising my fists to land on his chest only to have him shackle both my wrists in his steely grip.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I love how you squirm on my cock, love.” Then he shouts, “Out. Now.” And the servants depart the solar at once. Even Isolde, who gives me a brief, worried glance before she leaves the room.

“Now, where were we.” Aldric grins wickedly. “Mm, that’s right.” He clamps both my wrists in one of his large hands, forcing me upward as he grasps the curve of my waist. “Lift your hips, love.”