Page 34

34

IF YOU CAN'T BEAT THEM…

Rachel

W hen a person of high rank fails to salute you, it is customary to move on without addressing them, first. You may never interrupt your betters first.

Christ. Although, come to think of it, maybe that specific rule works to my advantage.

"What is my rank?" I ask out loud.

Caenan seems to withdraw into the shadows, taking his job of bodyguard seriously when someone else is with us, but when we're alone, it's more like we're hanging out. He's seated on an armchair opposite my sofa, with a book of his own, and doesn't seem to mind my many questions.

"Your rank?" he repeats.

I shrug. "My sister's the high queen. What does that mean?" Amused, I ask, "Am I a princess?"

"Not a royal one. The only other royal in existence is your Loch, and he's keeping it under wrap, so he's not, technically, titled prince."

" My Loch?" I snort. He's certainly not that.

Caenan ignores my interruption. "Traditionally, the title of a prince—or princess—may be bestowed on anyone ruling over a principality, such as the court of bones, hence why Valdred's a prince. As for you…bottom line, you'll have whatever rank your sister bestows. I would suggest not demanding such a high one, however. The last thing you need is to incur the jealous attention of the court."

"Right. But this book is saying I can't talk to someone unless they say hi first, basically. In my case, who can I talk to?"

"For your safety, I'd say no one. Make my job easier."

I return to my book, but a question pops back in my head, and I can't focus until I ask, "What's your rank?"

He looks over at me. "Why?"

"I guess I'm wondering whether I should curtsy and stay silent until you address me."

He rolls his eyes. "This is a court etiquette manual, to help you navigate outsiders. There's no need for any formality amongst your own circle. You're the queen's sister; I am her mate's…" He hesitates. "Second. Best friend. Adopted son. Pick whichever one you fancy. All are accurate. In any case, we're an extended family of sorts, and therefore, none of this nonsense is needed."

"So you do admit it's nonsense!"

He’s the one who insisted I read it, the jerk.

"Certainly. It's also the only way you'll survive."

I sigh, utterly tired.

"My father's court was a principality," he says gently. "As his youngest son, I was considered gentry, though no formal rank was given to me. It's customary to offer children their estates upon their seventh year. I was with Ryther by then. He , by naming me his second and empowering me to rule in his absence, made me the unseelie prince."

Something in the way he speaks tells me that this confession is somewhat private; that not many are privy to the details of his youth to that extent.

"So I could marry you and become a princess, then," I tease.

He tilts his head. "Could you?"

I'm blushing for some reason.

I do my best to return to my book, my heart beating a little faster.

I flush, yet again interrupted in the middle of a sentence. Trying to read on the rules of propriety in the high court is complicated enough without constantly being interrupted by screams of pleasure, moans, the sound of a bed banging against a wall.

"Oh, bloody hell, will they ever stop?" I grouse.

"Afraid a little pleasure?" Caenan teases.

"No, but there's nothing fun about listening to it when I'm not having any," I retort.

There's something else, though. An echo of the memory of what Ryther did to me the other day. I hated it. I hate him for it. But watching him with my sister…

It was intense.

Hot.

Hearing them now takes me back to that, to the night with Loch that he doesn't seem to have any desire to repeat. Frankly, I'm not certain my body could take it if he wanted to, so I certainly didn't approach him for more.

"Would you like some?"

I blink. "What?"

"Pleasure."

I stare at the man across from me, as usual, dressed in reinforced leather that does little to hide the sculpted shape of his tanned flesh. He's gorgeous. Not like Loch, the epitome of a delicate fae prince; there's something rougher, manlier with him. That makes me wonder just how much he could break me.

I swallow. "You…want me?"

I would never have guessed. He doesn't flirt, and if he stares at me, I assumed it was because he was trying to make sure I don't step the wrong way and die.

Maybe he doesn't really desire me, but the constant sounds of fucking are having the same effect on him as they do on me.

"Certainly," he assures me, ever proper and calm.

"It's probably not a good idea. I mean, to mix business with pleasure, so to speak. We're going to spend a lot of time together if you keep protecting me. It would be stupid if we had a falling out…"

"That logic didn't apply to Loch."

I snort. "I never liked Loch in the first place."

"And you like me?"

I nod eagerly.

I like him a lot. Out of everyone here, he's truly the only one I can even speak to without feeling stupid.

"Well then, I'll have to soothe my aching heart with that cold comfort."

I snort, both at his cold delivery and preposterous claim.

He doesn't really care. His expression isn’t changing at all.

And maybe, just maybe, that's why I absolutely could do this with him, and go back to being friends.

"Or," I say, "you could ignore everything I just said, and give me as much pleasure as I can take."

He's still and silent, those golden eyes set on me. Then he moves so fast all I can see is a blur until he reappears at my feet, parting my thighs and sliding my skirt upward. "Very well, then. Let's make your scream rival theirs."

Holy fucking shit. He parts my panties with his teeth before attaching his mouth to my clit, sucking it.

"Oh, fuck!"

"In a moment," he assures me, languorously running his tongue along my folds. Two fingers slide inside me, curving just right. "Oh, my. You're positively gushing."

In truth, I've been wet all evening, given the soundtrack we have to deal with, but the mere sight of him right there, on his knees between my legs would have had me soaking in no time.

Caenan fingers me like he does everything: calmly, methodically, without so much as a change in his expression. But his eyes. His golden eyes, never letting me go, seem to burn.

"So very close," he notes, when my walls tighten around him, soaking him even more. He's pushing against my clit, circling it with his thumb, like making me lose my mind is a clinical, precise job. "How much do you want release, lovely?"

" Please ," I beg.

"That's not an answer. I asked for a quantifier. Are you a little desperate? Moderately?"

"I…need it. I need it so, so much," I croak between whines.

"Enough to grant me a boon?"

"Anything!" is all I can say, curving into his touch.

"Oh, my pretty little human. I am certain I'm doing us all a favor by taking what you're offering before anyone else does." He shakes his head. "Very well. You have promised anything, and I claim you, Rachel Thorn."

I feel it, though I can't put my finger on what. A heaviness, both warm and as cold as iron, settling over my chest. The certain knowledge that something shifted, without any physical change. And then, his mouth is right there again, his fingers sliding in and out of me faster. I scream. I scream, and drench him in fluids as I come harder than ever.

I can only stare at him, completely limp, my body having lost all its tension, as he stands. He looks rather pleased with himself, and he should. I am rather pleased with him too.

"Now, we can call you a princess, wife."

I don't react. Not for an entire minute. And then my eyes fly open as the weight of his words finally hit.

" What ?"

"I own everything you have, by your own word." He leans in, the picture of a predator, those white, sharp teeth flashing. "And for the good of us all, I will take it before someone else does."

"But…wife?"

He smirks. "You're mine to do with as I please. So be a good girl, and free my cock."

He proceeds to take me, in every way, shape, and form, until I'm sore and limp and completely out of it.

And, apparently married?

Fuck. This world is insane. But for some reason, I'm not complaining.