Page 61 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

I cast another look at Ruelle. She’s leaning forward, inhaling smoke from Ward’s parted lips.

A dark storm rises in my heart. I meet the blue eyes of the Crown Princess again.

And I let my shorts fall to the sand.

For a moment I stand naked in the sun, conscious of the eyes, the stares fixed on me. Yesterday at the waterfall I was partly submerged—this is my first time being fully exposed to them all.

Their hungry gazes press my skin like the hot glare of the sun itself.

I grin, setting my fist into the palm of my other hand. “Who’s first? Someone call the Healer back down here, because this is about to get bloody.”

19

I’ve watched Ducayne all morning, while he flirted with Imrissa and Nonni and most of the other women on the beach. He’s less skilled at seducing men, probably because his preference is females. But the men watch him too. They want him just as much.

Ward is telling me about his family’s financial struggle, due to a drought across their lands and a constant bombardment of illnesses in the region. He’s working on tonics that could prevent or curtail the spread of plague.

It’s important work, and his apparent devotion to it surprises me. I should listen more carefully. But I’m preoccupied with Ducayne’s lithe body as he leaps for the ball, dodges his attackers, barrels across the line with it, and shouts with exuberant victory.

When the naked wrestling is suggested, and my sister bares her breasts, I notice Ducayne’s eager stare in her direction.

Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck them all.

I refuse to look anymore at Ducayne or my sister. I won’t indulge their vanity or play their games. Instead I lean in, accepting the exhaled smoke from Ward’s mouth, and I focus only on him. That is, until Ducayne is writhing naked and golden in the sand with the other males. I try to resist during the first two matches, but eventually I give in and sneak a look.

Ducayne is rolling, broad shoulders over bare ass, locked in combat with Anvel. Their muscles swell and strain, sweat glistening in the sunlight.

Anvel is immense, a glorious war god from some distant northern land. His fist rivals the size of Ducayne’s head. But Ducayne combines sinew and agility and passion. He’s keenly determined to win.

Gods. It’s the most titillating sight I have ever seen. I’m so engrossed that I barely notice Ward’s hand on my thigh.

And then Ward touches between my legs, fingertips grazing lightly over the fabric covering my folds.

I’m wet with arousal. My panties are soaked through, and when he touches me, my sex responds with a flutter of craving, but I remove his hand gently. “No.”

Ward’s face tightens, and he scoots a little farther away. “My apologies, Princess. I can tell you’re—intrigued—by the spectacle, and I only thought to serve you.”

I press my thighs together. “Thank you, but I—I would rather not.”

“It’s my body, isn’t it?” He rises. “I’m too frail. Not like them. You’d rather have my muscled thrall than me.”

“That’s not it—I—”

“Did you make an arrangement with my brother? Sharing thralls?”

“I—nothing is decided yet.”

“No, I understand.” He nods, his lip curling. “A pleasure to speak with you, Princess.”

He strides away, out of the shade of the parasol and down the beach.

I refuse to feel guilty for saying no to Ward. This is why I dislike sex—no matter how people strive to make it something simple and meaningless, it isn’t. It is deeply, intensely personal, and I despise deeply, intensely personal things.

Anvel has pinned Ducayne, and Ducayne’s arm beats the sand, signaling that he yields. They both rise, naked, coated with sand, laughing.

Jilleen’s thrall Lombard steps forward next, at her urging. He’s blond, with close-cropped hair and a sculpted physique. Now that he’s stripped down, the cage around his privates is visible to everyone. It looks not just restrictive, but painful.

Lombard bounces on his feet, his fingers twitching and his head jerking as if his nerves are strung far too tight.