Page 62 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

What did Ward add to the drug Lombard consumed? He looks as if he’s about to burst out of his skin.

A large shape crashes onto the blanket beside me, flicking droplets onto my arm. It’s Ducayne, fresh from rinsing the sand off in the sea. He’s wearing shorts again.

“I lost on purpose,” he says.

“You did not.”

He laughs, breathless and joyful. “Do you need anything, mistress?”

“I thought you’d forgotten all about me, thrall. You’ve been having so muchfun.”

“Endearing myself to your future allies, as you wished.” He leans in, and my pulse stutters because there is so much of him, such a broad expanse of smooth hot chest and long toned legs. A hard-muscled arm brushes mine.

“Princess,” he says softly. “Do you need anything?”

I shift my fingers, letting them creep under the extra blanket and touch the knife I hid there. My hand curls around it, and I exhale slowly.

Ducayne watches my face. Beads of water sparkle in his dark lashes. “Intimacy frightens you,” he says. “My nearness frightens you right now—terrifies you, even though you know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“The tattoo, I know—”

“Fuck the tattoo. Even without it, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

My lungs seize up.

He’s not teasing now. Not a hint of seductive merriment. Only deep concern, and pity. I hate pity, I hate it, I don’t deserve it.

“What did your father do to you?” he asks. “Did he ever—”

“I’m a virgin,” I whisper, hoarse and shaking. “He never touched me. He only whipped me. I didn’t—I can’t—I’m not—”

“Ruelle.” The gentle word, from his lips, breaks me.

“Why are you making me talk about this now?” I whisper-shriek at him. “One moment you’re wrestling naked with a man, and now this? Gods, what is wrong with you?”

I jerk my hand out from under the blankets, and he recoils sharply.

He knew I was clutching a knife.

But my hand is empty, because I can’t hurt him, because—the way he said my name—

Ruelle.

Ruelle, Ruelle.

I lunge from the shadows and dash across the sand. I run for the sea.

But I only make it ankle-deep before horrified screams erupt from the onlookers watching the wrestling match.

Whirling, I freeze.

Lombard is standing over Anvel’s collapsed body. His shoulders heave, and his jaws hang open, bloody.

Blood pumps from a bite wound in Anvel’s throat.

Sherad, Luthia’s blue-haired thrall, leaps in immediately, kneeling beside Anvel, compressing the wound in his throat. “Grab Lombard, some of you!” he shouts.

Bodyguards are already rushing forward—they seize Lombard. His teeth snap and grind as he bucks and kicks. Then his whole body starts to shake.