Page 70 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

She steps nearer, half-drawing the sword, but still Ruelle does not shrink or react.

“When Jilleen died, she wasn’t with us,” Vienne says. “She was floating nearyou. You slit her throat, then fed her to the slithersharks to cover it up. You’re killing thralls, and those who enjoy thralls, because you can’t enjoy them yourself. I suspect you faked that little scene at the waterfall, didn’t you? Admit it. You’re too twisted to have sexual feelings for anyone but our father and his whip.”

Ruelle goes dead-white.

“Did you know that, thrall?” Vienne says. “A servant told me she got wet when she was being punished by the King. Disgusting.”

My Princess’s fingers are curled tight—one hand around her knife, the other on itself. Blood oozes from her empty fist. She’s sinking her nails into her palm, hurting herself.

Quietly I step between her and Vienne.

I don’t speak. I keep my head bowed, avoiding eye contact with the Crown Princess.

Vienne will likely kill me for this. But I cannot stand by and watch Ruelle’s soul be torn apart.

The Crown Princess doesn’t move or speak.

The only sounds are faraway music from somewhere in the palace, and the faint tap of a loose shutter as the ocean breeze presses against the windows.

Vienne steps up to me, chest to chest. Slides her hand down my abdomen, into my pants, and takes my limp cock in her fingers. “Defy me again, and you’ll lose this permanently,” she murmurs against my cheek.

“Yes, your Highness.”

She removes her hand. Backs away. Shoves her half-drawn sword back into the sheath. “No more dead bodies, Ruelle, or I’ll have you put in the dungeon. Lovely place. Full of shell-rats, I’m told.”

She picks up a vase and hurls it against the dressing table mirror, shattering the porcelain and cracking the glass.

Then she leaves the room.

I focus on steadying my own breathing before I turn to Ruelle. “Princess.”

She’s staring past me—no, through me. Her eyes are glazed and fixed, her limbs rigid.

I pick up her left fist. My heart cracks when I see the blood leaking from it. Gently I uncurl her fingers, wincing at the crescent-shaped red cuts in her palm. “I’ll call the healer.”

“No,” she rasps. “No.”

“But you need—”

“No.”

“As you command.” Maybe she’ll let herself be healed tomorrow.

I draw her slowly into the bathing room and sit her down while I clean and wrap the wound. She stares into the distance the whole time.

“It only happened once,” she whispers. “I was fourteen. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t—I wasn’t—” A small sob escapes her.

“You were a child. You were mistreated.” I finish tying the cloth on her left hand and cup her fingers with mine. “It isn’t your fault, nor is it something you should feel shame for.”

“You stood between us,” Ruelle says, lifting her eyes to mine. “And with your tattoo, you can’t defend yourself against a royal. She could have killed you.”

“It would have been a worthy death, in service to my Princess.”

My heart pounds, deep and slow, burning with rage at her family and with the deep agony of my feelings for her. I lift her hand and kiss her fingertips.

She blinks at me, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Ducayne,” she whispers. “I am a wretched thing.”

“You aren’t,” I murmur fervently.