Page 77 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

Shakily I push Ducayne away, determined to salvage a little of my pride, my self-sufficiency—determined to dress myself—

I wobble on my feet, and he scoops me up with a low, triumphant chuckle and strides into the bedroom with me.

“Stop,” I hiss, smacking his face. “I need to clean up.”

“I’ll clean you up.”

“I don’t even let the maids do that.”

His voice is a masculine purr in my ear. “I’m not your maid.”

“Ugh, gods.” I relent, allowing him to lay my nude body on the bed. He brings a damp towel and cleans my inner thighs. He also wipes his sticky cum off my stomach, although he looks reluctant about that, as if he’d like to leave it there.

When he goes to dispose of the towel, I roll onto my belly, hugging a puffy pillow. I feel warmer and more relaxed than I have in years—maybe ever.

Ducayne returns, settling in at my side, and without my having to order it, he begins stroking my back and limbs—tentatively at first, then more confidently when I don’t protest. The sensation of his palm and fingers sweeping along my bare soft skin, over and over—it’s bliss.

I’m sinking into sleep.

I don’t think I put a knife under my pillow…

But I don’t fetch one. I let myself drowse.

I waver on the edge of dreams, lulled by his soothing caresses.

A press of lips over my spine, between my shoulder blades. Or maybe I imagined it.

24

The next day is absolutely wretched. Dark clouds scud across the sky, torn and twisted by a wild wind. Sheets of rain crash against the palace, soaking the beach, the lawns, the balconies, the gardens.

But I could not be happier. This is the best weather for staying indoors and having lots of sex with my Princess, if she will allow it. Certainly she won’t expect to visit the shrine of Arawn in this weather. Maybe if I please her well, she’ll forget about her crusade to win Arawn’s favor through ritual murders, or her crusade to end thralldom by killing everyone involved, or whatever it was that made her take three lives.

Ifit was her. I’m doubting my theory again. Cruel she may be, too quick to open flesh with a blade when she is angry or scared. I believe she could kill someone, given the right provocation. But Keb, Jilleen, and Lombard? I’m not sure she had sufficient motive.

If not her, then who?

Unless Keb slit his own throat, Lombard’s death was an adverse reaction to Ward’s drugs, and Jilleen simply went too deep and drowned.

Perhaps there have been no murders at all.

But three deaths? When Vienne said there have not been any at past retreats? Well, except perhaps the deaths of people who displeased her.

I can believe Vienne capable of murder. Perhapssheis responsible.

But these subtle killings are not her style. She would run a man through the chest boldly, in the sight of everyone, and think nothing of it afterward.

No, the killings are being perpetrated by someone who is not all-powerful. Someone who does not want to be caught. This murderer has something to lose.

“Ducayne.” Ruelle nudges me with her foot. I’m sitting beside her chair again, only this time, instead of receiving my own plate, she’s feeding me breakfast by hand, like a dog. Usually I would resent it, but every time she offers me a bite, she gives me a secret, delighted little smile. Just a flash of a smile, too quick for anyone else to notice. I love it.

I open my lips, and when she tucks a large piece of bacon between them, I close my mouth quickly, sucking on her fingers as she withdraws them. Her eyes flare wide, and her cheeks flush. I grin at her.

But then we are both distracted by Crown Princess Vienne, who has summoned the wind-wielder Enzo and is shrieking at him to “do something about this weather or you’ll end up limbless in the dungeon like your water-wielding friend!”

In a shaking voice, Enzo explains that his powers work within a limited radius, on moderate cloud cover. He can’t shove a huge storm system like this one out to sea.

Master Thranwright, the Manager of Festivities, stands nearby while Enzo speaks. After just a few days of Summerglee, his heavyset form already looks a bit thinner than it did when we arrived, and I could swear there’s more gray in his hair. Timidly he tries to support the wind-wielder’s statement, but Vienne will have none of it. She orders Enzo flogged. Then she sends her breakfast back to the kitchen to be remade.