Punished by the Prince Read online

  “Well, I suppose Prince Roark and Queen Korinthia could intervene, but it would be an immensely insulting thing for them to do. I doubt Prince Titus would be on speaking terms with either of them after something like that.”

  I shake my head, trying to take it all in. “So this is normal here? Blood challenges and people being thrown in the dungeon over minor crimes?”

  Marcella clears her throat, neglecting to answer me because Niera is approaching to help lead me to the bath. These women treat me like I can’t walk on my own, but I have to admit it’s nice to be fussed over. I used to watch my mom fiddle with my sisters’ hair or worry over their small cuts with envy. I’d imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes instead of my own, where I was left to figure out hair styling for myself and to find my own bandages.

  I want to like it here. In so many ways, this bizarre world is an answer to everything I’ve ever hoped or wished for. I’m important here. I’m looked after. I’m not ignored. I’m wanted. But then again, that’s also the problem. Everything seems to tell me that being wanted by Prince Titus is more curse than blessing.

  The women lead me to the bathtub and hold my arms carefully as I step into the warm water.

  “This water smells amazing,” I say.

  Niera nods her head slightly, cheeks flushing. “I’m glad you like it,” she says quietly.

  “Now,” says Marcella. “We need to dye your hair. Make yourself comfortable, Princess. This will take a bit.”

  I stand in front of a full length mirror, looking at a version of myself I never imagined I’d see. It’s like someone took the old me and made her more… just more. My hair is dyed platinum blonde and styled into curling ringlets that bounce with the slightest movement of my head. My makeup is done expertly to look like it’s not there at all, accenting my natural features. The green in my eyes pops against the new hair color, and they have me dressed in a slim, almost athletic dress that still manages to hold on to some of the elements of a regal dress while also feeling light and maneuverable. There are cute puffs of fabric that add a roundness and height to my shoulders. There’s the customary plunging neckline and an open back with crisscrossing straps. And though I haven’t seen anything but dresses that reach the ankle since coming here, this dress cuts off at mid-thigh and fits snugly.

  “So women wear dresses like this when they play fielding?” I ask.

  Marcella grins as she circles me, plucking at the fabric on my shoulders to fluff it more. “You don’t play fielding, Princess. You field. Or you go fielding. It’s a very well-respected sport among the nobility.”

  “You’re sure he knows I’ve never played this game before?” I ask for the tenth time.

  Marcella smiles reassuringly. Kadene and Niera have gone out to the fields to prepare my “tent”, whatever that means, but Marcella stayed behind to explain the rules. “It’s a dreadfully simple game,” she says. “They’ll give you a bat thingie and you’ll swing at the ball until you hit the target.”

  “So it’s exactly like golf. But with a bat?” I ask.

  “Well, no. The target is in the air. Like basketball? Except it’s not a hoop.”

  I sigh. “I guess I’ll just figure it out. And is it really called a bat thingie?”

  Marcella sighs. “I swore I knew enough to teach you the rules, but once I got to explaining it, I feel like I don’t actually know that much.”

  Great, I think. Inviting me to play this game with him is apparently Prince Titus’ idea of an icebreaker, and I have to give it to him, I’ll probably feel more at ease outside playing a game than I would in some ballroom or over dinner, even if it’s a sport I’ve never heard of.

  When I step out on the field after the winding journey through elaborately decorated halls of the palace, I’m shocked by how beautiful it is. Burkewood Palace has a rectangular courtyard and the entire space is apparently the field for this game. In many ways, it looks exactly like a golf course, complete with rolling hills, rocky outcroppings, sand traps, and even a water hazard. I see what Marcella was failing to explain now, too. There’s a blue circle that looks a lot like a floating bullseye at one end of the field. Along one side of the field, there are half a dozen tents set up and teeming with servants who appear to be doing everything from setting out equipment to preparing cocktails. I spot Kadene and Niera under one of the tents--my tent, I guess--scrambling around with towels in their hands as they clean up an apparent spill.

  A small group of beautiful women in dresses of a similar style as mine watch me as I’m led toward the princes and queen at the top of the main hill. Envy is clearly written in their eyes, while they look between myself and the princes who wait at the top of the hill. One of the women even pulls self consciously at the patch of her hair that’s not dyed blonde.

  I feel guilty seeing their jealousy. These women likely spent their whole lives wishing they could be where I am now, and yet I’m just bumbling through it, probably too uneducated in the culture to even fully appreciate what kind of prize has landed in my lap.

  The company at the top of the hill demands all of my attention, though. Not just Prince Titus, but Queen Korintha and Prince Roark. Titus wears a royal blue outfit that fits his muscular frame tightly. It has the same high collared style that is so popular here, but the sleeves are cut off to reveal bulging arms.

  Queen Korinthia wears a dress of a similar style to my own, but with with so many frills and puffs of colorful fabric that I’m sure she couldn’t play any sport in it. When I saw her in the throne room last night, I was too overwhelmed to take in much more of her appearance than a general sense of regal pride. Now I see the way the sun blasts through her makeup, putting the fine lines in her skin on display and showing just how hard she tries to hide her age. I’d guess her to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. Her platinum hair is done up so high and thickly that I wonder if any bees have mistaken it for their home yet.

  My breath hitches when I look at Roark. He’s watching me while he leans on something that looks like a hockey stick mixed with a tennis racquet. He’s also wearing a sleeveless shirt with a deep neckline that puts his tanned arms and chest on mouth-watering display. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him, and every muscle cuts across his skin powerfully. I nearly fall on my face as I walk closer, tripping over my feet while I gawk at Roark.

  He wears black and it only adds to the aura of mystery that seems to follow him like a magnet. The way the sun falls on his skin makes him look like something out of time, like the subject of a painting you might see hanging in an art gallery--the kind of painting that would make you wonder if such a gorgeous person ever really existed, or if he was purely the figment of an artist's imagination. A beautiful dream so perfect it could never truly exist. No matter how much I blink, Prince Roark is still there, and he only looks better up close.

  Prince Titus moves between Prince Roark and I with an irritated expression on his face. He half-turns toward his brother, obviously having caught the way I was staring. My cheeks blossom with heat and I know I need to say something--anything--and fast, but all I can do is open my mouth and close it like a fish out of the water.

  “Uh-h-hello,” I stammer.

  Titus seems to consider something before he spits to the side and leers at me. “My beautiful Elizabeth,” he says, moving closer and lowering his voice. “You’ll need to learn to control your fucking eyes,” he growls so low only I can hear before stepping back and raising his voice again. “Let me show you how the game is played.” He turns toward a scared looking boy in his teens whose holding the same kind of hockey stick hybrid Roark holds. “Boy! Give me the bat.”

  Titus doesn’t wait for the boy to respond. He rips the bat from the boy and turns toward a grassy mound where I stand with Queen Korintha and Roark, who is still watching me shamelessly.

  “Titus is one of the best,” says Queen Korintha, as if she’s confiding in me. “Watch him closely. You’ll find no better example of form.”

&nbs
p; Titus approaches a small device in the ground that looks like a metal traffic cone. He slaps the side of the cone with his stick and steps back, dropping into an athletic pose like a baseball player, body turned and bat gripped firmly in both of his hands. There’s a huff of air and a golf ball sized object spits up from the metal object. Titus swings powerfully as the ball descends, making contact with a ringing thud that sends the ball flying more than half the distance to the target. He watches it land and then throws his bat to the ground, locking his eyes on me.

  “That’s how to properly hit the ball, my love,” he adds, reaching to brush my chin with his forefinger. His eyes dart to Roark as he touches me, and I see Roar’s knuckles go white on the handle of his bat. “Care to show her how not to hit the ball, big brother?”

  Roark approaches the metal ball-spitter, dropping into a similar stance. He taps the metal with his bat and waits. The ball fires up, but Roark doesn’t even wait for it to reach its peak and come down. He catches it on the rise in a blur of movement that sends it streaking through the air, to just within a few yards of the target.

  There is scattered applause from the servants who wait in the tents and a group of nobles wearing similar uniforms and holding bats of their own, but Queen Korinthia and Titus both look like they just sucked on lemons.

  “Can I try?” I ask.

  Titus turns toward me with an incredulous expression on his face. “You want to take a bat?” he laughs to himself. “Sure, just try not to hurt yourself.” He snaps his fingers and points to the bat he threw down earlier. One of the young men nearby sprints forward, grabbing the bat and presenting it to me like some holy relic.

  I take it, testing the weight and finding it’s not dissimilar to a tennis racquet. Thankfully, I played tennis throughout high school--mainly to give me a reason to stay away from home longer. I put a second hand on the bat, gripping it like I’m going for a two-handed backhand, and try a couple practice swings. I move up to the metal object, remembering after a few seconds the way the princes tapped the metal to get the ball to rise up. I do the same, waiting with the bat drawn back.

  The ball puffs up and I take a wild swing, missing entirely. The ball plops back into the hole with a hollow sound. I grit my teeth, refusing to be embarrassed. It’s just a stupid game. I’ve never played before, and I obviously won’t be good right away. But this bat is just a different length than what I’m used to, and with a tiny tweak I’m sure I could hit the ball.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” says Titus so loudly I’m sure all the servants in the nearby tents can hear. “Let’s put this to rest before you end up breaking a nail.”

  Before he can get closer, I tap the metal again, bending my knees and relaxing, trying to imagine Titus’ smug face on the little ball as it comes spinning out of the hole in the ground. I swing as hard as I can and this time make contact with the ball. My shot doesn’t go nearly as far as the men’s, but it flies straight and judging from the raised eyebrows and surprised gasps, it’s a good shot for a beginner.

  “Ha!” cries Prince Roark. “Give her a week and she’ll be beating you, Titus.”

  Titus does his best to look amiable, but his eyes linger on Roark after he turns his back for too long. Queen Korinthia claps her hands together twice, beckoning her servants. Within seconds, three servants are at her side, hoisting the chair she sits on and literally carrying her like some ancient ruler across the lawn. She doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed by the display--if anything, she’s looking at me like I should be impressed.

  I slow my pace as the Queen and her bearers pass by at a speed to catch up with Titus, who is nearly to where his ball landed.

  “I know,” says Prince Roark, who walks up beside me as I head for my ball. “You must think us ridiculous by now.”

  “N-no,” I stammer.

  He smirks. “Worried I’ll take you down to the dungeon again if you misspeak?”

  I stop in my tracks, eyes wide.

  “Easy, Elizabeth,” he says. “I’m only kidding.”

  “Of course,” I say, but I feel the oddest sense of disappointment. Is that really what I want? Do I really want to go back down there with this man who I should be terrified of? If the rumors and mystery surrounding Prince Roark weren’t enough to make it clear that I should stay away, the fact that I’m supposed to be marrying his brother certainly should. Then again, the idea that I could be sold off to marry someone I’ve never met without my consent is an insult, and even if the person I was promised to didn’t seem to be a slimebag, I’d hesitate to make good on a promise like that--if I had a choice, that is.

  My eyes wander the courtyard, lingering on the men who patrol the second floor balconies of the palace all around us and the way the sun bounces off the pistols at their hips. I think back to the long walk from the gates to the palace, wondering if I could even find my way out again, and even if I did, there were the guards at the gate--not to mention the hundreds and hundreds of yards worth of open space I’d need to run and hope no one spotted me.

  I’m trapped here.

  I may not have realized it last night because reality hadn’t had time to sink all the way in, but now I see it clear as day. The only way out of here is by gaining trust. Maybe I can somehow fake my way through this arranged marriage long enough to build trust. Once I’ve built trust, maybe they will give me the opening I need to slip away.

  “But if you try to escape again, I won’t have any choice,” he adds with a glint in his eye that is far from threatening.

  My mouth feels suddenly dry. “Oh?” I ask. “You would be the one to catch me? Not one of the guards?”

  He flicks his eyebrows up, looking down thoughtfully. “You shouldn’t trust anyone here, Princess,” he says, “but there’s one thing you can count on. If you try to escape again, it’s going to be me who catches you.”

  He stops walking abruptly and I nearly collide with him.

  “Your ball,” he says, tapping the ground with his bat before moving on to his.

  “Wait!” I call out. “What do I do with it?”

  He turns back and casually flicks his bat down on the ball, making it jump a few feet into the air. Roark mimics a swing and then turns to walk toward his ball again.

  “Oh,” I say to myself quietly. “No big deal. Just hit the thing up into the air and then hit it again…”

  8

  Roark

  Watching Elizabeth with my brother has been more trying than I ever expected. Last week, I had to watch her through an entire round of fielding, trying not to stare at her tits and ass in her athletic dress, and trying not to run my Blade through Titus’ gut every time he spoke to her or insulted her. The past few days have been no easier, either. We’ve brushed shoulders or exchanged a handful of flirtatious words several times, and yet here I sit in the dining hall while she is at my brother’s side, listening to another of his inflated stories. I grip my fork tightly, trying not to watch.

  I’m grateful that propriety keeps my brother from putting his hands all over Elizabeth, as doing so--in public, at least--would mark her as impure and invalidate their union to come. Remembering that I laid my mark on her ass sends a thrill through me, one that nearly satiates the growing desire to act out and feed the darkness. It has been rising in me again. For a few days after I punished Elizabeth, I had a calm and peace like I’ve never known, like I could imagine a life where I wasn’t compelled to inflict violence. Punishing her bought me more time than violence ever has, but I feel the need growing again, rising up in me like something black and hungry.

  Still, it’s a small comfort to know If Titus knew what I’ve done with her already, the marriage would be called off.

  Dirk still hasn’t gotten back to me about any legal means of stopping the arrangement, even though he’s supposed to be a legal expert. I’ve taken to my own studies at night, pouring over centuries of legal documents to search for some loophole or kink in the system. If I wasn’t sure of my in
tent before I started searching, I am now. If anything, devoting so much energy to the hunt for answers has emboldened my purpose more, even though every avenue I look down seems to create a bigger and bigger wall between Elizabeth and I. Either no princes have stepped in to invalidate the arranged marriages of their brothers before, it it hasn’t been written about.

  Elizabeth smiles politely when Titus finishes his story. As usual, he laughs the loudest at the supposed punch line. I watch her carefully, noticing the way her demure eyes dart to me regularly, or the way her hand shakes slightly when she raises her knife to cut into the meat before her, or even the way she flinches back if Titus moves closer. She’s afraid. Afraid of this place, of these people, of me, most likely.

  Yet, if she was truly afraid of me, the signals she’s sending me are highly misleading.

  “Roark,” says my mother from the head of the table. “Roark,” she says more firmly.

  I look up, only now realizing everyone is turned toward me expectantly.

  “Lady Catherine asked you a question,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Pardon,” I say, setting down my napkin. “It seems I’m all out of answers today.”

  The screech of my chair is almost deafening in the silence that follows, but I don’t fail to catch the hint of a grin on Elizabeth’s face before I turn to leave the dining hall.

  I couldn’t take more of it. I feel the familiar heat of need growing inside me by the minute, so my tolerance for petty aristocratic bullshit is at an absolute low. My mind flashes with images of people I’ve hurt, of the blood I’ve spilled and the pain I’ve caused. The gruesome images only drive the hunger on, intensifying it until I can barely stand it.

  But for the first time, something unexpected happens. The bloodlust moves from my chest to my stomach, and then lower… and lower still.

  The images of blood and faces contorted in pain fade in my mind, replaced by the perfectly round and white ass of Elizabeth and the sight of me bringing the paddle down on her. The damn woman is going to make me start a civil war and I barely even know her.