Page 30 of Downfall of a Princess

“I know, but I don’t mind, and it’s easier formeto do it than calling in a maid.” He snapped his fingers, urging me to surrender my foot to him, but I shuffled both my feet closer to the couch.

“I can do it myself.”

“Princesses aren’t supposed to do things for themselves.”

“I haven’t always been a princess,” I blurted out before I could think better of it.

He studied me from behind his dark locks hanging over his forehead. “Maybe you’ll tell me more about it over dinner?”

Oh no, that was not going to happen. Talking about my past with someone I’d just met, when I hadn’t even mentioned it to anyone other than Mother, was not on tonight’s agenda.

I couldn’t think of a better way to divert him from that topic than shoving my foot into his hand.

“Here. Go ahead if you insist.”

He pulled the boot off and placed it by the fireplace behind him, then removed my other one just as easily. After that, he hovered his both hands over my calf covered by the pant leg of my riding pants.

“May I?” he asked again.

My riding outfit consisted of a sleeveless dress from a light cotton to help me bear the heat. The long skirt of the dress was largely decorative. With the high slit in the front all the way up to my waist, its only function was to drape majestically over the croup of the horse as I rode it with my legs on either side of the saddle. The pants I wore underneath protected my thighs from chafing during the ride.

As Salas waited for my permission to touch my calf, I stiffened, wondering how far he wanted to go and whether I should allow it. My muscles strained, ready to jerk my leg away or even kick him.

Yet he’d somehow taken control over the situation without overpowering me. He’d taken the lead, leaving me the choice to follow. Even with him in charge, I still had a choice.

“Alright.” I nodded tentatively.

Sitting back on his haunches, he placed my foot on his knee, then hiked my wide pant leg up past my knee. With deft fingers, he untied my garter, then rolled down my thin cotton stocking before taking it off.

He did it all slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away if I so wished. Somehow, he also managed to get it done without touching my skin even once.

“It’s not just my boots you’re taking off then?” I cleared my throat, holding still as a mouse.

“Stockings are a part of it. You wouldn’t be wearing them if it wasn’t for the boots.”

In summer, women in Rorrim normally wore just short underwear under their light dresses and sandals on their feet. Working women often switched to flowy pants made from breathable material, for practical reasons. Men usually stuck with long pants and boots or closed-toe shoes throughout the year. It wasn’t customary for any self-respecting gentleman to show bare legs or feet in public.

“Do you ride horses too?” I asked, since he’d demonstrated a skill in dealing with riding boots.

“No,” he replied briefly.

“But have you ever? I meanbefore?”

“Before I sold my debt to a slave owner, you mean? No. I’ve never ridden a horse other than in a wagon.” He reached back to drape my stockings over my boots by the fireplace.

His back seemed to be healing well. There were no blood stains on the pristine white material of his robe, but the raised scars from the whip with dry blood still crusted in their crests were visible through the thin fabric.

“How did you get into debt?” I asked somberly.

Turning to face me again, he shook his head.

“Talking about me won’t get us in the right mood, Princess.” He took my bare foot into his hands, not bothering to ask for permission this time.

If distraction was his goal, it worked. My breath hitched as his warm palm connected with the sole of my foot. I forgot all about the question I’d just asked.

His huge hand wrapped around my foot, nearly swallowing it whole. Gently as if handling a puppy, he rubbed the top withhis thumb. He traced each bone to my toes, massaging them in circles, then moved to the bottom of my sole.

“Your horse is white like snow and so is your dog,” he said, his deep voice soothingly flowing through the room. “Is it intentional?”

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