Page 77 of Blood On His Lips

Except I wasn’t. Which each passing moment I struggled with an increase of tension. Whatever this unfolding scene was, it served his deeper purpose.

He smiled sweetly. “Then you will never be bored. Five millennia is a long time, my halfling. You will be glad I provide you with so much entertainment.”

Renaud wasn’t silly. He was testing me, again. Forever testing me, and instead of ranting about how ridiculous this was and how we were wasting time, I bowed. The fastest way to get this over with was to go through it. Perversely, the fact that Baba wasn’t present relaxed me. If the Prince intended to torture my father, then he would be present.

He held out a hand. “Approach.”

My skin tingled in warning, but I stalked forward, a hair too slow from the slight narrowing of his eyes.

As I approached, Fae courtiers appeared, lining the marble hall, silent and ghostly, bearing witness. So. He had some form of public humiliation in mind, or else he wouldn’t need an audience. They must have been present all along, but glamoured. They watched in utter silence, as still as their Prince.

“Today begins your first lesson in the consequences of weakness.”

I slid my hand into his, understanding that at this moment resistance would be nothing but a pointless waste of breath and energy. The weight of his power pressed on me, and my own uncoiled deep in my well. The avatar was watching, but didn’t emerge. Stupid thing. Either it didn’t think Renaud was a threat, or it was scared.

The Prince yanked me forward. I sprawled on his lap, breaking my fall with my hands on either side of his head.

Renaud gripped the back of my hair tightly enough that if I were less used to pain, it would have brought tears to my eyes. He angled my head and ravaged my mouth.

It wasn't a gentle kiss, no sensuality or seduction. It was darkness, and power, a conqueror set on the humiliation of his conquered. I tasted blood, but I didn't fight back. Not yet. Not now. Not ever, maybe.

He released my mouth and tilted his head so his lips brushed my ear. “Your humiliation begins now,” he whispered.

“Rani—”

“Silence.”

I looked into eyes that were incandescent blue and steeled myself. Iknewthis male, in all his guises. He played games. He taught lessons. This was just another one of his training fields, though we weren’t in Avellonne. And not once in my life had he harmed me, or let another touch me.

I almost smiled. He’d forgotten that I understood him as well as he understood me.

Not that that meant he wouldn’t make this new game hurt. Failing one of his lessons had always been accompanied by a stinging punishment.

He released me with a little push off his lap, and I caught myself so I didn't go sprawling down the steps.

Renaud relaxed back on his throne and surveyed me. “What was it you said? That you would never submit to me? That your body would never be mine?”

I cursed silently. Though he would hear it, of course.

His lips curved again, the expression cruel, amused. He lifted a finger, twirled it in a circle. “Strip.”

I suppressed the frisson of desire that invaded my body at that simple word. “Really?”

I’d expected a flogging, to be made to kiss his feet or perhaps swear fealty in the most insulting way.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

I dug my lengthening nails into my thighs. “You should just kill me now. If you think I'm going to submit to my own public debasement. . .I prefer death.”

“Do you?” His voice dipped, insidious with doubt. “Do you recall who it is who resides in the bowels of my dungeon, Aerinne?”

The rhetorical question was spoken with the lazy air of a male who knew he had all the time in the world, all the power in his hand—and relished the thought of using it for ill.

I should have been warier. He had released Lavendre, but not my brother. I should have asked myself why. Why had he kept Danon in reserve? In a peculiar way, I’d come here still trusting Renaud. How could I not? He was my Raniel, my Darkan. Deep down, I didn’t believe he would truly damage me. I was a warrior, I could take a beating, or political embarrassment.

“You could strip me yourself,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

“It's more fun this way.” He tilted his head. “We wouldn’t want all that moonlighting during your college days to go to waste.”

---