Page 21 of The Manticore's Human Queen
A chorus of butterflies erupts inside me, and I swoon, but he catches me before I lose balance. In an instant, I’m bent over his knee. My skirt hikes up slowly, revealing my pale skin inch by inch. His hand rests on my ass, teasing, building anticipation as I whisper, “Make it hurt, master—own your whore.”
His first spank lands light, a sting that makes me gasp. “You’re my filthy queen, begging for pain,” he growls, his hand cracking harder, each slap echoing, my flesh warming. I arch, moaning.
“Harder, master—I’ve been bad, I let a monster lick my ass,” I cry out.
“And was that monster me?” he grunts, delivering a hard, fast slap to my ass.
He spanks faster, the slaps intensifying, my ass burning as I cry out. “Your pussy’s dripping for me, whore,” he snarls, his fingers teasing my wet heat between strikes. The last slap sends shocks through my body, his grip loosening. Dizzy, I find myself on my feet, sensing him, smelling his musk, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
The beast lurks in the shadows, watching me.
I lower onto all fours, my breath quick, my pussy throbbing with the need to be violated. My skirt lifts, coming to rest over my head. His thick fingers grab my ass, one slipping inside me, and I gasp.
“I am yours,” I say through the fabric covering my head.
“I know,” he replies.
His thick cock stabs inside me, sending ripples through my body. I must take it, must take his cock. It drives deeper, each thrust shocking me to a higher plane of pleasure.
“Take it,” he orders, thrusting deeper.
“Destroy my little pussy, my beast,” I beg.
He grips my raised ass with his claws, plunging deeper until I’m completely full of him. But I want more.
“Twist my nipples—make me scream,” I beg, my body trembling as he complies, pinching until I wail. “Destroy my cunt, master—fuck your whore senseless.”
His cock slams into me from behind, hard and brutal, as I moan. The rough floor cuts into my knees, but it only heightens my pleasure.
“Take my cock, obey me!” he snarls, pounding relentlessly, his hand raining spanks on my raw ass. I meet each thrust, begging, “Fill me with your cum, beast king—claim your dirty queen!” I cry, matching his ferocity.
His roar shakes the cage, his release flooding me, hot and fierce, my pussy clenching him tight. I treasure his cum insideme, but as he takes me in his strong, protective arms, I still want more.
“Use my mouth again, beast king,” I whisper, touching my pussy. I feel him shift to straddle me, the terrifying girth of his cock pressing against my lips.
25
ANNELISE
Istand before the silver-gilt mirror in my chambers, but the woman staring back is a stranger. The fear is still there, a familiar ghost in her eyes, but it is no longer her master. It is a whetstone, and the fury that has been simmering beneath my skin for a lifetime is now a sharpened blade.
“You thought this was a game of survival,” I whisper to my reflection, the words a harsh sound in the opulent silence. “You thought you could endure. You were a fool.”
The woman in the mirror does not flinch. Her gaze is cold, clear, and calculating. My body is no longer a cage; it is a weapon. My mind, once a sanctuary for poetry, is now an armory. Tarek is still a prisoner, and I am still a ward, but the locks on our cages are illusions. Our shared act of defiance has shattered them. Now, all that is left is to walk out of the ruins. And for that, I need a map.
My mind, now a cold instrument of tactical planning, knows exactly where to find one: in Lord Renlir’s private study, a place more sacred and forbidden than any temple. The risk is immense. To be caught there would not just mean a beating; it would mean the end of everything. They would take Tarek fromthe ballroom and kill him in the menagerie. They would move up the wedding. They would break me, just as Zarren has promised. The reward, however, is everything.
Getting there requires a different kind of courage than the desperate, passionate bravery of the night before. This has to be a cold and calculated infiltration. I dress in a simple day gown of dove-grey wool, my hair tied back, my face a mask of placid obedience. I am once again the invisible human pet, a creature of no consequence, a ghost in the grand machine of the estate. I use this invisibility as a cloak. I know the rhythms of the household, the exact hour when the servants are occupied with the midday meal, when the corridors of the west wing will be deserted as the guards change shifts.
I move with purposeful grace, my heart a steady, determined drum against my ribs. The silence of the west wing is different from the rest of the estate; it is a silence of power, of secrets. The door to Renlir’s study is, as always, unlocked. Arrogance is the greatest flaw of the dark elves. They cannot conceive of a creature like me daring to trespass on their sacred ground.
The room is a monument to his vanity, filled with ancient texts, dark artifacts, and the mounted heads of fearsome beasts whose names I do not know. The air smells of old leather, cloying incense, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. In the center of the room, on a massive, carved obsidian desk, sits a collection of rolled parchments bound in leather.
The maps.
My hands do not tremble as I sort through them. My mind is sharp, my focus absolute. I find what I am looking for: two detailed maps, one of the estate and its immediate grounds, the other of the surrounding wilderness of Kaynvu, marking patrol routes and natural shelters. I tuck them into the deep, hidden pockets of my skirt, the crisp parchment a cool, secret promise against my skin.
As I turn to leave, my gaze falls upon Zarren’s ceremonial hunting bow, hung on the wall like a piece of art. It is a beautiful, deadly instrument, its black wood inlaid with silver, its string a shimmering, silver-white thread. Another impulse, another act of pure, unthinking rebellion, seizes me.
