Page 68 of Bride of the Black Dragon
But the Queen doesn’t leave me alone for long. I hear the turning of the lock and she sweeps in with the Court Physician trailing behind her like a hunched shadow, his arms full of vials and bundles of pungent herbs wrapped in cheesecloth.
“Put the tray down there,” she snaps, pointing to a small tea table beside the hearth.
The physician obeys quickly, but I don’t miss the tightness in his jaw. He’s not happy to be here.
She gestures to the fire.
“Brew it now. And make it strong—two spoonfuls instead of one.”
He hesitates, reaching for a delicate porcelain pot.
“Your Majesty, if I may—this blend is already potent. Another spoonful of arousal root may cause…uncontrollable effects. The Princess may lose the ability to?—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts him off coldly. “Not to be indelicate, but I just want her to fuck. She’s already wasted a full moon cycle. She needs a baby in her belly now, do you understand me?”
The physician flushes a dull, mottled red, but he bows his head.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
I stand frozen in the center of the room as he adds another heaping spoonful of deep purple powder to the pot and stirs it slowly, letting the potion inside steep until the liquid turns nearly black. The scent rises—sharp and bitter, like crushed cloves and something darker…muskier.
“What’s in that?” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
“No questions,” the Queen snaps. “Sit.” She points to the delicate chaise lounge by the window.
I sit, because what else can I do? The tea is placed in front of me in a delicate china cup with a golden rim and an embossed dragon curling around the side. The Queen sits opposite me like a spider in her web, watching with glittering eyes.
“Well? Drink it. Every drop.”
I take a sip and gag. It’s bitter—burning. It tastes like scorched metal and spices gone rotten.
“I said all of it,” she snarls, her eyebrows coming down in a furious glare.
I force myself to swallow again…and again. Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes from the sheer intensity of the taste, but I drink every last drop until the cup is empty and my stomach turns queasy from the heat roiling inside it.
“Good.” She stands and claps her hands.
A pair of ladies-in-waiting sweep into the room carrying a gown unlike anything I’ve worn before.
If I thought the white lace honeymoon gown they forced me into was revealing…this is worse.
Much worse.
It’s a deep garnet red, cut scandalously low in the bodice so my breasts are spilling out, showing the tops of my areolas. The corset laces up the front with black silk ribbon, pushing my cleavage up like ripe fruit on display. The sleeves are sheer netting that clings to my arms like a second skin, ending in cuffs of black lace.
The skirt is slit up the front, showing far too much thigh—nearly to the tops of my thigh-high stockings, which they insist I wear with high-heeled satin slippers. I am not allowed any undergarments at all so one wrong move will flash anyone watching me. The servants finish me with shimmer powder—the kind worn only by courtesans and whores.
The whole effect is deliberately sensual—shamefully so. I feel like a courtesan, dressed for a brothel—not a princess visiting her husband in the dungeon.
“I—this isn’t—” I start to protest, but the Queen cuts me off again.
“It will do,” she says, circling me with a critical eye. “Let the sight of you entice him. Let him see what he’s missing while he rots in chains. Perhaps it will inspire him to finish the task he was given.”
“I need water,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Just to get the taste out of my mouth.”
“No.” The Queen smiles thinly. “Let the bitterness remind you of your duty, girl. Get pregnant with a royal heir, or else. This is your last chance.”
Two of her private guards appear then—both tall, both armed, both wearing the stone-faced expressions of men used to obeying orders. They don’t speak. One of them grabs my arm, not harshly, but firmly enough that I can’t slip away. They lead me out of the Queen’s quarters and out into the main corridor beyond.
