Page 15 of The Huntsman's Heart
Freeing my cock swiftly, I spit onto the rigid shaft. I’m thick and throbbing as I bring the head to the tight slit between her legs.
She whimpers quietly as I push home. Her snatch is tight—impossibly snug around my swollen flesh. I haven’t been this excited in decades.
My cock aches with the need for friction and release. I force myself deeper into her virgin cunt.
“I hate you,” she spits at me as I withdraw and thrust home again.
I hate myself too—for using her this way. For letting myself become this. For sinking further and further under the control of the witch who seduced me.
The hate pools together with the lust, with the pleasure that rises at every violent thrust.
She’s stopped protesting now. Instead she takes it silently, stonily.
That is far, far worse.
The deed is done. I may as well have slit her throat already, may as well have plunged my hunting knife deep into her breast. This cold statue is nothing like the stubborn princess I stole fromher dying father’s bedside. How quickly I’ve stamped out the fire that made her blaze.
Her fire frustrated and confounded me, but it lit up that dismal keep so brightly that I’ve never been able to look away.
My hand is threaded in her hair. Her face pushed roughly against the tree bark.
With a growl of frustration, I realize my cock has grown soft. I slip from her body, unable to maintain the erection which only moments ago was aching torment.
I blink when she laughs.
Guinevere wipes her scratched and bleeding cheek against her shoulder and glances down at my limp cock. “Is that all?”
Fury chokes the words from my throat. “Was my sword not sharp enough for you, princess? Did it not cut you?”
She straightens, ignoring the fact her dress is rent in two and her breasts are still freed to the cold night air. “Do you call that a sword?”
Advancing on her, I pull my blade from its scabbard and hold it to her throat. “Oh, if it’s a sword you want, perhaps this will satisfy you.”
“Go on. Do it. There’s no possible way you could do any worse than you have done already.”
Her words cut into me as surely as my sharp blade pierces a monster’s heart. I have done that to her. Ripped everything from her and added insult to injury. Grasping at power when I’m really at Melantha’s beck and call. Pretending at a virility I’ll never have again.
I should turn my blade on myself, but I know from bitter experience it will do nothing. I am undead. I cannot die. But she…
Even now her father is dead or dying. She may as well join him in whatever afterlife awaits. Why prolong this? Melantha’s order is as good as done.
I press my blade more firmly to her skin, but hesitate.
Guinevere’s lips press together in a thin line. A trickle of deep red blood drips from the cut I’ve made.
I search within myself for the blind compulsion, the push that drives me to fulfil Melantha’s command, to drive the blade home.
It isn’t there.
I think back to the queen’s words—Make sure that she does not return. Bring me the heart by morning.
I don’t have to kill her to complete my task. She said only to bring her the heart. Could I substitute another heart and fulfil the command?
At that moment, something passes across the face of the princess. Something hard and defiant. She lifts her chin and lurches forward, plunging my blade straight into her breast.
I snatch my sword back, but the damage is done.
Her eyes bulge. Crimson blood spurts from the wound.
