Page 38 of Princess of Thorns and Ruin

“Don’t tell anyone I cried, please. I forgot myself for a moment.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

I turn around to leave and walk a few steps before she whispers, “It’s my brother. I learned tonight that he promised my hand in marriage to an old king I’ve never even met.”

The cracks in her voice turn my legs to lead, and I curl my fists. “Without your consent?”

“It’s politics.”

“It’s bullshit.”

She drags her black nails over the fluffy pillow in her lap. “Total bullshit, right?”

I shake out the jitters, unnerved by this arranged marriage business. I might be sworn to serve her, but she’s not her own person, either. She’s higher on the pecking order, but we’re both meant to follow orders. The realization mellows my anger, and I blink, taking in her appearance.

Embroidered roses embellish the skirt of her coronation dress, the intricate designs forming a tighter cluster over her breasts and stomach, the decorations sewn together over her shoulders to create two sheer straps that contrast with her ivory chest and neck. The gown flows to the floor, twice as big as she is, and her big blue eyes are still glistening with red tears as she pulls a series of pins out of her hair and unfastens the second half of her braid.

Her thick dark mane cascades around her face and highlights the roundness of her cheeks, her innocence…and youth.

Before she transformed into a vampire, she was a nineteen-year-old girl. A princess, sure, but I remember what it was like to be nineteen. I certainly didn’t want to spend my time attending stuffy ceremonies just so I could be sold to some foreign king.

She’s a demon meant to drain thousands in her lifetime, but I realize she’s only ever drank from me, and my well-crafted armor cracks.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I offer, even though it means she’ll feed on me.

She peels herself from the egg chair and heads to the walk-in closet. “Why is there a massage table in here?”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “I got a special class yesterday.”

“Are you any good?” she asks in jest.

The change in her demeanor is so drastic, it makes me want to try and ease her sorrow, and I wave her over to the table. “I guess you’re bound to find out.”

“Wait. I need help with this first,” she spins around and offers me her back. The corseted dress is laced tight, and I swallow hard. Dressing or undressing her doesn’t strictly fall under my responsibilities.

“Can you manage? I can ring for help,” she says.

I approach carefully. “I can draw plans for a canter-lever bridge, I should manage to unfasten a corset.”

She waits patiently with her hands on her hips. “You were an engineer?”

“Yes.”

Only…loosening up a corset isn’t the same as undressing Arielle Delacroix.

Oblivious to my commands, my heart beats wildly in my chest as I gather her soft hair over one shoulder and tug on the threads of her corset. The cardboard-like padding scratches my fingers when I peel it away from her, the creamy expanse of skin underneath stealing my thoughts.

I turn around to offer her some privacy as she climbs onto the massage table, and the ruffle of fabric heats my cheeks.

“Should I keep my underwear on?”

My throat bobs. “As you wish.”

Oh hell…

Why the fuck did I suggest this?

A snide, perverse side of me stirs to life. You know why.

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