No Fury

Now: Seventeen

Sweet readers: thank you for getting this far. Thank you for your votes and comments. I hope you love it. Now: buckle up. ~Spark.

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No immediate word of an engagement spreads when the family returns two days after I discovered pleasure, alone in the ale house shed.

The evening of their return, only hours after the carriages have pulled up front unloading trunks and crates, the prince's steward passes me outside as I carry a sack of malt. He is out of place here, resplendent in soft velvet, thick satin, delicate boots. His skin is pasty and soft. His hands are small; his eyes don't dance. I nearly drop the bag of grains in my arms at the sight of him on the dusty path: I've never before seen him on this side of the grounds in daylight.

He looks straight ahead, saying only, "Come on your own tonight. The prince requires it, and I've no mind to drag you there anymore."

~~

Look up at my face, I think as I drop my clothing to the floor. I need to see your eyes. I need you to see mine.

But he doesn't. He won't. It makes me hate him a little, when I never could have fathomed such a thing before.

Here I am, scrubbed and stripped bare on his bed, having taken his body again and again and he has yet to even look at my face.

You were my best friend .
You know my darkest secret and I know yours.
After everything, I haven't seen you in fourteen nights.
My prince, my prince. Look at me.

As soon as I am prone, he drops his undergarments, leaving his loose shirt on and climbs to the mattress.

I watch his face as he studies me, eyes starting at my neck and flickering madly over the swell of my breasts. He looks nearly wild.

"Leave us now, Douglas."

Time stops.

"My Lord?" The steward asks from the dark corner. The request is unheard of. The prince is unmarried. Without Sir Douglas in the room, he will be left unprotected.

"Leave."

The heavy wooden door slides open, clangs closed. My world tips, tips, tips. Spills.

In the dark room, sunshine pours across my skin.

We are alone.

Warm palms slide up my thighs to my hips.

"All right?" he asks me and this time I know I haven't imagined it. His eyes have again skipped over my face. They are focused on my hands, clasped together over my head.

A thousand horses gallop beneath my ribs. We were friends once, but our roles are nothing like they were. We are not two children sitting together in the grass. He is a prince, raised to expect everyone to do what he asks. I am an ale girl, raised to do what I am told.

"I said, are you all right?"

"Good," I whisper. The sound of his voice like this — quiet, just for me — is so disorienting I feel faint. I can't draw a deep enough breath for how nervous I've grown.

We are alone. For the first time in years, we are alone.

His hand slides up further, from my hip to my breast and he bends, sucking.

I bite my lip, harshly.

"You were still pure when you came to me," he says against my skin. "You bled on my sheets. You bled on me."