The Foreign Empress

Consummation

By the time Sun Jian leaves, the sky is a delicate shade of pink, the sun quietly disappearing over the horizon. A flowery breeze sweeps into the outer hall causing the silk coverings of dozens of gifts to gently rustle like an artificial forest. Despite the tranquility of the moment, I feel ill. I know precisely what's supposed to happen next.

As if my mind has been read, the Eighth Prince stands and effortlessly picks me up, carrying me to the bridal chamber. He carries me from the outer hall, through the inner courtyard to the inner hall before, with surprising gentleness, setting me down on a stool. The Eighth proceeds to sit down across from me. He gives me an expectant look. That's right! I'm supposed to pour him tea. My cheeks flush. Hand trembling slightly, I pour him a cup of tea from the pot Fatima brewed beforehand.

My pour is anything but graceful. My shaking causes my aim to go awry, splashing hot brew all around the cup in an unceremonious mess. Not trusting myself to not overflow the small cup, I stop pouring early leaving a cup only around three-quarters full. I sit back down as calmly as possible, intentionally avoiding eye contact, body heating up. In a fluent motion, the Eighth Prince seizes the teapot and pours. His motions are refined and perfect, the tea leaving the pot in a perfect arc. With godly precision, he stops his pour just as my cup reaches that perfect level of full that is appealing to the eye but not quite full to the brim. The Eighth Prince sits back down.

As we relish the delicate sweetness of the red date tea, neither of us notice the ever so faint afternotes of bitterness. My body heats up with no rhyme or reason and I find myself breathing heavily. Across the table, the Eighth Prince shows signs of discomfort as well, adjusting the collar of his robes. The heat builds, gradually becoming unbearable. The Eighth Prince abruptly stands and casts off his top. His milky white skin is covered in a plethora of horrendous gashes and scars. He should be dead. My eyes roam over his toned muscles, stopping over a massive X-shaped scar over his heart. He should definitely be dead.

As I ogle his half-naked body, my own body has begun moving on its own, and before I realize it a cold breeze brushes over my bare shoulders. I can feel the Eighth Prince's icy pupils bore into me hungrily. Yet, despite his obvious lust, his body stays absolutely still. A look of hesitation passes through his cerulean eyes and he turns his head down to the right.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel a pang of optimistic curiosity and perhaps the smallest sliver of sympathy. Maybe he doesn't want this either. I take a step forward, mind and body now in unison. He remains motionless. I take another step forward. I move another step. Another step. Step. I'm almost right up against him.

I run a finger down one of his scars. It's a gruesome wound, running from the right of his abdomen diagonally down to his hip, one that should rightfully have been a fatal one. I trace another scar, this one a stab wound just underneath his rib cage. Fatal. The Eighth Prince remains a statue. Unnaturally emboldened, I continue to trace his scars, teasingly now. Fatal. Fatal. Fatal. Fatal. Fatal. Soon, I have covered every single scar on his handsomely toned chest and delectably steely stomach except for one: the scar directly above his heart.

Subconsciously, I suck in a small, apprehensive breath. My fingers run over his unnaturally, considering how many wounds he bears, smooth skin. Just as I'm about to reach that final scar, my hand is caught in an iron vice. Pain courses through my arm as the Eighth Prince clamps down on my fingers. However, as soon as the pain arrives, it's gone, replaced by waves of pleasure. "Your Highness, you're hurting me." My mind is shocked by my voice. My words are thick with lust, creating a near-orgasmic pleading tone that would make most men lose all their inhibitions. The Eighth Prince is unaffected. Maybe he is no longer a man.

He immediately lets go of my hand. My embarrassment and fear of the Eighth Prince is crushed by a foreign lust as I wrap my hands around his waist and seductively pull him towards the bed. I can feel an unnatural heat growing between my thighs with every step I take closer to the bed. The heat grows and grows and grows and grows, becoming a raging fire that consumes the last semblances of my sanity.

"Please." The gasp that escapes my lips is desperate, no longer filled with lust but a desperate call for help as my blood boils. Our eyes meet, green to blue. A question from him. Are you sure?

"Please."