CHAPTER 10 #2
"I'm so hard right now," he whines against my chest, one hand fumbling with his pants while the other squeezes my breast roughly, possessively. "You've made me so hard, being such a brat. Bad girls make me so hard. Mother always said I needed a woman who'd—"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't ask. He never asks.
His hands are already shoving my skirts up, bunching the fabric around my waist. He tries to kiss me again, and this time I can't turn away fast enough.
His mouth crashes against mine, all tongue and teeth and saliva, and I can taste his desperation, his entitlement.
It's like being licked by a dog. A dog that doesn't understand how mouths work and was raised by someone who told him he deserved everything.
"I'm going to need you to shut up." I spit out as he grinds himself against me. "This had better be more fulfilling than usual," I manage to say when he pulls back for air, gasping.
"I'm going to rock your world, princess," he pants, fumbling between my legs with all the grace of a drunk man searching for a keyhole in the dark. "You'll see. You'll see, and then you'll be nice to me. You'll let me... you'll be soft like Mother said you should be..."
I roll my eyes. Rock my world. Sure.
He's jabbing at me now, his cock poking my thigh, my hip, everywhere except where it needs to go. I'm not wet. I'm never wet for him, which doesn't help. He grunts with frustration, using one hand to try to guide himself while the other holds my hip in a bruising grip.
"Just—hold still—"
Finally, finally, he finds the right spot. He pushes in, dry, painful, wrong, and I'm about to tell him to at least try to make this bearable when he makes a strangled sound.
He comes. Immediately. Before he's even fully inside.
I stare at the wall over his shoulder as he shudders against me, his pathetic little thrusts already finished. Three seconds. Maybe four.
"Fuck," he mutters, pulling out. "Your pussy is so tight and soft. And you... You're too tight, also. That's your problem. You need to relax. Mother says you should be grateful for whatever I give you."
I'm the problem. Of course. And if I have to hear about his mother one more time...
He's already tucking himself back into his pants, not looking at me.
"If the physician says you're barren, I'm sending you back and keeping the money and the trade deals.
Getting one of your cousins instead. You're probably defective.
Maybe all those years fucking a dragon messed with your.
.. whatever it's called that makes the baby.
" He pauses, a cruel smile crossing his face.
"Hopefully that brunette one. The one with the big tits.
She looks like she'd be more... accommodating. " He's walking towards the door now.
"Oh God. I've imagined sucking on her tits for ages! Bet they taste like honeyed milk. What do you think? Honeyed milk? Or maybe melon with sugar? Mmmm! Mother says a good wife produces sweet milk. That I'm allowed to have as much as I want."
The burning in my throat is an inferno now. I imagine it pouring out, consuming him and his mother, turning them both to ash.
Nothing happens.
"The physician will be here in an hour." He's already opening the door, dismissing me. "Get undressed and lie on the bed. Be ready for him."
He leaves.
I stand there, my dress still bunched around my waist, his seed already leaking down my thigh. Be ready for him. Like I'm a piece of meat to be inspected. To be examined and prodded and declared fit or unfit for breeding.
The door closes. I'm alone. And the burning, the burning, the burning won't stop.
The scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. A sound of pure, incandescent rage. And with it comes fire.
Actual fire.
Flames pour from my mouth in a torrent of gold and crimson, shooting across the room like dragon's breath.
They lick at the ceiling, scorch the wallpaper, leave black marks on the ornate molding.
The heat is glorious. The power is intoxicating.
For three seconds, maybe four, I am not a princess or a wife or a womb. I am fury incarnate.
Then it stops.
I stand there, panting, staring at the scorch marks on my bedroom wall. My heart hammers against my ribs. My throat feels raw but not burned. Just that same constant burning that's been there for weeks, maybe a little more intense now.
"Yes," I whisper to the empty room. "Yes, yes, yes."
I did it. I actually did it. The flame I thought I imagined weeks ago was real. This is real. Whatever is happening to me, whatever I'm becoming... it's real.
I try again immediately. I think of Benedict's face, his whining voice, the way he called me defective. I think of being returned like a broken toy. I summon every ounce of rage and humiliation and—
Nothing.
I try again. And again. I scream, I rage, I imagine burning this entire castle to the ground with everyone in it.
Nothing. Not even a spark.
"Come on," I hiss through clenched teeth. "Come on."
But whatever door opened for those few precious seconds has slammed shut again. The burning remains, constant and maddening, but the flames won't come.
I want to scream again, but I'm afraid of wasting whatever this is. Afraid that if I scream without the fire, I'll somehow use it up, lose it forever.
I've been thinking about killing Prince Benedict for weeks now. The thought has been a small, dark seed in my mind, growing roots, spreading branches.
Maybe I need to act sooner than I thought.
The knife work I've been practicing in secret, the footwork, the grip, the way to slide a blade between ribs, it's not just an idle hobby anymore. It's preparation. And I'm fairly confident now. Not perfect, but confident enough. I've watched the knights for months.
But how? When? Benedict never lets his guard down around me, never shows me his back for more than a moment. And there are always servants nearby, guards in the halls. I'd need to be smart about it. Careful. One chance is all I'd get.
I don't have time to figure it out right now.
I look down at myself, dress still bunched, his seed still wet on my thighs. The physician will be here in an hour. I need to clean up. Need to be "ready" like a good little breeding mare.
I wash myself roughly, scrubbing away every trace of Benedict. The water in the basin turns cloudy. I wash again. And again. Until my skin is golden pink and raw and I finally feel somewhat clean.
I don't get dressed. That's what he ordered, after all. To be naked and waiting.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I comply. Not for Benedict, but because I'm curious about this physician. Curious what he'll find. Curious if he'll see something that explains the burning, the healing, the fire.
I climb onto the bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Then I wait.
An hour passes with agonizing slowness. I count the minutes by the clock on the mantle. Watch the hands crawl forward like they're moving through honey.
Finally, a knock.
"Enter," I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.
The door opens, and the royal physician steps inside.
He's not what I expected. Handsome in a refined way. Mid-thirties, maybe, with blonde hair swept back from his face and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His build is strong, solid, like he does more than just examine patients all day. There's something competent about him. Professional.
His eyes sweep the room, land on me in the bed, and his jaw tightens.
"He told you to wait like this?" His voice is clipped, annoyed.
I nod.
"Of course he did." He mutters something under his breath that sounds like "entitled prick" and moves to the bed.
"May I?" He asks as he touches the sheet covering my body.
I nod again. He pulls the sheet up higher, repositioning it so only my lower half is exposed.
The rest of me is covered, given some semblance of modesty.
The gesture is so unexpected, so kind, that I almost cry.
"I'm Dr. Stefan" he says, pulling on examination gloves. "I apologize for the circumstances. This won't take long."
He's professional throughout the examination. Clinical. His touch is impersonal but not rough. He doesn't make it more uncomfortable than it needs to be.
But then he makes a sound. A small, confused "hmm" that makes my stomach drop.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"Just... taking notes," he says, but his voice has changed. There's something uncertain in it now.
He makes another sound. Then another. Each one more puzzled than the last.
Finally, he removes his gloves and turns his back to me. "You can get dressed now. I'll speak with you once you're decent."
I scramble out of bed and grab my robe, pulling it on quickly. My hands are shaking. Something is wrong. He saw something wrong.
"I'm dressed," I say.
He turns around, and his expression is carefully neutral. Too neutral.
"You're very healthy," he begins, and I can hear the 'but' coming. "Your body shows no signs of illness or injury. Everything appears to be functioning as it should."
"But?"
He hesitates. "But... there are some... abnormalities. Things I've never seen in other women your age. Or any age, for that matter."
My heart is pounding now. "What kind of... abnormalities?"
"I'd like to take a blood sample, if you'll permit it. To run some tests. I want to be certain before I say anything definitive."
I nod. "Yes. Please."
He retrieves a needle and a vial from his bag. His hands are steady as he ties off my arm, finds the vein, and draws my blood. The needle pinches, and I watch my blood fill the vial. It looks dark red and normal.
"How long have you been married to the prince?" he asks as he works.
"Three months."
"And before that? You were... asleep?"
"For a hundred years. Yes."
He nods slowly, like this confirms something. "And you feel well? No pain, no unusual symptoms?"
I think about the burning. The healing. The fire. "I feel fine."
It's not exactly a lie.
He finishes drawing the blood and bandages my arm. "I'll have results in a few days. I'll come find you as soon as I know anything."
"Thank you, Dr. Stefan."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me. "For what it's worth, Princess Adelaide, I think you deserve better than this."
Then he's gone.
I sit on the bed, staring at the bandage on my arm. That was odd. All of it. But then again, everything has been odd since I woke up in this world that isn't mine, married to a man I despise, trapped in a castle that feels more like a prison than my dragon's lair ever did.
Three days pass. Three days of Benedict's nightly visits, of pretending to be the dutiful wife, of practicing my knife work in secret and planning murder in my mind.
Then, on the fourth morning, I'm walking in the garden when Dr. Stefan appears.
He's moving quickly, urgently, and his face is pale.
"Princess Adelaide," he says, slightly out of breath. "I need to speak with you. Privately."
I glance around. We're alone except for a gardener on the far side of the grounds, too far away to hear.
"What is it?"
"I haven't told anyone yet," he says quickly. "Not the prince, not anyone. But I found something in your blood. Something... unsettling."
My mouth goes dry. "What?"
He takes off his glasses and cleans them nervously. "I've run the tests five times. Consulted every medical text I have access to. And I believe—" He pauses, meets my eyes. "This is going to sound absolutely crazy, but given the circumstances, perhaps not. I... I believe you're immortal."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"Immortal," I repeat.
"Your cells don't age the way they should. They regenerate at an impossible rate. Your blood contains properties I've never seen before. If I'm right, and I'm fairly certain I am, you won't age. You won't die. Not from natural causes, anyway."
The burning in my throat intensifies. The healing. The fire. It all makes a horrible kind of sense. Not for the first time, I wish my dragon was here to talk to about these things.
"There's more," Dr. Stefan continues. "If you're immortal, if your body is fundamentally different from normal humans... you likely cannot conceive children. Not with the prince anyway. Not with anyone fully human."
The relief that floods through me is so intense I almost laugh. No children. No heirs. No being bred until my body breaks.
But then the reality sets in.
"The prince," I say slowly. "He'll—"
"He'll figure it out eventually," Dr. Stefan confirms. "When month after month passes and you don't conceive. And when he does..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
Benedict's words echo in my mind: If you're defective, I'll return you.
"I will not tell him," Dr. Stefan says firmly. "I don't like the prince. I don't like how he treats you or other women, quite frankly. But you need to figure out what to do with this information. Because when he realizes you can't give him an heir..."
He trails off, but I understand. Benedict won't just return me. He'll dispose of me. One way or another.
"Thank you," I manage to say. "For telling me. For not telling him."
Dr. Stefan nods. "Be careful, Princess."
Then he's gone, walking quickly back toward the castle.
I stand in the garden, surrounded by roses and morning light, and make my decision.
I'm going to kill Prince Benedict.
Not eventually. Not someday.
Soon.
Very soon.
Before he figures out what I am. Before he can dispose of me first.
The burning in my throat pulses in agreement, and somewhere deep inside, I swear I feel my dragon's presence. Approving. Waiting.
I head back to my chambers to retrieve my knives.
It's time to plan a murder.