CHAPTER 11
THE PRINCESS
The month passes in a haze of preparation and rage.
I practice with my knives every moment I'm alone. The movements the knights drilled into the training yard dirt are now carved into my muscle memory. Thrust, parry, slash. The vulnerable spots on a human body. Throat. Kidneys. Femoral artery. Heart, if you can get past the ribs. I’ve even memorized all the books I could find on the human body and organ functions so I can be sure to hit the most important organs.
The fire comes sometimes. I've managed to summon it three times in the past month.
Once, when Benedict was particularly vile during one of his nightly visits, once when a servant looked at me with pity that made me want to claw her eyes out, and once alone in my chambers when the rage built so high I thought I might explode from it.
But I can't control it. Can't summon it at will. It comes when the fury peaks, when the burning in my throat and belly becomes unbearable, but I can't make it happen on command.
So I'll rely on steel. On the blades I've stolen and hidden. On the techniques I've memorized. On the element of surprise.
The plan forms in my mind like a beautiful, terrible flower blooming in poisoned soil.
I'll seduce him. Make him think I've finally submitted, finally accepted my role as his breeding mare. I'll tie him up, he'll love that, the pathetic little mama's boy. And then I'll kill him.
It's foolproof. It has to be. Because if it's not, I'm dead anyway. If I can even die.
The bond pulses in my chest, that golden thread that connects me to my dragon. It's been there all along, thrumming quietly beneath my ribs. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there.
He's alive.
He has to be alive because I would feel it if he died, wouldn't I? The bond would snap, would shatter, would leave me hollow.
But he hasn't come for me.
Three months. Three months of captivity, of nightly violations, of being treated like property. Three months of waiting for him to burst through the castle walls, to rain fire down on these people who stole me from him. Claw them to death and string them up by their intestines.
Three months of silence.
The rage that realization brings is different from the anger I feel toward Benedict. This is deeper. Colder. More personal.
Didn't he love me? Didn't those hundred years mean anything? All those nights he held me, read to me, made love to me with a reverence that made me feel like a goddess. Was it all a lie?
Or did he simply not care enough to come after me? Maybe I served my purpose to him, and now I’m useless to him? The thought makes something crack inside my chest, something that might have been my heart if I still had one.
Fine.
Fine.
I'll kill Benedict. I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me from leaving this castle. And then I'll hunt my dragon down and kill him too.
For abandoning me. For not fighting for me. For letting them take me and doing nothing. If he didn't love me enough to save me, then he doesn't deserve to live.
The burning in my throat intensifies at the thought, and I smile. It's not a nice smile. I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes look wild. Feral.
Good. Let them see what they've created.
Nightfall comes slowly, each hour dragging like years. I bathe. Put on the sheer nightgown Benedict likes. The one that leaves nothing to the imagination and showcases my breasts. Brush my golden hair until it shines. I look like the perfect princess. Docile. Beautiful. Breakable.
I am none of those things.
The rope is hidden in the folds of my robe. The knife, my sharpest, my favorite, is tucked into the waistband of my undergarments, cold against my skin.
I walk through the castle corridors like I'm floating. A servant passes me, and I smile at her. She looks startled. I never smile.
Benedict's chambers are in the east wing, far from mine. He likes his privacy. Likes being able to visit me and then retreat to his own space, untainted by my presence. Probably so he can jack off to thoughts of his mother in peace, like the weird man he is.
Tonight, that distance will work in my favor.
I knock softly on his door.
"Enter," he calls, sounding annoyed.
I push the door open and step inside. He's at his desk, reviewing a document. He doesn't look up immediately.
"I thought we could try something different tonight," I say softly.
That gets his attention. He turns, and his eyes widen when he sees what I'm wearing.
"Adelaide." My name sounds wrong in his mouth. "What—"
"I've been thinking about what you said," I interrupt, moving closer. The lie tastes like honey on my tongue. "About Mother. About what breasts are for."
His pupils dilate. "You have?"
"I read a book today," I continue, letting my robe slip off one shoulder. "About lactation. About how nipple stimulation can help induce it, even before pregnancy."
He's breathing faster now. "Really?"
"It got me thinking about you." I'm right in front of him now, close enough to smell his cologne. It’s too strong, too sweet. "About how much you want that. How much it would please you." I dip my head down and look at the floor to look more docile.
"Adelaide, I—" His voice cracks. I can see he’s already hard. Pathetic.
"I want to try," I whisper. "I want to give you what you need. Like a good wife."
He stands so quickly his chair falls backward. "Yes. Yes, absolutely, we should—"
"But I want to try something else too," I say, trailing my fingers down his chest, looking up at him through my lashes. I make my voice higher-pitched and childlike. "Something I read about. To intensify the pleasure. To help me get pregnant."
"Anything," he breathes. "What is it?"
I smile. "I want to tie you up."
His eyes go even wider. "Tie me—"
"The book said it heightens sensation. Makes everything more… intense. And if the pleasure is more intense for you, maybe..." I let the implication hang as I walk my fingers up his chest.
"Maybe it will help you conceive," he finishes, nodding eagerly. "Yes. Yes, that makes sense. Mother always said—"
"Let's not talk about your mother right now," I interrupt, guiding him toward the bed. "Let's focus on us." I smile coyly.
He's practically vibrating with excitement as he tears his clothes off and lies down on the bed. I pull the rope from my robe, and he watches with hungry eyes.
"You're sure about this?" he asks, but he's already positioning his arms above his head.
"Completely sure."
I tie his right wrist first, looping the rope around the bedpost. I make sure my breasts sway and touch his cheek. He moans.
The knot is secure. I've practiced this as well. As I move to his left wrist, I slip the knife from my undergarments and slide it under his pillow in one smooth motion. He’s so preoccupied with my breasts wrapped in sheer silk that he doesn’t notice.
"This is incredible," he murmurs as I tie his left wrist. "You're incredible. Mother would be so proud of you for finally—"
"Your ankles too," I say, moving to the foot of the bed.
He spreads his legs willingly, and I tie each ankle to its respective bedpost. He's completely vulnerable now. Completely at my mercy.
He has no idea.
"You look so beautiful like this," he says, his voice taking on that whiny, childish quality. "So perfect. Mother always said a woman's purpose is to nurture, to provide, and you're finally understanding that, aren't you? You're finally going to be my good wife."
I'm undressing now, letting the nightgown pool at my feet. His eyes devour me, and I feel nothing. No desire. No shame. Nothing but the cold, clear purpose burning in my veins.
"Tell me what you want," I say, climbing onto the bed.
"I want you to… to let me—" He's panting now. "Your breasts. I want to taste them. Want to suckle until you make milk for me. Mother said that's what they're for, that's their whole purpose—"
I straddle him, positioning myself over his pathetic erection. I lean forward, letting my breast brush against his mouth.
"Not yet," I whisper. "Don't come yet."
"You're such a tease," he whines. "Such a… little… brat. You know that's not how wives are supposed to behave. You're supposed to be grateful, supposed to submit—" He’s scrunching his brows together as he tries and fails repeatedly to get one of my nipples into his mouth.
And there it is.
The rage that's been building for four months, for a hundred years, for my entire existence, finally reaches its breaking point.
I sit up, the burning in my throat is an inferno.
I open my mouth to speak, and a flame shoots out. Large and hot and golden. I smile as I look down at him. His eyes are huge as he stares at me. He’s scared. Good.
"Submit?" My voice is quiet. Deadly. "You want me to… submit?"
"That's… that’s… that’s what wives do," he says, oblivious to the danger he’s in. "That's what Mother—"
"I am NOT your wife," I snarl. "I am not your property. I am not a prize you won or an object you own or a womb you can fill and forget."
His eyes widen. “Adelaide, what’s happening? You’re being emotional. This isn’t appropriate—”
“Appropriate?” I laugh, sharp and humorless.
“You stole my body in my sleep when you raped me and called it marriage. You bartered my future like livestock. You measured my worth in heirs and obedience and how quietly I could endure you. Yet you want to speak about what’s appropriate?
” I take a breath to regulate myself. I still have work to do, and if I spin out now, my plan won’t work.
"I am a person." My hand slides under the pillow, fingers closing around the knife handle. "I am a goddamn person who deserves respect. Who deserves actual love. Who deserves the right to choose."
"You're being hysterical—" He shakes his head, confused. “Adelaide, untie me—"