2. Angélique
2
Angélique
W hen Anne is finally done with me, my body hurts so much that my mind is turned off. I’m hungry, but I know I’ll have to wait.
I don’t eat at my father’s court, but my schedule is still very strict, and it’s perfectly built for me not to have any spare time.
I’m just a tool in my father’s plans.
Plans I don’t want to take part in but won’t have any choice about.
The water of the shower glides over my skin and rinses away the efforts I’ve made for the past five hours.
It’s the only moment I have spared in my oh so full schedule and even that is short. I’m expected at half-past eleven in the reception room of the écuries—the royal stable— by my tutor.
Because even if I was trained as a warrior, an assassin, and a spy, I’ve also been trained as a princess of some sort.
The thought I tried to chase out of my mind all morning comes back like a slap on the face.
I’m strong. I’m fast. I’m crafty.
And yet I’m my father’s sacrificial lamb.
That’s the only way I can say it, so it makes sense.
Upon seeing my wings on my first shift, my father yelled.
He yelled and then stopped talking completely and shut himself inside his office for two full days.
I know it for a fact because he made sure I was locked inside my room for the duration of his existential crisis.
At that time, my schedule wasn’t as busy as it is now. It wasn’t packed with continuous training. No, it only consisted of two hours of physical training in the morning and three long hours of lessons on politics.
After those two days of boredom and crying alone in my room, my father increased my physical training and drastically decreased my politics lessons.
Now I only have those on Sundays, right after my weekly haircut.
If one can call it a haircut.
I’m shaven close to the skull, and I’ve been like this since my father got out of his damn office eight years ago.
It’s the sign of my freedom—or lack thereof—and is meant to make my training easier.
Because one can’t get annoyed at a strand of hair in their eyes if there’s no hair at all.
Sometimes I catch myself dreaming of the long black locks I used to sport before all of this happened. I imagine how soft and shiny they were, but maybe it’s just my imagination and they were nothing like that.
I’ll never know.
Because I doubt whoever my father is marrying me off to will want that changed, or more exactly will dare to do something that would change my appearance.
If Micha?l gives you something, it’d better stay the way it is, no matter if it is a thing or a being.
No one wants to feel the wrath of my father.
He might be a dove-shifter, but he fully embraced his role a long time ago. He’s nothing but a warlord now and as easily as he can give, he can take back even faster.
So, whomever I am going to be the sacrificial lamb to might not keep me for long.
I’ll still have to go through my wedding night, though.
I shudder at the thought.
I know what to expect. In theory.
The thing is, when you have the kind of schedule that has been forced upon me, you don’t have much time to experience the joys of flesh sins.
Not that I’m sure I’d enjoy anything of the sort I’ve heard the ladies at the archangel court talk about.
It sounds more like breeding than pleasure.
Léandre told me it can actually be fun and hot, but I don’t think he’s ever done anything other than fuck his hand, so I’m not sure I should believe him.
He’s read books, though, not just the academic kind. About five years ago, he found a pile of romantic comedies at the back of a shelf and started to read.
For science.
I’ll never forget how red his face became when he finally found the courage to tell me what was inside the book. It matched the tips of his wings and drew my first smile in weeks.
He’s the only one who still makes me smile, and it doesn’t happen as often as he’d like, but we both know it’s just a matter of time before all my smiles are going to disappear.
I see how it pains him. I do. But I can’t find it in me to comfort him.
I’m the one who actually needs comfort.
But to me, comfort is a fifteen-minute-long shower.
One I plan to enjoy to the fullest, as I glide my hand between my breast and down to my pussy.
I may not know what to physically expect of my wedding night, but it doesn’t stop me from exploring myself.
I could have done like Léandre and read books, if I had had the time, or even watched pornography, if I was ever given any piece of technology this world was full of when my kind arrived.
But I got nothing of that, and these daily showers are my only time to explore and try to piece together what makes me feel good and what makes my frustration and pent-up energy go away.
And believe it or not, I still have energy left after all the workout I do every day.
My hand reaches my clit, and I slowly rub the tiny bundle of nerves that sets me on fire every time.
I’ve tried penetrative sex, or at least what I can do on my own, but it does nothing to me. Maybe I’m doing it wrong and that’s why I’m dreading my wedding night, but on my own, the only thing that works is my fingers relentlessly rubbing my clit in tiny circles as I fondle my breast with my other hand.
I know there’s a risk someone could come in—I’m not authorized a lock on any of my doors—but it doesn’t stop me from rubbing and rubbing. My breath fogs the shower stall as a soundless moan escapes my lips.
I’m getting so fucking close.
I pinch my nipple and increase the rhythm of my fingers against my clit, the wet sound of them rubbing against my pussy mixing with the fall of the water from the shower.
Then I imagine him.
Hair so blond it looks white, golden eyes, jaw like granite, and muscles stacked on muscles.
He’s not real.
My mind conjured him in my dreams one day, and ever since, it’s his face that comes to my mind each time my fingers bring me to my own little slice of heaven.
It’s all I need, seeing his face in my mind and imagining my fingers are his as I pinch my clit and stars burst behind my eyelids as another of my soundless moans rings in my head.
I open my eyes and look at my watch.
Shit, I’m going to be late.
The thought bursts through my bubble of bliss as I turn the tap off and grab for the towel I left right next to the stall.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Ari?l is not going to be happy.
I rush through drying myself, making it difficult to put my black leggings on, my black sports bra, and the matching black henley that seems to be like a uniform to me.
My closet is full of them. All in black.
Everything that has been given to me since that fateful day eight years ago has been black.
Matching my wings.
And, I’m starting to believe, matching my soul.
I’m nothing but anger, and I have no idea where it comes from.
But it isn’t a question for today.
Today, I need to run to my etiquette lesson-slash-lunch.
Being only lunch would be a waste of time, am I wrong?