“I do not need your reminder, but I will remind you that his failures are also yours. Go!”
Hurried footsteps exited the room.
The twisted smile curving her lips signaled punishment. He had earned it this time. He shouldn’t have disobeyed. He should never disobey. He lived to serve his Mistress.
His Queen.
There was another Queen…
He blinked away the rebellious whisper as the binds around his wrists and ankles loosened. The unexpected freedom was confusing. Only when Mistress ordered him to make room for her did he move. She lay on the bed and opened her legs, her dress easily splitting at her hips.
At a small crook of her finger, the courtesan knelt between her legs. Familiarity washed over him. This wasn’t punishment, but he didn’t dare disobey again.
She beckoned. He worshiped her body, lighting every inch of her skin afire in minutes. Her cries of pleasure made him work even harder, desperate to satisfy her. Her claws digging into his scalp, and the angle he was forced to bend sent pain along his nerves. Pain was irrelevant next to her pleasure. He lived to please her. To induce the tension in her thighs, the rocking of her hips, the shameless moans from her lips. He glanced up, and her eyes flashed green.
But no, Mistress’ eyes were closed.
They snapped open, amber heated to dark brown. She pushed him off.
Hesitating, he dared to ask, "Have I displeased you, Mistress?"
Her gaze sharpened. "Yes, toy, you have."
He lowered his head. "Please tell me how I may serve, Mistress."
She was silent for a while.
"On the floor. On your knees."
Her whip sliced his back. He winced. She hadn't bothered to remove his bandages. But the whip didn't feel bladed. His wounds opened nonetheless, in sharp stings and dripping wet.
"Thank you, Mistress," he gasped. Pain was good. Pain shut down his mind.
"Silence."
The whip struck again and again. He bit his tongue to keep himself quiet, tasting blood. Strange that he expected blood to taste like roses.
Chapter 16
Anais
Impatience buzzed in her limbs. They were traveling too slowly. Sleep was a waste of time, but her recovering body needed the rest. Castien had a week’s head start. They would never make up the time if she fell from her horse – nor if they slowed their pace to match her endurance.
Duchess Isabel didn’t help matters. The lady made no effort to escape, but by the third night, she complained about her chafing thighs, the heat of the midday sun, and asked to stop at an inn for a bath. If Isabel had traveled by carriage, she must have received an invitation long before Anais made her announcement to the council. Her great-aunt’s plans had been in motion even then. Plans that had nothing to do with a Consort Tournament. Was Anais chasing the wrong target?
No. Her target wasn’t her enemy.
Anais curled her fingers around a small wooden sheath as hoofbeats approached from behind. Once again, the duchess’ servant requested a moment with the Queen. Jerome let her pass.
Zara’s horse pulled up, and the woman murmured, “My lady would like to ask if we may take a brief moment at the inn in the next town. She hopes to have her dress mended and wishes her underclothes cleaned.”
Actually, what Isabel had screeched was that she needed to sleep in a goddess-cursed bed, and if it didn’t happen, Zarawould be dismissed the minute they returned. It wasn't as though the entire party couldn't hear her.
The Commander would have been far better company.
“We would all like Isabel to take a bath,” Anais said loudly, “But we do not ride at her pleasure. A few bumpy stitches won't kill her.”
Dark, stormy eyes flashed as the maid mumbled under her breath. “Yes, highness.”
