Summary:
A young woman awakens in the early light after a difficult night and tends to her bruised body in the bath. She meets the King and his consort at breakfast, where she must follow strict rules of silence and obedience. The King questions her worth and presses Mason to prove the strength of their bond. The conversation leaves her with little hope for kindness or escape.
Here is your Story: I Let Him Pull the Plug Out Before Breakfast
I toss and turn. The plug shifts inside me, solid and unyielding. My ass burns every time it rubs against the sheets. I press my face into the pillow and let the tears fall without a sound. My knees ache from hitting the stone floor earlier. My arms and shoulders still throb from the tight ropes that held them for hours.
Eventually I crawl out of bed in the early morning light. Every step wakes fresh stiffness and I whimper under my breath. I glance back at him. He sleeps on, dead to the world. I breathe out, grateful I made it off the mattress without waking him.
I have no rights here. No power. No clear way out. My father has no idea where I am or what has happened since we crossed the border. Even if he guessed it was Prince Mason, he has done nothing to reach me. All the secrets kept from me back home mean I cannot trust the old stories about this kingdom either. Fresh tears sting my eyes. Fear and hopelessness pull at me.
He has never mentioned unrest or invasions. I doubt my father would risk another war. The old fights lasted for generations and neither side ever truly won. The truce between our peoples is long gone. No one alive remembers anything but hate and fear for the other side.
I pad into the bathroom. Morning light slants through the small leaded window and falls across the tiles. The new day almost feels steady. I start filling the tub and add salts and herbs from the shelves. While the water rises I wrap my arms around myself and look out the window.
Gardeners already work in the kitchen garden below, pulling vegetables and turning fresh soil. The sight tugs at me. I used to watch the same work at home during my morning walks. I sigh and hope I will find some kind of peace here one day. My life cannot stay this cruel and uncertain forever.
I turn back to the tub and trail my fingers through the water. The plug shifts again and I gasp. The urge to relieve myself is strong, but I have no idea how to get the thing out. I use the toilet as best I can without sitting all the way down. My sore bottom keeps me hovering. Then I climb into the steaming water.
The herbs sting at first, then ease the aches in my limbs. I wash my body and hair, check every bruise, and climb out. After I towel off I rub healing ointment and lotion over my skin.
All at once I whip around. He stands in the doorway, half-dressed in loose pants, eyes sharp like he thought I had run. He pauses when he sees me. My magic flares out on its own, reaching for his swirling aura. Anxiety spikes through me and I go still. He is angry. I drop my gaze.
His bare chest and the obvious morning hardness do nothing to soften the look on his face. His tail flicks. The fine hair on his arms stands on end. My eyes travel down to his feet and I clutch the towel tighter to my breasts. The fear of being so exposed here rises again. I do not know whether to greet him or apologize.
A small flare of anger at how he treated me pushes back against the urge to submit.
He takes in the tub, the ointment, and my lowered eyes. His magic settles. Mine follows, fluttering around me and calming my nerves, though my heart still races. “Bend over,” he says. I blush but decide now is not the time to argue. I place my hands on the edge of the tub. He steps behind me, taps the plug, then grips it and twists.
My knees weaken. He pulls it out slowly. My ass flexes around the absence and I gasp. “Relieve yourself, then come back to the bedroom,” he says. He turns and leaves. I realize I have been holding my breath the whole time.
Obeying His Commands
I do as he asked, add more ointment to my sore ass, and take another steadying breath before I walk into the bedroom wrapped in the towel. I frown at myself. Since when do I accept every order without question? I used to speak up. I used to ask too many questions. My magic pulses in answer, worried. The strange way it reacts to him still confuses me. It demands things and gives nothing back.
I step into the room ready to demand answers. He gestures for me to follow him to another door. Servants bustle in behind us, opening curtains and gathering our discarded clothes. I clutch the towel closer. The moment to speak is gone. The servants look surprised to see my wet hair and the used tub. Mason ignores them and walks into the large closet. He starts pulling out clothes and hands some to me. “We are having breakfast with the King and his consort.”
I freeze, the fabric cold in my hands. It is only underwear, a slip, stockings, and delicate panties. I look up at him, ready to protest, when a maid enters with a pale blue dress. I let out a quiet breath of relief. He moves away to dress himself in finer clothes than he wore on the road. The fabric fits his broad chest and long legs perfectly. I swallow and force my eyes away. He punished me last night. I grit my teeth and focus on the maids as they layer the dress over me.
They dust powder over the bruises on my neck and arms without comment. Heat rises in my face. I keep quiet while they twist my hair into neat braids. When they finish I glance in the mirror and feel a small measure of calm. I look like myself again. The dungeons and the long ride feel further away.
He steps close behind me. “Do not speak to the King or in his presence without permission,” he says. I nod. Fear threads through me again. “And when you do speak, remember your manners. He can take your head for no reason at all.” His fingers brush my throat, light enough not to disturb the powder. My head tilts back against his shoulder. I tremble with fear, anger, and something hotter I do not want to name.
We stand like that for a moment, eyes meeting in the glass. Then he releases me and walks to the door. I gather my skirts and follow.
Meeting the Royal Family
The breakfast room opens onto the formal gardens. Light spills across soft colors and carved trim. A small table with four chairs holds fruit, eggs, toast, and preserves. My stomach tightens with hunger, but I wait.
The King sits with his consort, his back to us. He plays with a curl of her hair and leans in to kiss her before feeding her a berry. Mason steers me around so I stand in front of them. I drop into a deep curtsy and keep my eyes down. “You may greet His Majesty,” Mason says. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” I answer. “Rise, Princess,” the King replies. I stand, still looking at the floor.
“Sit. The gardeners have given us a good crop this year.” I smile and nod, then let Mason pull out my chair. I sit beside the consort and spread a napkin across my lap. A butler pours tea. I give him a small nod of thanks. I wait until Mason begins eating and the King starts talking about the weather and recent hunts before I take anything for myself.
I stay quiet, like the consort, and spread strawberry jam on toast. The King’s magic presses down on the room. It fills every corner. My skin prickles as I try to keep my own power from brushing against it.
I steal quick glances across the table. The consort keeps her gaze lowered. She only speaks when spoken to. His hand rests on the back of her neck or slides along her thigh. When he reaches for berries she stops eating to feed him. She bends to retrieve his napkin the moment it slips. Faint claw marks show on her shoulder. A bruise circles one wrist. I wonder if this is what will be expected of me.
Mason cracks an egg and peels it with steady fingers. He butters toast and eats without hurry. His calm around his father makes my stomach twist tighter. Does that mean he is the same? I fidget. His hand settles on my thigh, firm and stilling. I force myself to stop moving and try to draw some comfort from the touch, even though it has often been cruel.
The talk turns to the wards and the grain stores. After a while Mason cuts in. “Father, I would like to discuss the prophecy.” The King’s voice turns sharp. “That line is sacrilege. Their powers have weakened.” Mason tries to speak again, but the King raises a hand. He reaches for his consort, grips her neck, and lets his magic slide down inside her dress.
Her nipples tighten against the fabric. She parts her legs and moans. We watch as his power moves through her. Her own magic rises in answer. My body answers too, heat gathering low. She whimpers and her hands curl into fists. Then she lifts slightly off the chair, groaning. The King looks straight at me while he keeps working on her.
He smiles, slow and cold.
“We have not bonded with Wielders for generations. The old stories may be nothing. This princess, if she even deserves the title, is untested. Her magic feels weak.” I flush and look down. “You could choose any strong Shifter,” the King continues. “You would keep our line pure. This match is too great a risk.” He releases his consort as if bored. She stays panting and glassy-eyed. “Show me,” he says simply.
My eyes fly to Mason. He gives his father a small, knowing smile and does not look at me. “Come to my chambers this evening, Father. We will entertain you. Won’t we, my darling Emily.” I nod once, blood gone from my face, and keep my head down. Mason stands. I rise with him, curtsy again, and follow him out. Whatever hope I had for help or freedom from the King is gone.
