The maid screamed. The sound was piercing. High. The sound of a woman whose anal has just been forcibly penetrated. Her body arched— her back lifting off the couch, her breasts pointing at the ceiling, her hands going to his chest, pushing.
He muffled her.
His hand went to the back of her head. He pushed. Her face went into the pillow. The cushion. The fabric. Her screams were muffled— "MMMMMPPHH—! MMMMMPPHH—!"— the sound trapped in the silk.
He fucked her.
His hips moved. His cock slid in and out of her anal. The sound was wet— not the wet of lubrication. The wet of tissue. Of friction. Of a body that is being used without preparation. SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK— The bed creaked. His balls slapped against her ass.
PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"MMMMMPPHH—!! MMMMMPPHH—!!" The maid’s muffled screams. Her body jerked with each thrust. Her hands went to the pillow— gripping, tearing, the silk coming loose. Her legs kicked. Her toes curled.
The Crown Prince fucked her.
And talked.
"So, brother," he said. His voice was steady. His hips were moving. The cock in the maid’s anal. The muffled screaming beneath him. "Violet eyes. A man. I see."
He thrust. Hard.
PAH—
"MMMMMPPHH—!!"
"Was his sword better than yours?" he asked. His voice was casual. The voice of a man who is making conversation while fucking. "The sword that took your shoulder. Was it a good sword? A magic sword?"
He thrust again.
PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"MMMMMPPHH—!! MMMMMPPHH—!!"
"Tell me, brother," the Crown Prince said. He leaned. His hand went to the maid’s head. He pressed. Her face went deeper into the pillow. "Was it the same man who took my cock head?"
His hips slammed. Faster. Harder.
PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"MMMMM—!! MMM—!! MMMMM—!!"
The maid’s body was failing. Her struggles were weakening. Her hands were loosening. Her legs were going still. The oxygen— the lack of it, the pillow pressed against her face, the nose buried in silk— was taking its toll.
"Was it the same man?" the Crown Prince repeated. His voice was sharper. The pleasure was building. His hips were moving faster. "The one who took your shoulder? And my cock? Was it the same violet-eyed bastard?"
Goliath’s muffled voice came through his gag.
"Violet... eyes... a man... he... erased... my shoulder... he just... looked... and it was... gone..."
The Crown Prince’s jaw clenched.
He slammed.
PAH—
His hips drove forward. His cock buried itself in the maid’s anal. His body convulsed. His face twisted— the grimace of orgasm. He came. A thick, heavy load. The seed pulsed— into her anal, filling her, overflowing. The white fluid ran out— around the shaft, down her ass, onto the couch.
He held.
His cock in her ass. His hand on her head. His body rigid. His eyes closed. The orgasm washed through him— the dull, muffled pleasure of a cock without a head. Enough to come. Not enough to enjoy.
He pulled out.
The maid lay there.
On the couch. Her face in the pillow. Her body trembling. Her ass was leaking— the seed, the white fluid, running from her anal. Her body was twitching— small, involuntary spasms, the muscles in her thighs and her back and her arms contracting and releasing.
The Crown Prince looked at her.
He chuckled.
"You did not die," he said. His voice was amused. Surprised. "Come on. Aren’t you pretty strong?"
He slapped her arm.
PAH—
The sound was flat. The flesh rippled. She did not respond. Her body continued to twitch. Her breathing— shallow, ragged, the breath coming in small gasps— was the only sign that she was alive.
The Crown Prince stood.
He pulled up his trousers. He buckled his belt. He adjusted his cloak. He looked at the maid. At the body. At the torn dress. At the leaking anal. At the twitching.
"Send the maid to me tonight," he said. His voice was casual. The voice of a man who is scheduling an appointment. "Let me see if she can hold her breath for one or two hours."
He laughed.
The sound was cold. Flat. The laugh of a man who does not find things funny but who laughs because it is what he does.
He turned.
He walked toward the door.
His body was flung back.
The impact was invisible. Not a fist. Not a weapon. Not magic— not visible magic. Something hit him. In the chest. Hard. The force was— it was like being struck by a horse. By a charging knight. By a wall of force that picked him up and threw him.
He flew.
His body left the ground. His feet left the floor. His back arched. His arms went out— instinctively, the hands grasping at air. His white cloak billowed. His sword hit the floor— the hilt slipping from his belt, the blade clattering on the stone.
He hit the wall.
CRACK—
The sound was loud. The stone cracked. The plaster— white, painted— shattered. A spiderweb of fractures radiated from the point of impact. His body hit the stone. His back absorbed the blow. His head snapped— backward, forward, the whiplash snapping his chin to his chest.
He fell.
To the floor. On his ass. His back against the cracked wall. His cloak was torn. His shirt was rumpled. His face was— stunned. The cold was gone. The amusement was gone. The flat, dead eyes were wide. Open. Seeing.
He saw.
In slow motion. The world had slowed. The perception of a man whose brain has been struck and whose senses have been heightened by adrenaline. He saw— the room. The bed. The knights. The maid. The couch. His brother. And—
The face.
The face of the woman.
Standing in the doorway. Where he had been. Where he had been thrown from. She was there. In the frame of the door. The light behind her. Her figure— tall, muscled, the body of a fighter. Her hair— red. Bright. The color of blood. The color of fire. Her eyes— green. Bright. The color of emeralds. The color of a princess.
She was holding a sword.
The blade was long. Steel. The edge gleamed. The hilt was wrapped in leather. The pommel was jeweled. The sword of a knight. The sword of a warrior. The sword of a woman who had used it before.
His jaw clenched.
The recognition was instant. Complete. Total. Not the slow, gradual recognition of a forgotten face. The immediate, electric, full-body recognition of a face that has been burned into memory. A face that has been dreamed about. A face that has been cursed. A face that has been the object of a decade of hatred.
"You bitch...!!" he hissed. The words came through his teeth. Through the clenched jaw. Through the hatred. "YOU—!"
The knights moved.
Instinctively. The two guards— the ones who had been holding Goliath— released the prince. They drew their swords. The steel rang. They turned. They faced the woman. They charged.
"KILL HER!" the Crown Prince screamed. His voice was raw. The voice of a man who has been thrown and who is furious. "KILL HER! NOW!"
While looking at her, his memory instantly surfaced, and the sheer rage welled up inside him.
’I will kill you, VESS!!!’