Possessing the Princess

To say I was devastated by Aris’s decision was an understatement even though I’d expected it.

If I’d never seen him in the first place . . .

If I’d never ventured to The Lykos . . .

If my uncle hadn’t sent a squad of killers or kidnappers after me . . .

If Aris hadn’t danced with me, taken me, marked me with such rapturous pleasure . . .

Well, I wouldn’t let him beat me, and I’d certainly stop this incessant pining for a criminal who’d abducted me, used me as his own personal sex slave, then leveraged me to get what he wanted, which hadn’t been me in the end.

I’d do my duties. I’d live my life. I’d submit to the marriage because I had no choice. At least within Hamzah’s household, I might be able to forge out some new solitary happiness. Death was the only other option.

I’d only have to pretend to enjoy having sex with that odious monster, a man who definitely bore no resemblance to the sexy blue-eyed devil himself. But then, enjoyment never seemed to be a requirement for a wife, not here in this world.

I wouldn’t even have to fake arousal. I could just lay there—smothered by the huffing and puffing fatty—stiff as a corpse and dry as the desert and it would make no difference.

Hope sprang eternal, they did say. Then why did it taste so bitter?

Oh, yes. Because my life was essentially over.

Drained to the marrow of my bones, I trudged into my bathroom. I looked into the ornate mirror and decided I’d aged two decades during the past few hours. I flipped on the taps for the bathtub, my reflection growing more and more cloudy, sort of disintegrating my features just as I would disappear into myself in order to simply survive.

Heat came from someplace other than the rapidly filling bath though.

Those gold bracelets snugged against my flesh.

Father had not mentioned them but perhaps he hadn’t noticed. He’d been too intent on striking the final nail in my coffin.

I thought I’d played well at my act with Aris while he drove me to the palace. I’d given him nothing but silence until that thick tension had boiled into hot ire.

I’d scorned him. Scathed him. Hurt him the only way I could. With my words.

He still had my dagger. The red dress.

Those ruby beads he’d fucked me with.

And me?

I had these cuffs.

I knew what they stood for. Aris Volkov’s sign of possession, but I wasn’t sure why that had mattered so much seeing as he’d given me away for the price of an oil contract.

“Because I want some part of me on you at all times, that’s why.”

There had been a break in his aloof pretense—a bleak look in his blue, blue eyes—when I’d sworn I’d have these locked cuffs hacked off me as soon as I could.

Removing my clothes, I dipped into the bath.

I had his bangles. And I had the memories. The heat, the feel, the sensation of him filling me, and I locked that away inside of me too.

* * *

Three days passed.

My meals were delivered. My contact with anyone in the palace, not to mention the outside world, completely cut off.

On the fourth endless day, a flurry of activity changed everything as preparations began for my rushed wedding to that foul creature.

The change in the monotonous routine did not cheer me in the least.

Attendants were allowed to come and go to my suite, yet I continued to have all the freedom of a caged bird.

Decorative to look at but wings forever clipped.

Father had taken cruel joy in announcing the deal had been struck with Hamzah. “He was most amenable to the situation. I had wondered if I’d ever get you off my hands at all. Perhaps I should have taken a leaf from his book. Beating you for your defiance might have made you turn out differently.”

I tuned him out, watching out my window as a large tent was erected in the courtyard. Presumably for the nuptial festivities.

I’d had no doubt the fat slovenly bastard would consent to marry me.

“Due to circumstances”—Father frowned—“I’ve had to put up much more for your dowry than any of your sisters before you.”

“Pity,” I said dryly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know where the honeymoon will be?”

Not really.One prison looked much like the rest. These penitentiaries just happened to be made of marble and mosaics and myriad fountains. Looked upscale and impressive to those on the outside.

To us women, the palaces and mansions and homes were no more than highly guarded garrisons from which there was no escape.