Masked Prince (Fated Royals 2)

“Did you see anymore of them?” I asked.

She shook her head. Her eyes were wide and alarmed. Those fuckers—they’d terrified not only Iris but also this equally innocent young girl. If I’d had time, I’d have tortured the guards until they begged for mercy and then killed them. But as it was, I had to get Iris back to the castle and fast; the Queen would send more guards when the three I’d killed failed to return.

Cockroaches love to fill a void.

“There’s some men who are dead in there,” I told her, cocking my head toward the shed. “Ignore the soldiers; I’ll send someone to get their bodies later today. As for Iris’s father,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a gold coin, “arrange to have him buried. Whatever you think Iris would want. Do you think you can do that?”

Taking the coin from me, she nodded quickly.

“Yes, sir. Of course. I know where the gravedigger lives. Thank you.” She finally smiled a little, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked at me. “And thank you for coming to help. They’d have killed her. I know it.”

The very fucking thought made me feel like I was going to explode. But I stifled my rage and pretended to be busy with my horse’s throat latch.

“Get out of here, girl. Go straight to the gravedigger,” I told her. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and took off running for the towpath behind the barn.

Finally, Iris and I were alone. She was still out of it, but her breathing was steady and the injury to her head had stopped bleeding.

Using a bucket of fresh water, I took a minute to clean her up, savoring the opportunity to finally—fucking finally—run my hands over her body as I’d been fucking aching to do.

I cleaned her perfect skin, running my fingers over her scrapes and bruises. Those sons of bitches. They’d dirtied my most prized possession, and they were fucking lucky I didn’t feed their bodies to the hogs.

But all that was done. It was time to focus on her…and what I needed to do to her. I made sure she was as comfortable as possible, then I mounted my horse with her safe behind me and rode for the palace under a darkening sky.

A storm was coming. I could feel it.

Lightning lit my way through the dark passages into my private dungeon. It was deep beneath the Ruined Tower, and like the rest of that forgotten corner of Ironhaven Castle, it was all fucking mine, to use however the fuck I wanted, whenever the fuck I wanted.

All those years, all those nights, thinking about her body, her cunt, her being, all led up to now. To this. At long fucking last, I had her here where she was always meant to be.

She began to wake as I hoisted her over my shoulder to open the last of the locked and bolted doors. We were four stories down, far enough underground that nobody would ever see us or find us. No matter how hard she screamed when she came, no matter how hard she cried when I pounded her senseless, nobody could hear a fucking thing. It was my very own vault for my most prized possession.

I had my arm hooked over her ass so I couldn’t see her face, but I felt her twist slightly to try to figure out where she was. “Randal?” She said groggily.

“I’m here, baby,” I replied, with a firm grab of her ass. Her cunt was right fucking there, so fucking close, but I resisted the urge to slip my fingers inside her as I carried her. I’d waited long enough, I wasn’t about to balk at waiting a few minutes more until everything was how I’d imagined it. To rush this would be a fucking tragedy.

“Where… Where are we?” She asked.

“Somewhere safe,” I told her, slipping the key into the lock. I kicked open the door and carried her across the threshold and through the dungeon. I set her down on a wooden table fitted with black leather restraints on the far side of the room. “Somewhere I can keep you in my sights.”

The dungeon was decent sized, and I’d made sure it was just right. A thick oak post ran vertically down the center, and attached to that was a breeding pole, bolted to the floor with six-inch iron bolts. A sawhorse was fitted with a black leather saddle, with restrains for her arms, legs, and neck. On the walls were chains and irons for restraining her in any way I wanted—by the wrists, the ankles, the waist, the neck.

There were ropes, whips, switches. Bridles, bits, reins. A fuck stick, paddles, every kind of device for pinching her nipples and her pussy lips to hold them open while I ate my fill of her—before filling her cunt with my seed.