Ransom

“Where’s the knife, princess?”

“What knife?”

“The knife you killed two guards with.”

“Oh, I don’t have any knives I’ve only killed two guards with,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a knife for more than a few minutes that I’d only killed two guards with.”

She smiles like an angel as the words leave her mouth, dark words well suited to a warrior and not at all suited to a damsel who should be in distress.

“Where is the knife?” I repeat the question sternly.

“Why don’t you find it?”

She has no fear of me. That is what is beginning to grate, more than her escape, more than her murders, more than the desecration of the fallen, any and all of which would, on their own, be reason for terrible consequences. It is her lack of respect that ignites my ire.

Everybody fears me. There are creatures over a light-year away who would tremble if they so much as heard my name. This little scrap of a woman is defying me. She needs to learn a lesson. Preferably, a painful, humiliating lesson she will never forget.

The way she looks at me is a challenge on every level. I am convinced that this little scrap of female human has been allowed to believe she is untouchable. Perhaps that was true while she was the sole heir to a kingdom of riches. It is no longer true now. She is very touchable. Eminently touchable. I am determined to claim every part of her, to show her that this arrogance of hers is so wildly misplaced, she has never considered that there will be consequences of a kind she will not be able to tolerate.

She's a horrific little monster. She is also a brat. I know how to deal with the latter very well. Plucking the princess up, I take the seat she had occupied and put her over my lap. Usually, I’d lift her skirts and spank her soundly, but this time I take a different approach. I pat her down before attempting to strip the layers of regal clothing from her squirming body. I know she has a blade somewhere on her person, and I know she knows how to end my kind.

I rarely pay any attention to women’s clothing. I realize very quickly that I should have. The flouncy garment covers for a multitude of opportunities for sin. I quickly discover that it is not all one piece of clothing so much as it is a series of complex layers of flowing fabrics all sutured together to create a feminine silhouette. I find myself lost amid what seems to be a nearly endless amount of fabric that obscures her and the world at large.

Emerging from her undercarriage, I find myself with two sharp knitting needles in hand. The ends of them are wickedly sharp, possibly sharp enough to pierce common armor. I drop them and they clatter to the ground. I nudge them away from her grasping hands with my boot. She’s fast, but I’m faster.

“So this is where you hide your weapons.”

She laughs, greatly amused.

“I see,” I say, my mood improving as the mystery of how she performed her wickedness melts like morning mist into the obvious. “I am going to have to strip you of everything.”

She giggles in response, apparently enjoying our interaction greatly. Before stripping her of her clothing, I make the decision to tie her hands behind her back. There’s every chance that there’s something yet to come out of her dress arsenal that will be lethal if she puts a finger on it.

Pulling her wrists back, it occurs to me there could be something lethal regardless of whether or not she puts a finger on it. She’s a deviant little wretch more than capable of turning herself into a walking death trap. The kitchen is not the place for this exploration. We need somewhere far more secure.

I tear strips off a nearby dish towel and use the strips to secure her hands. As I do, I feel a growing sense of danger. This little human appeared to be absolutely innocent in every way, and far too weak to do any real damage, but both of those impressions were wrong. When handling her, I must be careful. I must use my head, never my heart or my gut, for they are obviously easily misled.

She is humming a little tune as I tie her up, apparently used to being put into bondage. I wonder how many times she has been shackled that she should find this so unconcerning. I’d think it was a show to try to make me think I’m not scaring her, but there is no tension in her body at all. She’s not playing at being unafraid. She is unafraid.

“Come on,” I say, picking her up and tossing her bound form over my shoulder. “Let’s see what you have tucked away.”