The Stolen Princess (Fated Royals 1)

Just as I considered my new fate, there was a noise from outside. A sharp sound then a yelp and Angelica turned to me as I rose to my feet, my fighting instinct impossible to quell as I stomped out the door more in the mood for a fight than I’d been in as long as I could remember.

Sara

I peeked through the window of the whitewashed cottage and my worst fears were confirmed.

He was in Angelica’s house—the prostitute’s house. She was serving him food and beer, touching his arm. Oh no, no, no. I felt the clutch of my heart in my chest with a burning in my eyes that made no sense.

I knew little about the ways of men and women together, but I had seen animals breed on the farm often enough to have the basic idea. There could only be one reason he was in the whore’s house: to relieve his animal instincts. I felt a mixture of disgust and jealousy, all tangled up together.

I knew I shouldn’t be spying on him, but I couldn’t help myself. I carefully placed my market basket at my feet, gently setting it down so as not to upset the unsold eggs I carried.

Not for one second did I take my eyes off of Bors. Once, when I was a child, there had been a lunar eclipse and I found I couldn’t look away. For hours I stayed awake, until my eyes stung, watching and waiting, studying every curve of the moon, memorizing the stars. I did the same now as I looked at Bors.

He sat in the chair with his long legs spread wide, like he was too big and burly for ordinary furnishings. His scarred arms were immense, rippling and straining against the fabric of his shirt; the once white cloth pushed up to his elbows. His boots were enormous, the leather battered and worn. The veins in his forearms seemed to throb as I watched them. My eyes fell on his neck and throat, his Adam’s apple and the dark stubble along his jaw.

His dark hair long enough to tuck behind his ears yet not cover the collar of his shirt. Its waves called for my fingers and I dreamed of running my hands through the shiny silk telling him my secrets as he kissed my neck making me shiver.

Looking at him ignited something in me—something between my legs—as did my dream this very morning. As my breathing quickened and my cheeks grew warm, I felt another rush of wetness trickle from my sex and I resisted the intense desire to touch myself as I stared at him.

Suddenly I felt a hard, stinging smack on my bottom and I yelped even as my hands flew to my lips and I whirled around. Before I could make sense of what was happening, I was in the wiry arms of a vaguely familiar man.

He had the unfocused, moist eyes of a drunkard and he smelled like spoiled beer and unclean hair. I pulled my face away and planted my arms on his chest to push him off me. But he was too strong and too drunk to notice.

“If you’re thinking of working in Angelica’s profession, lass, you’ll need a reference,” he growled. “I’d like to take the first plunge in your pool.”

A wave of nausea came up from my stomach into my mouth, as much from the smell of his breath as the idea of him thinking even for one moment about my virginity. Still with one arm wrapped around me, he started digging in his pockets. I heard coins jingle and he chortled. “Won’t be able to raise my member for a while yet. But I’ll give you five farthings in advance and pay the rest once the deal is done.”

What a vile man. I found I wasn’t afraid of him as much as revolted by his presence and his assumptions. He was much bigger than me, but I knew from my experience of my father that drink made men slow and sloppy.

Still, I didn’t want him or his dirty hands anywhere near me, and I gave him a slap across the face which made him roar with anger. As I made contact with his greasy cheek, I shrieked, “Get away from me!”

The slap stung my palm and his face bloomed with a red welt. A blossom of my own regret came immediately, because now I saw anger flash in his eyes—and I realized I might be in real danger.

But then, as if God himself reached down, the man was plucked from me and I looked down in amazement to see his feet dangling off the ground. Attached to the man’s thin, pimply neck was a massive, veined forearm and all the rugged beauty that accompanied it.

Bors had come to my rescue.