He started circling my clit with one finger, the damp silk sliding deliciously against it: just the right amount of friction. My eyes were still closed, my lips pressed together. With the corset constricting me, my breath was just hot little hisses through my nostrils; the room was almost silent. So it was all the more shocking when he suddenly spoke.
“I’m going to spank you now, Lucy,” he said in a voice as unyielding as the movement of a continent.
“W-what?” I swallowed. “Wait, Your Highness. I haven’t—I’m not sure—”
“Do you remember your ring, Lucy?”
I felt it, then, heavy and loose around my finger. I nodded. All I had to do was slip it off and let it fall to the hard, wood floor. And it would end.
“I want you to count for me.”
I swallowed again. I could feel my heartbeat rising, my hands clenching and unclenching. “I—” I started to say.
CRACK!
It was hard, harder than I’d imagined. I’d never been spanked, didn’t understand the pain a hard hand, especially one as large as his, can inflict on soft flesh, and how incredibly intimate the sensation is. I cried out, a strangled shout of pain and surprise – mainly in shock that he’d actually done it.
I knelt there panting.
“One,” I said, when I’d got my breath back.
Nothing happened. The only noise was the wind howling outside.
God – he didn’t really mean me to...did he? “Your Highness,” I added, my face flushing. The title changed everything. I wasn’t his lover anymore. I was his maid, his peasant, the serving wench in the dark hallway, the young bride stolen from her husband. And he was my king.
CRACK! This time I was ready for it, which made it worse. There was an initial second of shock, I learned, with no pain. Then, as all the nerve endings exploded, it blossomed like fire. God, I couldn’t do this!
“Two, Your Highness.”
CRACK! This time I let out a cry as he hit, my pain cast from me in words, and that seemed to make it easier, even though the sob I let out sounded worryingly like something I’d do during sex. As the pain washed through me this time, it seemed to soak downwards, into my groin, and the burning turned into dark, liquid heat.
God, no: I wasn’t getting turned on by this, was I?
“Three, Your Highness.”
CRACK! Now the slap of his hand and my reaction were all one, and the hot flood of arousal sluiced through me at almost the same time. It wasn’t just the pain, I realized. It was the whole thing.
“F-four, Your Highness.” My voice was breaking, now, and I had to struggle to get it back under control.
CRACK! The fifth slap, and now the act and the pain and my lust were all one. It turned me on...despite it hurting? Because it hurt? I could feel the heat rising up through my belly, towards my chest.
“Five, Your Highness.” I had to raise my voice over the noise of the storm. It wasn’t just the pain, it was the situation. I was—
CRACK!
“Six, Your Highness.” I was on my knees, being spanked by my prince, my king--
CRACK!
“Seven, Your Highness.” My eyes were wet.
CRACK!
“E-Eight, Your Highness.” Hot pain was blossoming all over my ass now, the explosions all joined together in an inferno, and I could feel the heat inside me up around my lungs, my breasts. I was panting, trying to breathe— God, I was crying—
CRACK!
“Nine, Your Highness!” and my voice was high and shrill. Hot currents were running up and down my bound body, like nothing I’d ever felt before. Tears were running down my cheeks.
CRACK!
“TEN, YOUR HIGHNESS!” I shouted, and the orgasm swept over me, making me thrash hard against the stool. If I could have ground my hips together I would have come a lot sooner, but by tying me he’d forced me to teeter on the edge. I let out a long, high cry, feeling myself clench and spasm.
He leaned forward over me and gently undid the ties around my wrists, then the ones around my ankles. I didn’t – couldn’t – move. He scooped me up and carried me over to the bed, laying me down on my side.
And then he did something that took me completely by surprise. Instead of taking me, he lay down behind me and wrapped his arms around me, cuddling me.
The pillow was damp. It wasn’t the hard, hacking tears that get wrenched up from your soul when your boyfriend breaks up with you. The tears were from the pain, but they were more than that – it was like a release, like a barrier had been broken down in my mind. If I’d been on my own it would have been scary, but with his strong arms around me it was almost...cleansing. Cathartic. We lay there together until it passed. The storm howled and raged outside the windows, but it couldn’t touch us.
“I think I understand now,” I told him softly. “A little.”
I felt him nod. “You don’t mean about me, or Asteria, do you?”
I shook my head.
“What do you understand now, Lucy?”
“Me,” I whispered. “I understand something about me.”
I turned over on the bed, trying to hold my tender ass off the covers. His arms tightened around my back and we kissed, his tongue slipping into my mouth....
Someone banged loudly on the door. We jerked apart as if stung, and stared at each other. He was as shocked as I was.
More banging. “Prince Jagor!” I thought I recognized Villik’s voice. He sounded worried – no, more than worried. Full-on panicked.
Jagor leant close. “Bathroom, quickly!”
I slid off the bed and willed my shaking legs to carry me. As I closed the bathroom door, I saw Jagor pick up the raincoat I’d left on the floor, ball it up and push it under the desk. I wanted to tell him to remove the ties, still trailing from the legs of the stool, but there was no time. As he opened the door to the corridor, I shut myself inside the bathroom and strained my ears to listen.
“Your Highness!” Villik said. “An attempt has been made on your father’s life.”
Chapter Eight
For the entire time we’d been in Monaco, the bodyguards had been in the background. Other than that one time in the dress shop, I hadn’t had much contact with them and still only knew a few of their names. I’d started to view them a little like nightclub doormen – tough and silent and mostly there for the sake of appearance. I didn’t really take them seriously.
Now, everything changed.
Our floor of the hotel quickly came awake. The bodyguards banged on doors and started barking orders to each other – suddenly they all had earpieces in their ears, and their guns were a lot more obvious. I hadn’t realized they were all armed: that was how good a job they’d done of hiding it.
Jagor covered for me, saying he’d go and wake me himself. I slipped him my key, and he let himself into my room, grabbed some clothes for me and joined me back in his room. Once I was dressed, I slipped out in the confusion.
Less than ten minutes after the aide had banged on the door, we were assembled in the corridor with bodyguards at the front and back of the group. They raced us down the stairs, weapons drawn, to a rear fire exit. Terse instructions were snapped at us. Run. Heads down. Don’t stop. Get in the car you’re told. My heart was hammering so hard it was almost painful: I felt like I’d be sick at any moment.
The door swung open and we were running. Outside, a line of black SUVs, flanked by police cars. Men crouched on the ground, with guns pointed at the rooftops around us. I was pushed into an SUV with the two other aides and to my dismay Jagor was sent to a different one, bodyguards shoulder-to-shoulder with him the whole time. Sirens wailed and the convoy sped off through the storm, blue lights lighting up the rain.
***
When a member of a visiting royal family calls for an emergency evacuation, the government makes things happen. When we reached the airport, there wasn’t even the cursory passport check or trip through the VIP corridor. We were waved through a set of gates, and the whole convoy drove straight onto the taxiway. We pulled up next to the Prince’s 747 and were hurried up the steps, all of us quickly soaked by the rain. I felt the plane move even before the doors were closed, and we were in the air minutes later: they’d been holding all the other flights for us, so that we weren’t a target sitting on the runway.
Once in the air, everything stopped. The aides immersed themselves in phones and laptops, trying to get a handle on things. The Prince was shut in his study, talking to Asteria. I sat there shaking: I had no one to call and no one to talk to. The one person who should have been reassuring me – and maybe me, him – I wasn’t allowed to see.
When I managed to catch Villik between calls, I asked him, “Where are we flying?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere. If the Prince’s life is in danger, standard procedure is to get him airborne: we’re safe up here. The pilot will fly a random course around France while we work out what’s happening.”
I sat back in my seat and waited. There was nothing else I could do.
***
Almost an hour later, Jagor emerged and addressed us.
The King was alive, but critically ill in hospital. He’d been poisoned: they suspected at a reception he’d attended. An investigation was underway.
“I need to be with my father,” he told us. “And I need to reassure the people. We’re going to Asteria.”
***
My first glimpse of Asteria came a few hours later, as we piled into a line of waiting limos. It was still night, and all I could see were runway lights and a distant control tower. I could have been anywhere in the world.
But I wasn’t, and my gut knew it. I’d felt the cold knot of fear even back at the hotel, as soon as Villik told Jagor the news. I’d tried to suppress it; hoped for the best. But now it was real: we were here. I was terrified, and at the same time I hated myself for being so selfish, for thinking of myself when I should have been worrying about Jagor.
I hadn’t seen him since he spoke to the retinue: he’d spent the journey in his study and the rest of the retinue had been desperately scrambling to prepare for our arrival in Asteria, weeks ahead of schedule.
I got into a limo with Villik and Ismelda. Even as the door closed, Ismelda reached into her bag and took out a shining silver collar. She swept her hair up out of the way, closed it around her neck and clicked the back together with a heavy, metal
clack.
The front of the collar was engraved with a name: Arkone.
She met my eyes, then exchanged a worried glance with Villik
“We should drop you at the palace,” she said, more to him than to me.
“I should stay close to the Prince,” I told her, with a firmness I didn’t feel.
“We don’t need you here!” she snapped. Then, “I’m sorry, I mean—we don’t need you
here
, Lucy. He won’t need a translator at the hospital.”
Or anywhere in Asteria
, she might as well have added.
I’ve never felt less wanted, or more out of place. I was an interloper, intruding right when they wanted to close ranks and protect the Prince. I nodded, but told her firmly, “I still want to come to the hospital.”
Ismelda stared at me. God, did she suspect? But eventually her gaze softened a little and she nodded.
We sped through the night: glimpses of beautiful, ancient buildings and towering skyscrapers, everything either newly built or perfectly preserved. I was one of the few outsiders ever to see it: any other time, it would have been wondrous. Right then, all I could think of was Jagor, and what he must be going through.
When we pulled up in a basement car park, Ismelda turned to me.
“Stay in the car,” she told me. “And Lucy, I mean
stay in the car.”
I nodded dumbly, close to tears.
I spent close to two hours sitting alone in the back of the limo, the driver silent in the front seat. I was alone, in a foreign country – one where, if I went out alone in public, I was liable to be grabbed by the first man who saw me, taken to the slave market and sold. I was conducting a secret love affair that could wreck both our lives if it ever got out. I was very possibly in real danger from whoever had tried to assassinate the King, and cut off from the one man who could make me feel safe.
I thought back to that night in the embassy. If only I hadn’t gone to the party. If only I hadn’t spilled my wine. If only....
Then I’d never have met him.
And I knew that, however much I hated my life right now, I wouldn’t change any of it if it meant giving up Jagor.
Even as I thought it, the door opened and he got in – just him, although I could see the bodyguards pressing close outside. He looked like he’d aged ten years overnight.
“Lucy,” he sighed. “I’m sorry—”
“How is he?” I interrupted.
“He’ll recover. The poison damaged part of his liver.... We were very, very lucky.” He ran a hand through his hair. “At first they thought it was just a virus; my mother was the only one to suspect: she persuaded them to run more tests.”
I glanced at the windows. At the glass that separated us from the driver. He caught my look and nodded: unlike in Monaco, we were private. I practically flew into his arms. He clutched at me as hard as I clutched at him and we rocked there for a few minutes, just comforting each other.
At last, he gently eased me back onto my seat. “Lucy, I didn’t plan for us to be here: not this soon. This is all happening too fast.” He looked at me. “I know you have doubts about Asteria. You’re not ready. If you want to fly home...I’ll understand.”
There was a part of me – a big part – that soared in relief at that. I imagined being back in New York, where I could walk around wherever I wanted: where I was a free woman, where things were
normal.
While Jagor stayed here on his own.
“With your father ill, people will be looking to you – right?”
He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, but—”