Page 83 of The Crown's Awakening
The blade presses again, a quiet promise.
“You’ll be alone,” he adds, softer now. “With a child. No one to protect you.”
His fingers continue their path. “I am not like them,” he murmurs. “I don’t get to walk in and out of these wards whenever I please.”
I push again, harder, driving against the invisible restraint until something burns beneath the effort, but my body remains exactly where he left it.
His hand leaves my arm and moves, unhurried, tracing along my side as though there is no reason to rush.
“Unlike you, I don’t have royal blood. I am bound here,” he continues, quieter now. “Same as I have always been.”
The knife shifts, a reminder.
“For years,” he says, “we waited for you to return. That was the story, wasn’t it? The lost heir comes back with the Thren at her side. A sealed bond and the wards would finally open again.”
His breath brushes my skin. “A way out.”
His hand drifts higher, slow. “And then you arrive with nothing,” he continues. “No bond. No control. Just a bastard in your belly and a claim to a legacy and army you don’t deserve.”
The blade presses harder.
“You were supposed to be my freedom,” he says. “And you couldn’t even do that right.”
His hand drifts higher. “They say whatever power you have is between your legs,” he continues, a note of curiosity threading through the words, “that the feeder king and the bastard prince of Thrykis both want it.”
A breath of laughter follows.
“And now the dog prince has abandoned his bitch.”
His hand closes over my breast. The pressure is immediate, painful, his grip tightening as though confirming something for himself. I force everything I have against the hold, every instinct, every ounce of strength, but nothing breaks. My body remains fixed, forced to endure the contact without even the relief of movement.
“So I want to know,” he says, quieter now, close enough that the words brush against my skin, “what it’s like.”
The knife presses again.
“Is it good,” he asks, “or is it nothing at all?”
His fingers catch the strap of my gown.
“I plan on making it painful,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “I will fuck you so rough you’ll wonder if you’ve lost your precious bastard.” He sneers “Alarna’s future.”
He laughs. “Then I’ll ram myself into that tight ass of yours until it bleeds.” His hand is still on my breast, his fingernails digging into my nipple harsh enough to break skin. I can see the blood seeping through the white of my nightgown.
Part of me begins to panic. Of all the things I have endured, this has never been one of them. If this happens, it won’t just be my dignity. Every soft moment with Colsar I will think of this.
The fabric shifts beneath his hand. “Everyone will wonder,” he continues, his voice lowering further, satisfaction creeping into it, “why the queen heir limps.”
“Either way,” he says, “I’m taking it today.”
The strap slides.
“You’ll live with it,” he continues. “You won’t be able to look at me without remembering. You won’t be able to look at him when he finds out what you are.”
The hold on my body remains absolute. The blade stays anchored where it is. His hand does not leave me.
And still I push against his power, my nose begins to bleed, but I do not stop. The pressure of his hold twists through my power, forcing it back on itself until it spills out of me instead. I can feel it trickling down my cheek as it leaks from my eyes.
Nothing moves.
