Page 6 of Griffin Food

We take off at a gallop, following the directions of villagers and farmers, who wave us on, clearly aware of our target. I curse the whole time, wishing something had delayed our return and some other fucker had been lumbered with the fallout of this. She is going to break her damn neck, or a leg, or an arm at the very best. Then we will be the ones taking her home, and her bitch sister will tear us a new one, probably have us flogged like this is our fucking fault.

“There!” Lark calls, peeling his horse to the right. I follow his lead, spotting her almost immediately. Raven is trotting along the treeline of a wheat field that is little more than green shoots at this time of year. She is still in the saddle, so that is something, but I can see her arms and legs flapping in a most peculiar way. I do a double take at the golden hair that cascades all the way down her back in wild corkscrew curls. She throws a look over her shoulder as she hears us bearing down. Damn, she is pretty without those spectacles.

That is the last consideration I have as to her looks, for we startle her—or Raven—and she is nearly pitched out of the saddle as the horse takes off.

“Fuck!” Lark cries. “We need to cut them off before they get to the gate. Bastard horse is going to jump!”

Raven has the energy to go at this pace all fucking day. Our geldings, after a patrol, not so much.

We cut the corner, urging our geldings into a full-tilt charge.

But we’re not going to fucking make it!

Raven flies over the gate. She holds on—just. We drop down behind her, finally getting to either side of Raven. She’s lurching to one side of the saddle, her boot caught in the stirrup, clinging to the pommel for dear life.

Lark catches hold of the reins. I snag her around the waist, and we hem Raven in, bringing the heaving stallion and our mounts to a collective stop.

I glare down at the tiny slip of a woman sprawled facedown over my saddle. My hand is on her ass, pinning her in place lest she fall off.

She peers up at me, her rosy cheeks covered in freckles and her eyes wide. “T-thank you, sir.”

Thank you? Thank you!

“Woman, your ass is going to be cherry red before I am done with you. What the fuck were you thinking, taking Raven out, and alone?”

Violet

He is furious. I can’t quite process the shaking rage that consumes him, only that it radiates off him in waves. We are down from the saddle, and the relief of stable ground beneath me is short-lived before I am upturned over his strong thigh, and his palm is applied to my bottom in vigorous spanks.

I squeal and thrash, righteous anger replacing my earlier fear and relief in being saved. “Unhand me, brute! I am a princess!”

“And I couldn’t give a fuck, my lady. If I catch you out here on Raven again, I will take the crop to your behind!”

“Ah, Rafe…” the other guard says, like he might be trying to instill caution in the beast thrashing my bottom with his big hand.

“Shut the fuck up, Lark. The princess is clearly in need of a firm hand to be this damn reckless. In fact, pass me the crop now. If the lass has the energy for back talk, I’m clearly not making a strong enough impression with my hand.”

Lark mutters a curse. Thankfully, he does not pass Rafe a crop.

Not satisfied with the spanking over my riding pants, which are barely any protection as is, Rafe snaps the button at my waist and yanks them down—along with my panties—before applying his palm to my naked ass.

Spank, spank, spank!

Gods, my bottom is on fire. It doesn’t matter how I twist this way or that; he just holds me and continues his discipline.

“You have been a very bad girl.”

My body pitches into a state of confusion. His musky male scent fills my nose. My pussy clenches with every clap of his hand. To my mortification, I am growing wet.

“Rafe!” Lark barks.

The spanking stops abruptly, and I tumble onto the ground as Rafe suddenly surges to his feet and commences pacing.

My face is as hot as my bottom. I fight to yank up my pants.

The other soldier helps me to my feet. I don’t know where to look, and then I’m looking at him, Lark, with his pretty blue eyes and chestnut hair that curls into his collar.

He smiles, transforming his face to a rakish level of handsome. “Ah, sorry about Rafe, my lady. He only has your well-being at heart.” He grimaces. “If you could find it in you not to mention this to your Queen sister, that would be much appreciated.”