Chapter 8: Last Taste of Freedom
The dowry documents were flawless. Annelise had seen to that, her hands steady as she stamped the final seal, the wax the exact crimson of fresh blood. She had dressed with mechanical precision in a gown of somber grey, her hair sculpted into an immaculate crown of braids, every pin a bastion against chaos. She was the picture of composed loyalty, even as the phantom ache between her legs echoed with every step.
The palace thrummed with a festive, hollow energy. From the great hall, the muffled swell of a processional hymn seeped through the stone. The wedding of Prince Nikolai to Princess Naomi of the treacherous eastern realm was moments from commencing.
Annelise took a shortcut through the oldest wing, a crumbling, ivy-choked stone corridor used only by servants and those wishing to remain unseen. Faded tapestries lined the walls, their threads bleeding color onto the damp stone, depicting battles and alliances everyone had forgotten. The air was cold, smelling of mildew and forgotten things. Torches guttered in their sconces, making the woven warriors seem to twitch.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him—a sharp, deliberate rhythm that didn’t belong to a scurrying maid. Her spine went rigid. She didn’t turn.
He materialized from a crook in the corridor like a wraith summoned from the shadows, already upon her. He was resplendent in his ceremonial regalia, a doublet of midnight blue embroidered with silver thread, a sword at his hip. His face was a carved mask of royal duty. But his eyes were pure wildfire.
He didn’t speak. He simply grabbed her upper arm and swung her around, slamming her back into the cold, uneven wall. A tapestry of a gilded stag shuddered beside them. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
“You look very efficient,” he said, his voice a low, venomous curl in the dim space. The distant hymn swelled, a mocking soundtrack.
“The documents are signed and delivered, Your Highness,” she managed, her voice thin.
“I don’t give a fuck about the documents.”
His hand fisted in the intricate braids at her crown, wrenching her head back. The pins bit into her scalp. With his other hand, he tore at the front of her gown. Buttons pinged off the stone floor, rolling into the darkness. The cool air hit her exposed skin, pebbling her nipples. He shoved the fabric down to her waist, baring her to the waist. His gaze was not one of desire, but of consumption, a need to defile what was clean.
“One last fuck,” he snarled, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers, “before I chain myself to that traitorous bitch for the rest of my miserable life.”
His words were slurred, not with wine, but with a black, all-consuming fury. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her breast, hard enough to bruise. He was marking her, claiming what wasn’t his to claim, as the world prepared to hand him a wife.
He released her hair only to grapple with his own clothes, his movements frantic. The ceremonial sword belt clattered to the floor. He tore open his trousers, freeing his cock. It was already fully erect, thick and angry, a blunt instrument of his rebellion.
He didn’t touch her to prepare her, didn’t offer a caress. He simply hooked a hand behind her knee, hiking her leg up around his hip, yanking her skirt up with a rough pull of fabric. The cold, damp stone scraped against her bare backside.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her dry, unprepared entrance. She was clenched tight, a knot of dread and shame.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his breath hot and ragged.
Her eyes, wide in the flickering torchlight, met his. In them, she saw the boy she’d watched grow into a king, now being swallowed whole by the crown.
He shoved into her.
It was a brutal, ripping invasion. A raw gasp tore from her throat, lost in the distant melody of the hymn. He was too big, too rough, and she was too dry. The pain was a bright, sharp line of fire. He didn’t pause. He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, each thrust pounding her body into the unyielding stone. The tapestry’s wooden rod rattled against the wall in time with his hips.
“This…” he grunted, his face contorted, sweat beading at his temples despite the chill, “…is the only real thing today. This. Your tight, unwilling cunt. The rest is a fucking pantomime.”
He fucked her with a punishing, desperate intensity. The wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against hers was obscenely loud in the secluded passage. The pain began to blur, transmuting into a deep, sickening throb. Her body, traitorous and alive, began to slick under the relentless friction, adapting to the violation. The shame of that response was a nausea in her throat.
He felt the change. A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. “There it is. Your body’s always been more honest than your tongue, Annelise. It always opens for me.”
He adjusted his angle, driving deeper. One hand released her leg to claw between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing in rough, circular patterns that were more insult than invitation. It was too much—the pain, the vulgarity, the overwhelming physicality of him. A coil of sensation, hot and dark and unwanted, tightened low in her belly.
The crowd in the great hall erupted in a distant roar of approval. The ceremony had reached its apex. The princess was now his wife.
The sound seemed to trigger something final in him. His thrusts became wild, erratic, losing all rhythm. He was chasing his own end, using her body as a weapon against the reality awaiting him.
“Come,” he commanded through gritted teeth, his thumb working harder. “Come on my cock while I pledge my life to her. Do it.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a coup. And her body, broken to his will, obeyed. A climax ripped through her, silent and searing, a convulsion of pure anguish that clamped around him like a vise.
It tipped him over the edge. With a choked, guttural sound that was more agony than pleasure, he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her. His release was hot and profane, a flood claiming territory in a war he’d already lost. He shuddered violently against her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his breath coming in ragged sobs that he would deny to his dying breath.
For a moment, they were locked together, a vile parody of intimacy in the dank corridor. The cheers from the hall faded into general applause, then the stirring of a recessional march.
He pulled out of her slowly. The separation was a fresh shock, followed by the immediate, embarrassing trickle of his spend down her inner thigh, mixing with the slick evidence of her own cursed pleasure. He stepped back, looking down at himself, at her—half-naked, disheveled, pinned against the wall like a discarded trophy.
He said nothing. He turned and adjusted his clothing with quick, efficient movements, buckling his sword belt back into place. He picked up a single fallen button from the floor, looked at it, then let it drop from his fingers.
When he turned to face her again, the wildfire in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glacial, impenetrable emptiness. The Prince of Valdovia was fully restored, the mask seamless.
“See that the Princess’s household is settled in the east wing,” he said, his voice flat and formal, as if discussing troop movements. “And have my physician sent to her chambers this evening. She mentioned a headache.”
Then he turned and walked down the corridor toward the sound of the celebrating crowd, his footsteps echoing until they were swallowed by the noise of his new life.
Annelise slid down the wall until she was crouched on the cold, slick floor. She gathered the torn edges of her gown but didn’t bother to fasten them. She stared at the fallen button glinting in the torchlight. The tapestry beside her depicted the stag, now forever askew, its golden thread muted by dust.
From the great hall, the first triumphant notes of the wedding feast’s music began to play. She pulled her knees to her chest, the stone leaching the warmth from her bones, the prince’s final command and the evidence of their coupling cooling on her skin. She was not just a secret anymore. She was a grave, and she had just buried something alive.