Chapter 2: The Prince’s Predatory Stroll
The days following the ball passed in a feverish blur of mornings calls and afternoon promenades. Annelise’s name, once unknown, was now on every lip, always paired with his: The Tremaine girl. The one Prince Cassian waltzed with for an entire song. Did you see?
Her father, Lord Tremaine, watched her with a new, cautious pride. Her mother fussed over her wardrobe. Society had drawn a circle around her, and she stood trembling in its center.
The invitation to the Royal Luncheon was parchment-edged destiny. It was held in the Sun Gallery, but the true event, everyone knew, was the stroll through the famed palace hedge maze afterward—a tradition ripe with unspoken opportunity.
Cassian did not look at her once during the meal.
He held court at the head of the table, entertaining a flock of admirers with a story that made a duchess snort wine through her nose. His laughter was a blade, sharp and careless. Annelise picked at her poached salmon, every burst of his merriment feeling like a small, personal dismissal. The wager, his intense focus—had it all been just a fleeting diversion? The man from the garden, Lord Varley, sat diagonally from her. She felt his occasional, assessing glance like a physical touch.
When the luncheon ended and the guests spilled onto the gravel paths bordering the maze, a collective, giddy tension took hold. Ladies fanned themselves. Gentlemen offered arms. Pairs and small groups disappeared into the green mouth of the labyrinth.
Annelise lingered near the entrance, feeling absurd. She should find her mother, or one of the few young ladies who had been kind. As she turned, a hand closed gently but firmly around her elbow.
“Lost already, Miss Tremaine? And you’ve not even stepped inside.”
Cassian’s voice was low, meant only for her. He stood close, his tall frame blocking the sun. He wore no hat, and the daylight showed hints of amber in his grey eyes, and the faint, weary lines at their corners.
“I’m not lost, Your Highness.”
“Aren’t you?” He didn’t release her arm. “You look like a doe at the edge of a hunter’s wood. All wide eyes and ready to bolt.” His thumb moved, a slight, deliberate stroke against the inside of her sleeve. “Come. I’ll guide you. It’s easy to lose one’s way.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a claim. Before she could form a protest, he was leading her forward, away from the thinning crowd, into the green, shadowy channel of the maze. The sounds of the party faded with shocking quickness, muffled by dense, fragrant walls of boxwood and privet. The air cooled, thick with the scent of damp earth, crushed herbs, and something sweetly rotten beneath.
“You ignored me,” she blurted out, the words echoing in the quiet.
“I watched you,” he corrected, his pace unhurried. “There’s a difference. I watched you try to become wallpaper again. It didn’t suit you.” He glanced down at her. “You’ve been thinking of our wager.”
“I have not.”
“Liar.” He said it pleasantly. “It’s all you’ve thought about. It’s written in the tightness of your shoulders. In the way you wouldn’t let your eyes wander to my end of the table.” He steered them left, then right, choosing paths with unerring confidence. The canopy above grew thicker, closing out the sky.
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Because I’m bored,” he said, repeating his refrain from the ball. But this time, it sounded hollow, even to him. He stopped abruptly in a small, circular clearing where a stone bench sat mossy and unused. A dead end. The only sound was the trickle of a distant fountain and the rustle of leaves in a breeze they couldn’t feel. “And because you look at me not as a prince, but as a problem. It’s refreshing.”
He turned to face her, his back to the only exit. “You asked if my aim was to scandalize you. It wasn’t. Not exactly.”
“Then what is your aim?”
“To see,” he said simply. He reached out and traced the line of her jaw with a single, bare fingertip. She flinched, but didn’t retreat. “To see what happens when something real is dropped into this pit of pretense. To see if you break. Or if you bloom.”
His touch ignited a path of fire on her skin. “I am not an experiment.”
“Everything is,” he murmured. His hand slid down, over the frantic pulse in her throat, to the high, lace-trimmed neckline of her gown. His fingers toyed with a ribbon. “Including this. This… performance of innocence. Is it real, Annelise? Or is it just the only role you’ve been taught?”
Anger, hot and clean, cut through her fear. “How dare you—”
His mouth came down on hers.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was possession. His lips were firm, demanding, tasting of wine and bitter citrus. One hand cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her auburn hair, holding her still. The other arm wrapped around her waist, crushing her against him. She gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, hot and intrusive. The shock was absolute, a lightning strike of sensation—the sheer physicality of him, the hard planes of his body, the taste, the scent of his skin up close, the terrifying mastery of his movement.
She made a small, choked sound, and his kiss softened, just for a second, becoming coaxing, exploratory. A silent question. Her mind screamed, but her body answered. A traitorous warmth pooled low in her belly. Her hands, trapped between them, flattened against his chest. She could feel the powerful beat of his heart.
He pulled back an inch, breathing ragged. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “See?” he whispered, his voice raw. “Not so innocent after all.”
Then his mouth was on her throat, open-mouthed and hot. His teeth grazed the tender skin where her pulse hammered. She cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the green walls. His hand left her hair and traveled down, skimming over the boning of her corset, tracing the outline of her ribs until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. She jerked as if scalded.
“Such pretty noises,” he muttered against her skin, his breath a damp promise. “But just wait.”
His knee came up, pressing firmly between her thighs, through the layers of her skirts. The pressure was shocking, intimate, sending a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure straight to her core. A moan escaped her, unbidden. He growled in response, a low, approving sound that vibrated through her.
“I’m going to have you bare beneath me,” he whispered, his words filthy and thrilling. “I’m going to spread these pretty thighs and taste you. I’m going to make you squirm and beg. I’ll make you scream louder than this fucking maze has ever heard.”
The obscenity, the sheer graphic intent, should have revolted her. Instead, it coiled the heat inside her tighter. Her head fell back against the hedge, leaves scratching her neck. Her will was dissolving, melting under the onslaught of sensation and forbidden words.
His hands found the fastenings of her gown, working with frustrating, deliberate slowness. “Tell me to stop,” he challenged, his lips against her ear. His fingers finally slipped inside her bodice, finding the sensitive peak of her breast. He pinched, gently at first, then with a sharper twist that made her arch off the hedge with a gasp. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
She couldn’t speak. The word wouldn’t form. All she could do was whimper as his thumb circled her nipple, now taut and aching.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, and there was a note of triumph in his voice, but also something else—a kind of fierce desperation. He yanked at her skirts, the fabric tearing with a harsh sound. The cool air hit her bare legs. He shoved his hand underneath, his palm sliding up her inner thigh, pushing her legs apart. His fingers were long, sure.
When they found the hot, damp center of her, she nearly sobbed. He let out a shuddering breath. “So wet. Already. For me.” He kissed her again, deep and drugging, as his finger slid through her folds, circling the most sensitive part of her. She shattered against his hand, a sharp, unexpected climax tearing through her with the force of a summer storm. She convulsed, her cries muffled by his mouth.
He held her through it, his own breathing harsh. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Undone.”
Before the waves had fully receded, he was fumbling with the falls of his trousers. She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt. Then he was lifting her, his hands under her thighs, turning her and pressing her back against the rough greenery. The leaves scratched through her torn dress. His body was a solid, demanding warmth against her back.
He leaned into her, his mouth at her ear. “Hold onto the hedge.”
She did, her fingers digging into the woody stems. He guided himself, the blunt, hot head of him pressing against her entrance. She was tight, still pulsing from her release.
“Relax,” he murmured, but there was no patience in his voice, only a wild need. He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion that stretched her, filled her utterly. A sharp cry tore from her throat. It hurt, a bright, shocking pain that quickly blurred into a deep, overwhelming fullness.
He sheathed himself completely with a groan that sounded pained. “Fuck. You’re so tight.” He didn’t move for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead dropped between her shoulder blades. His body trembled with the effort of holding still.
Then he began to move.
It was a slow, deep rhythm at first, each withdrawal and thrust a lesson in sensation. The pain ebbed, replaced by something darker, more addictive. A friction that built a new, sharper heat within her. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, setting a harder pace. The hedge scraped her cheek. The world narrowed to the sound of their ragged breathing, the wet, slick sounds of their joining, the creak of his leather belt.
“Feel me,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming faster, less controlled. “Every fucking inch. You’ll feel this tomorrow when you walk. You’ll remember.” His hand snaked around her front, finding her clit again, rubbing rough, perfect circles. Pleasure, sharper than before, coiled like a spring. She was panting, mewling with each drive of his body into hers. The shame was gone, burned away by a primal hunger.
“Cassian,” she moaned, a broken sound she didn’t recognize.
Her using his name seemed to undo him. His rhythm shattered into frantic, pounding thrusts. “Come for me again,” he demanded, his voice guttural. “Do it. Now.”
The command, the brutal pace, the expert touch of his fingers—it was too much. She broke a second time, a deeper, more wrenching convulsion that clenched around him, milking him. With a raw, choked shout, he followed her, his body slamming into hers one last, final time as he spilled inside her, hot and claiming.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the rustle of the disturbed hedge. He stayed buried within her, his weight pressing her into the greenery. She felt his heart hammering against her back.
Slowly, gently, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness felt like a loss. He turned her around, his hands careful now on her torn dress. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, his expression stark and unguarded. For a fleeting second, he looked young, and almost afraid.
He reached up and brushed a leaf from her hair. His touch was tender. The contrast from moments before was disorienting.
She stared at him, her mind a blank page. The reality of what they’d done—where they’d done it—crashed down. She was ruined. Utterly.
He saw the change in her eyes, the dawning horror. His own shutters came down, the mask of the jaded prince sliding back into place. He tucked himself away, fastening his trousers with brisk, efficient movements.
“The wager,” he said, his voice flat and detached once more. “Consider the first lesson learned.” He straightened his waistcoat, not looking at her. “The path straight ahead leads back to the fountain. Wait five minutes, then follow it. No one will see you leave the maze alone.”
He stepped back, becoming a stranger again. The man who had just taken her with such ferocious intimacy was gone.
Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the leafy corridor, his footsteps silent on the damp earth.
Annelise slid down the hedge until she was sitting on the ground, her torn skirts around her. The scent of him, of sex and earth and crushed leaves, clung to her. She felt the slow trickle of his release between her thighs. In the distance, she heard the faint, carefree laughter of the luncheon guests, innocent and far away.
She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and waited for the trembling to stop. It didn’t.