Bride to the Fiend Prince (Dark Rulers, #1)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

“You are now bound by mettle and magic, by ichor and ice, for pain and pleasure, soul to soul and blood to blood.”

When women brandish daggers at me I usually spill all my darkest secrets, but with you—” he shook his head— “I just don’t feel that trust that a husband should feel for his wife. Maybe if you climbed on top of me again—”

It was impossibly strange, sitting on the sheets with a masked stranger dressed only in his undershorts, mimicking the noises of lovemaking.

“Keep smiling at everyone,” the Prince murmured. “I know looking pleasant is a terrible chore for you, but you must make a greater effort. To be honest, you look rather ill.” “I feel rather ill,” I whispered back. “Nerves.” He nodded so companionably that I wanted to smack him and remind him that we were not friends. “I sometimes have them before a battle.” “You mean you get nervous before you go out to slaughter people and steal their land?” I said sweetly. “You poor darling.”

“No, no servants. Dull, curious things full of eyes, they are.

deserve all your hate,” he said quietly. “Hate me with all the strength and passion of that beautiful fierce heart of yours. Crush me and break me if you must, in retribution for everything I have done, all the bodies I’ve broken, the blood I’ve spilled. Break my neck, Amarylla. End it, if that will bring you peace. You’ve wanted to kill me since that first night—so do it. Just a twitch of your fingers. Go on.”

“I’m not going to let you die,” I whispered to him, nuzzling his sharp jawline. He was bowed over, clutching me, his thin body tight and hard with anticipation. “You belong to me now.”

“If I had my choice of all the princesses, all the nobles, and all the working women of the world, I would still select you as my bride. I could not imagine being married to anyone else. I wouldn’t want anyone else. Just you—you brutal, beautiful, brilliant woman.”

But maybe they cried when the fiendish princely husband looked so heartbreakingly thin and pale. Maybe they cried when they could see Death slinking up behind him with a great scythe. Maybe then a warrior princess could cry, and rage, and catch Death by the wrists, and hold back that scythe with every ounce of will and strength she had.

“Wicked prince,” I said. “Cruel prince. You can’t make me love you and then leave me, just when we’ve started scheming for your freedom, and your future. It’s not right.”

“And those closer to the grave deserve love just as much as those with years of life left ahead of them.”

I had taken Death by the wrists, and while trying to hold back his scythe from my love, I had impaled myself.

As long as you accept the fact that I’m completely indecisive, insecure, unworthy, and embarrassingly desperate for your love.”