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

by Rebecca F. Kenney

“Close your eyes,” I told the prince. “And deprive myself of the only source of delight in my life at this moment? Not likely.” He meant it as a wry, defiant statement, but it touched something inside me and made me pity him more. This fallen prince, whatever he had once been, seemed miserable—emotionally as well as physically reduced. I knew first-hand how it felt to be overlooked, disappointed, treated as a commodity.

He swore again. “You cannot tell anyone that you figured this out.” I gave him the prettiest smile I could muster. “Of course not, husband.” At that word, a low exhale issued from him. My smile melted away. Why should that simple, common term make him sigh like that, and why did I feel as if a newborn star were expanding inside my chest?

“It’s a start. We have to be very quiet, and we cannot be caught, do you understand?” “I’m not usually the spy type,” I said hesitantly. “I’m more of the brawling type, the hit-first-and-ask-questions-later type.” “You underestimate yourself, darling,” he said. “You’ve been sly enough during your time here. You can do this.” He was already halfway into the black corridor, his body bathed in veils of darkness, his pale features sharper than ever and his eyes glittering. He stretched out one bone-white hand to me. “Are you coming?”

He stared at me, his dark eyes liquid, his pulse fluttering under my palm. And I hated him more because he felt so helpless in my hands, because he didn’t fight back, because his long frail form simply relaxed against the wall, yielded to my will. “I 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.”

How could anyone handle an affection so strong? No one had ever cared about me like that, ever.

“I’d choose you too,” I said quietly.

I wanted him, but I didn’t want to cry through this—warrior princesses didn’t cry when they made love to their fiendish princely husbands.

He stretched out, and I took a moment to delight in every inch of him. Not gloriously muscled, not a perfect male specimen—scarred and faded from what he once was, but I loved him in that moment, with a glowing intensity that threatened to explode through my skin and shine for all of the Cursed Palace to witness.

The minute the door closed, the Prince called through the heavy curtain. “Amarylla.” I scrunched up my face. “Yes?” “Would you come here, please?” “Do you need something?” “Only your company. I’ve grown fond of it. Strange, I know—you’re so prickly and feral and prone to punching things. But I like it.”

“I don’t do well with sick people. I don’t—I can’t—” “You’re strong and determined, so this kind of irreparable weakness makes you uncomfortable,” he said. “You don’t know what to say or do—how to fix it. So you’d rather not see it, or be near it.” My jaw dropped. How did he understand me so perfectly? “It’s not that I don’t care about you,” I muttered. “I know. And I care about you as well. You’re helping me be stronger where I’m weak, and that’s why I’m doing this for you. Teaching you to be there for someone else, even when your strength can’t help them. Even when you feel powerless.” His voice was unbearably gentle, and the rattle of congestion at the end of the words broke my heart. “Open the curtains, Amarylla. Come to me.”