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

by Rebecca F. Kenney

“Even if I can do nothing else for you, Amarylla, I will do this. I will allow you to choose your husband.”

“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—”

“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.”

“Do you want something, wife?” he asked. “Many things, husband,” I answered. “First, your name.” The healer clucked his tongue. “You haven’t told her your name yet? For shame, Your Highness. He doesn’t like his name, you see.” “My name is fine,” the Prince growled. “Then tell me what it is,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “It’s Galanrae.” “Galanrae?” I repeated, trying to control the twitching of my mouth.

“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.”

“How do I know you are not simply trying to uncover and root out the rebellious flowers?” I cast aside my caution and let a steely edge creep into my tone. “I value my freedom,” I said. “I do not appreciate being banned from training, and whipped, and treated as a womb for the incubation of the Dreadlord’s next set of weapons.”

I forced a smile, a shield over the naked longing of my heart. 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.

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.

If the sorcerers had found a cure for Galanrae, would the Dreadlord have shared it with him, or kept it a secret?

I was near enough to hear the last words he muttered under his breath as he left the room. “I’m not ready for him to die. I’m not done with him yet.” Those words weren’t a father’s pained clutching to the son he loved. They belonged to a villain whose plan was not yet complete.

“You bastard,” I hissed under my breath. “I thought you were leaving me.” He laughed, thick and congested. “Not yet.” He coughed, and his hand came away wet with blood. When his eyes met mine, there was a sorrowful resignation in them. “Come here, Princess. I have something to tell you.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Respect, cousin. A full-on rebellion—I didn’t know you had it in you.” And then he whipped out a massive silver sword and charged the Dreadlord.

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

“I love Galanrae. My place is with him, if he’ll let me stay.”

“Someone once told me I was quick-thinking, funny, strong, smart, beautiful, and a good fighter. ‘All admirable qualities in a queen,’ he said.

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

“I have no qualifications at all,” he said. “And my kingdom is in shambles. The people are confused and angry. They feel betrayed.” “Good thing both of us know first-hand how they feel,” I said. “We can empathize. And I firmly believe that empathy is the most vital trait for any good ruler.”

I knew with a sudden rush of confidence that we could do this, he and I. His weakness to my strength, and my vulnerability to his power. We were a well-matched pair.

My father had promised that I’d marry my heart’s choice. That promise was twisted, and yet in some perverted, perfect way, it held true. My devil, my fiend, the Crown Prince of Terelaus. My husband. My choice.