Chapter Three - Eldan

My father has no idea what I've done. He thinks my brother's killer is being executed today in a quiet ceremony, and I can see the relief and lack of tension in his face, as he finally knows justice. My mother, with her beautiful jet black hair and wrinkled face depicting laugh lines, recently haggard with grief, has a new bounce in her step. It makes guilt flood through me, for the underhand thing I've committed.

Even seeing her face conjured up in my minds sends that mix of anger and desire. I want her to suffer. To feel a sliver of the rage and grief that's inside me. Death's too good for her. Death's an easy outing. I pictured myself having her here, in a broken mess of tears and sobbing, begging me to not hurt her, begging me to spare her life, as I drew out the torture, and had her spread under me as I thrust.

I never expected her to actually like it.

I loved my brother. Yartusk was a role model to me. Sure we had issues growing up, but every brother has their problems. As a bear shifter, we tend to be more savage than most, but with a kingdom to run, we also learn respect towards our subjects. My father and mother instilled into us the sense of duty, and Yartusk acted as the perfect recipient of their lessons. He charmed, he smiled. The people loved him, and looked forward to the day he'd become king. I thought my brother would live forever. I never expected that I'd become first in line to the throne.

I walk through the gardens, where the smell of gardenias and sandalwood permeates the atmosphere, and the heavy pine scent of our native evergreen.

Bribing the prison official wasn't easy. However, now I have that witch in my grasp at last, the person I want to see suffer most in the world, I'm left floored.

She's nothing like what I anticipated. When I thunder up to her in my bear form, she stares me dead on, winter in her eyes, fearless. When I slap her, she seems to relish the pain, and smirks at me in that condescending way, as if she doesn't care I'm a prince at all. She sees me as something beneath her. A dirty creature who she'd kill in the bat of an eyelid.

When I try to do to her what is considered the worst thing for a woman, she moans, with her red hair splayed out, her chest heaving, as if she enjoys it. The evil in her is boundless. She's wet and flushed, and when I threaten to maim her, she simply tells me, with brash honesty, because I see no flicker of doubt in her green eyes, that she'll kill herself.

She knows, of course, that I paid the money not to kill, but to make her suffer. Guess I didn't think that through. My idea would have worked on a weaker willed woman, or one unused to the notion of personal power. Grimly, I consider if it's because she's a mage. Mages have a strong introspective sense of their abilities and their minds, from the few I've encountered.

I sit upon a bench, covering my temples with my palms. Shame floods me when I reflect upon her, from the tiny snatches of arousal I experienced, from the brief admiration of her soft skin, oval face and dark green eyes, like the seaweed on the beach, or the grass upon our plains.

I shut out her voice when she asks me if I want to know why she killed him, because I know she'll spin me into her web of lies, with that low, sultry voice that sings to some obscure part of my brain.

I don't like that my plan isn't working out the way I intended, though. The only thing I can do is maintain that front, and to keep her in the maid's chamber in my suite instead, because if my father comes in and notices I have my brother's killer chained to a wall, rather than a normal slave girl, he's not going to be pleased.

I hesitate, when I see a thin faced, dark haired woman shuffle through the garden. I think I've seen her before. I stare longer, before I identify her as one of my brother's former slaves. I walk up and grab her roughly by the arm. A thrill of fear slivers through her eyes.

“W-what can I do for you, your highness?”

I examine her features in distaste. Attractive, I suppose, but more my brother's type. “Do you miss working for my brother? He was kind, wasn't he?”

She gives a tremulous gulp, and her eyes fall down to look at the grass. “Yes, highness. Very kind.” I feel the trembles in her arm, and a flash of irritation surges inside. Why can't that woman, that Valerie, be like this? Afraid for her life?

Normal?

Her reaction makes me uncomfortable, feeding the doubts that chew at the back of my mind.

“That's right,” I say to her, though it's more to persuade myself. “My brother would have been a good king. A strong leader. Yartusk always knew how to make a room laugh, to bring smiles onto everyone's faces.” My memories slide to the last major feast we shared together, where we toasted to our father's health and age, for he had turned an impressive seventy years of age. My handsome older brother, with his gleaming blue eyes, his princely smile. He had wrapped a friendly arm around my shoulder and told me that he was glad to have me as his sibling. That I was an inspiration to him.

I'd been so swelled with pride and love.

Then, two weeks later, they found him charred to a crisp on the outskirts of our great city, and a dead-eyed mage next to him, unresisting when they piled on her and dragged her away in chains. It prompted a flurry of amulet wearing through our kingdom, anti-fire charms, and the feeling as if the world had been scooped from under my feet. Our kingdom went into mourning.

All because of her, with her lack of remorse.

I release the slave after demanding her to bring me some food and drink, enough for two in two hours of time. She walks away at a faster pace, and I clench my fists.

I know something isn't right about her reaction. I know she lied. I just don't think it has anything to do with the fire mage killing my brother. The doubts continue hissing, however.

Gathering my cloak behind me, I venture back into the castle, heading straight up to my chambers.

Outside my suite, I address the guards. “Have you already attended to the slave?”

They nod. “Yes, highness. She's been allowed to the bathroom. We also, er, draped a blanket over her. She insisted she was cold.”

They look nervous at this confession. I decide to let it slide. Typical, that she'll exploit them when she can. They're not to blame.

“Thank you. Good work.”

Both guards puff up prouder, the compliment warming them. It gives me an idea as well in how to deal with Valerie.

Maybe if she doesn't care about pain, I could force her to like me instead – then break her heart afterwards.

Yes. That could work.

Inside my chamber, she's asleep, and doesn't react as I quietly close the door. I consider yelling to wake her up, before deciding to just creep along and examine her at close range instead. All along her skin, now that I can check it properly, without her spitting poison at me, is numerous burn marks and scars, blemishes on otherwise perfect, soft flesh. Her vibrant red hair trails over her shoulders, and I can see she has a few snarls from here. She's naked under her blanket, and I remove it to examine her body in full, and feel a small pang of regret.

She's exactly my type. Aside from the whole murdering thing. But there's a deep streak of cruelty there in her mind. Someone used to pain, it seems. I raise a hand to touch her red curls. That's where I've been going wrong. If someone is used to pain, you can't scare them with it. As much as I want to physically maul her, I know it's not going to be the way into her weak, squishy spot. I can't make her suffer like she made my brother.

Not unless I show her some warmth.

But first... my fingers trail over that soft skin. She shivers, and I'm not sure if it's a reaction during her sleep, or if she's awake and pretending to sleep. I behave as if she's unconscious, and take my time exploring this body. It's thin and starved from her stint in jail, but otherwise in relatively good shape. I can fatten her up with some good food, get more to grab hold onto.

It's a shame, really. She looks innocent like this, without that blank anger on her face. You'd never guess that the collar on her neck held back a homicidal type of magic. I don't know what nation she came from, since her skin is ghostly pale compared to the average skin tone we find around these parts. She's obviously come a long way. I wonder how many more bodies she must have left behind.

Why she felt justified in killing the brother I loved.

My hand dips to her core, and I seek out the delicate nub down there, using my finger to lightly probe around it. She lets out a little sigh as I do so, and her legs open wider, sending a shiver of arousal through me.

It really doesn't help that this stupid woman is so attractive. Already, I feel the stirrings of my erection, and it seems my fingers want to work by themselves and do this, to watch how her body reacts under my touch. I should be throwing her to the dogs, but I know as soon as she's exposed to the others in this castle, beyond the guards and servants I've bribed a ridiculous amount of money to keep this quiet, she'll be executed. Which will be inconvenient, to say the least.

She moans slightly, and I feel her getting wet. Irritation and desire rush through me at the same time, creating a strange conflict of emotions. I don't want her to enjoy this. At the same time, the fact she is turns me on.

This person I hate, here for my whims and pleasure, for me to do as I will. Who reacts to my touch so strongly. I stroke her faster there, and she grows slicker. Now her eyes crack open, and she gazes into my eyes with green hazed in lust, and a little bit of anger. I can smell the anger, and it turns me on more, until my erection strains against my pants. The animal part of me is intoxicated by this, to see both the lust and unbridled fury in her expression. She's just as unwilling as I, and equally lacking in control of the reactions of her body, perhaps.

I grin impishly as her as I stroke her faster. She groans and arches her back, toes curling, the chains clanking around her, and I bite my lip. How easy it would be to turn this into a session of intense pain, to hear those moans turn to screams – even with her threat in place, the notion plays across my brain, until I decide that for now, this is more enjoyable.

When her body begins to shudder, and I see her chest heaving up and down, I pull down my pants and plunge inside her, stopping short of the orgasm she was supposed to feel. Digging into her, I devour her body with my sight, primal lust consuming my brain as she twitches and shakes beneath me, gasping in pleasure. It spurs me on, and I reflect back onto the fact that when I first saw her, I was struck at how beautiful she was –

No. I never found her beautiful. Not this murderer. I drive into her until I climax, sighing as the feeling spreads. I don't bother to help her orgasm, and I step backwards and draw up my pants again, content to leave her there unsatisfied, breathing fast. My heart pulses from the excitement, as I ignore whatever she says and head into the bathroom to wash myself down.

When I walk back into the bedroom chamber, she drawls, “Is this basically what you want from me? To be a screwtoy?”

I don't answer, and she continues, “I doubt that was it. I mean, I did kill your brother. You must have been harboring serious slivers of revenge. So far, nothing's impressed me. Maybe you're just a baby bear. Not a grizzly.”

She stabs into my pride with that small statement, and I bare my teeth at her, before reaching into the chest under my bed. I pull out a short riding crop, and then kneel in front of her, pushing the crop against her chin. “You're just asking for it, aren't you?”

In response, she attempts to grab the crop from me. I push her roughly back and raise the crop, slashing it down upon her thighs, before flipping her over, proceeding to spank her on her rear until it's red and raw, and blood wells up beneath the surface.

She gasps and screams the whole while, and I can't tell if it's from the pain or from pleasure. Knowing this witch, it must be pleasure. I check how wet she is, and she's sopping. My arousal comes back, faster than expected, seeing what I've done there, and I grab her stinging ass, and shove myself into her again, snarling as I claw into her back.

Almost as soon as I penetrate her, I feel her shudder and climax, and I don't know how to feel about that.

She's enjoying everything I fling at her. For sun's sake. When I tug her hair back, I see she has an exhilarated grin upon her face, eyes alight with lust. It sends a pang of confusion through my heart, of frustration, even as the sweat pours down my face, and I throw my head back as I climax again, stronger than before, breath panting.

I don't extract myself from her for a moment. What do you do to someone who doesn't care if they're punished? If they relish it?

If they're suspicious enough to guess your motives from the start?

For the first time, I wonder if I've taken more than I can handle.

If somehow, this little witch is more trouble than she's worth.

One thought digs itself into my brain though, past all the desire for revenge, dragging out the notion I usually let drift and die.

When I consider the reaction of my brother's slave, her obvious lie to me, and Valerie's adamant nature, that she holds no regret for what she did to Yartusk, it makes me hesitate. I know I shouldn't listen to the lies, but something doesn't add up.

No. it's just needless suspicions. I have my brother's killer right here. I can't let myself doubt.

Or can I?