“And the guards watching her door, Rink?” Cartherus mumbled, his voice muffled by his beard and his tapping fingers.
“In the dungeon, sire, as you commanded. Naked, strewn up, bound and gagged. The flesh flayed from their bodies, beginning to rot, I should think.” The advisor nodded slowly.
“And?”
“And yet, no word of their betrayal. The one guard claims that the princess wished to go to the kitchens to speak with the head cook, Larmel, to surprise the castle inhabitants with an exquisite breakfast this morning. She has not been seen since.”
Cartherus grunted. “And the man fell for that ruse? By the gods, the wretched fool. Did he not insist on following her?”
“He says he did. But she insisted otherwise.”
“As she would,” the king said. He tilted his head, sighing. “Well, he will be the first man to die, of course. And what of this chef, Larmel? Have you rounded him up?”
“Indeed, sire, but our investigation yields that she never made it to the kitchen, of course. Larmel claims to have never seen Princess Catera—and besides, he was surrounded by all his other cooks. They all confirmed his claim. Unless they are all in conspiracy together—”
Another grunt from the king. “Unlikely, indeed. The name, Larmel . . . I recognize it. He’s been with this house before my reign began, yes?”
Rink bowed his head. “Since the Pretender, Contrus, Your Majesty.”
Cartherus shifted his considerable weight on the throne. It was a gold-bedecked chair, glittering with precious gemstones. The king was a hefty man, wide around the waist and belly from his decadent, lazy, sedentary lifestyle. “Perhaps it’s time we replace the kitchen staff with servants of our own. I don’t trust them.”
Rink gulped. “T-That, er, is possible, my lord.” The advisor particularly liked Larmel’s food, and no one in the household had ever been poisoned, so . . .
“However,” the advisor continued, “I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to, at the moment.” In truth, he didn’t care for the dispensable lives of the cooking staff—he just didn’t want to take the time to round them up, kill them all, and find replacements. If the king insisted, perhaps it would be something the royal advisor delegated. He had grown indolent during his own time by the king’s side, reflecting Cartherus’ behavior.
“Know your place, Rink. I’ll be the one who decides what is pressing and what is not,” Cartherus growled.
Rink bowed low, sweat beading his upper lip. “Y-Yes, of course, my lord. My deepest apologies. My intent was not to offend, I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, weasel.” The king waved the advisor off with a flick of his stubby fingers. He scratched a welt on his neck, hidden beneath his beard. “I need time to think on this. Is that all?”
Rink opened his mouth then closed it, scared to speak. He knew he should push for urgency, for the king’s sake, but he was frightened of the man—as everyone was.
Cartherus saw his trepidation and rolled his eyes. “Out with it, man.”
“It’s only this, sire. I would not be doing my duty if I did not implore you to make haste with your decision regarding Princess Catera’s disappearance. Word will get out of her vanishing act—I have no doubt, my lord. But if we are proactive in the near future, perhaps we can mitigate . . . undesirable actions. Spin this in the right way, as it were.”
Cartherus listened with half-slitted eyes. He wanted to ring the skinny man’s neck, not because he’d done anything wrong, but because the king was angry that his advisor was correct, as usual.
He knew that the young bitch’s disappearance could have reverberating ramifications on the city. What would the townsfolk think when they learned that the king could not even keep his heir in line? Could not keep a mere woman under lock and key?
Yes, when this is all over . . . that’s exactly where Catera will reside . . . under lock and key. And perhaps with a hood over her face and chain wrapped around her neck, keeping her to the bedpost in her chambers . . .
The awful wench.
Rink saw the darkening of his king’s face, then bowed again. “That is all I wished to say, my lord. If you will, I’ll go tend to the guardsmen, to make sure no new information has arisen.”
“Begone, then, Rink,” Cartherus grunted, staring down the dais at his advisor. He flicked his hand at the skinny man.
As Rink turned around, the double-doors to the throne room flew open and Queen Yira strode in. She was high with color in the face, exasperated, and clearly harboring a hot fury.
Though past her fortieth year, the former wife of King Torace Contrus, now the wife of Cartherus, was still beautiful. Her regal face, small nose, high cheeks and graying red hair were where Catera and Ocena got their looks. Tall, stately, with a sweeping red dress trailing her, clutched in both hands, she looked every bit a queen.
And an angry one.
Rink’s eyes widened at the approaching woman, who was looking through him, past him, to the king. The advisor tried to move out of her effortless march, but was not quick enough, and Yira’s shoulder collided with him, nearly knocking him over.
Queen Yira growled, “Out of the way, you miserable toad.”
Rink sputtered. “I-I-I was just leaving, Your Highness!”
“Then get!” Yira yelled, raising her hand as if to slap the skeletal man.
Rink spun, nursing his aching shoulder, and hurried toward the doors, happy to quit the place before emotions ran rampant, as he was sure they would.
Queen Yira had not seen the king since finding out about her missing daughter. As she approached the dais and gained the three marble steps leading to the throne—without admission—Cartherus raised his eyebrows.
In the face of Yira’s utter rage—the wrath of a mother scorned plain on her elegant face—Cartherus remained calm and collected. Inside, his heart pounded, and he repositioned himself on the chair to adopt a more royal stature, his back straight and his hands falling to his knees.
“Wife,” Cartherus grunted.
“Husband,” Yira spat, in much more volume. “What are you doing, sitting there like nothing is wrong?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Yira clenched her jaw, the muscles in her face bulging, her neck going taut. “Our daughter is missing, you buffoon! What are you doing about it?!”
The king ground his teeth together, his mouth clamped shut. He didn’t appreciate this loud woman’s abrasive behavior—not one bit. “She’s your daughter, Yira.”
“And she’s your heir, dammit!”
A flash of a smirk twitched on the king’s face. “For now.”
Yira’s eyes widened. “By all the chaos on Carroen, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Cartherus said, waving her off.
“Why do you show so little emotion, Cartherus?” Yira took another step forward, so she was only a few feet from the throne, staring down at the big man she called a husband. It had not been her decision to marry this man, of course, but after the murder of her first husband, well . . . she didn’t want to lose her position as queen, and she wanted to give her daughters as good a chance at a highborn life as she could. It was for their sake that she’d stooped so low as to wed the brute.
“Oh? And what emotion should I be showing, Yira? Shrill shouting and wild gesticulations? Perhaps fear and fright?”
“Yes! All of it! You should be angry, damn you! Furious!”
“It’s not your place to tell me how to react—”
“Unless you’re part of this little scheme,” Yira interrupted, her eyes narrowing. She tilted her head slightly, a frown on her pretty face. She looked like she’d aged years in a matter of minutes, which didn’t bode well with the king, who already saw her as less than pleasant.
“What did you say?” Cartherus growled, leaping up from his seat. Though the queen was tall, the king was taller, and he now stood with bent knees, his royal red cloak billowing out behind him. His large hands clenched i
nto fists near his large belly. “How dare you, hag! Watch your filthy tongue!”
But Queen Yira was not one to back down to confrontation—especially when it concerned her daughters, or the whereabouts of one of them. She also knotted her slender hands into fists, and felt ready to pounce on this tub of sweating lard.
Tears swelled in the corners of Yira’s eyes, but had not yet spilled. Misty-eyed, she thrust a finger toward the king. “While you lie about and cavort with your stepdaughter like some godless heathen, tarnishing the name of the kingdom, your heir has vanished from right under your nose!”
Cartherus growled and launched himself forward, bumping his stomach into Yira. She stumbled back a step, but not off the stairs, and stood her ground, going toe-to-toe with the tall man and craning her neck up to scold him. She could feel the stank breath of the vicious man roiling over her face.
“Yes, well, if you weren’t such a dried up crone, perhaps I wouldn’t need to rut with your daughter!” he shouted.
Yira’s mouth fell open in shock and awe. “H-How dare you!” Before she knew what she was doing, her right arm was swinging round to slap the man across the face.
But Cartherus saw what his offensive words would bring, and he was prepared. Yira was not normally a violent woman . . . but he was typically a violent man.
Hand snapping out, he caught Yira’s forearm before her palm could make contact with his cheek. He held it roughly in place, his stubby fingers biting into her skin.
Her face twisted in pain. “Y-You bastard! How could you be so cruel and awful?”
Cartherus scoffed. “Me? You have the wrong man, dear wife of mine!” His round face hovered just inches from hers, the prickly long beard poking Yira.
“Yes, I’ve always known I had the wrong man . . . ever since you took Torace from me . . .” she muttered.
What Yira didn’t expect was the violent reaction her muttering brought out in the king. She had expected her goading—his lack of foresight about Catera, his awful pseudo-incestuous ways with Ocena—to have the desired effect of riling him up . . . but not this.
She knew her mistake then, could see it in Cartherus’ flashing eyes.
Yira knew she should have known better than to compare Cartherus to Torace . . . especially when that comparison was unfavorable to the current jealous king.
Baring his teeth, the king reached out with his other hand, surprisingly fast, and caught Yira’s other arm. He held both of them now, controlling the woman like a marionette.
With a guttural sound from his throat, the king spun the woman around and tossed her at the golden throne.
Yira stumbled forward and flew, eyes widening. She reached out and caught herself with her palms, smacking hard into the seat of the throne before her face could smash against it.
She tried to whip her head around, but then a strong hand was clenching her neck and pushing down, and there was little she could do to stop it. Panic rose in her chest as her lips were made to kiss the seat where Cartherus had just been sitting.
And then she felt a bare breeze—her red dress lifted past her legs, revealing her stockings and powerful thighs. Her eyes darted around but could see nothing besides the blackened gold in front of her.
She struggled, but he was too strong.
“You’ve always begged me to take you instead of your precious daughter, Yira . . . so why do you struggle now?” Cartherus said cruelly, in little more than a whisper.
When Yira tried to retort, the king simply clamped down harder on her neck, and all that came from her throat was a whimper.
She felt his large bulge press against her bared bottom, her dress now hiked up over her hips, bunched together on the small of her back.
Grunting, the king reached into his trousers and hoisted his package out into the open air, without pulling his pants down. His cock was already hardening as it pressed against the dark crevice separating the queen’s buttocks.
The large appendage was thick, sweaty, and Yira could smell it from where she bent over the throne, wafting between her legs in a cloud. She closed her eyes as she felt the bulbous cockhead press against her dry muff, pushing the folds of her vagina apart.
Cartherus soared forward and entered her, drawing a sharp yelp from the queen. He hovered over her body, crouched and bent over her as he held her head down onto his throne seat. His belly rubbed against her wide rear-end.
“N-Nooo,” Yira whispered in a raspy voice.
The king leaned forward, until his lips were next to her ears. He nibbled on her earlobe as he grunted and thrust forward, filling her pussy with his girth. “No? But I thought you wanted this, so Ocena would be spared . . .” he said darkly, a cruel giddiness in his voice.
The king’s red cloak hid both of them, draped over them like a blanket. Two of the king’s guards were stationed at the far end of the room, and they just watched with blank expressions as the king had his way with his wife.
“Y-Yes,” Yira amended, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please . . . use me, Your Highness.”
In her mind, if it meant that poor Ocena would get even one day of respite from this brutal barbarian . . . then it was worth it. She tried not to think about the gross sounds coming from Cartherus’ sweaty body, or the way his slick skin punched against her wobbling ass with every thrust.
But after a few moments, when she heard the squelching wet sound of her own pussy, the slapping knock of Cartherus’ heaving nutsack against her large ass . . . she knew her body had betrayed her.
Her groans turned to moans. As much as she wanted to keep it to herself—the pleasure she was suddenly feeling from her twisted husband’s large manhood—she couldn’t.
It made her feel like a concubine—a common whore—being bent over the throne chair and stuffed, his shaft stretching her cunt apart. But there was a part of her, a filthy, untouchable part of her, that loved the sensation.
The guards were forced to watch as their king raped his own wife. The position of her being fucked like a dog in the public throne room—not even their own bedroom—she knew it was deranged and humiliating, but she couldn’t help the lustful feeling that arose within her.
It was something she’d never proclaim aloud, but a truth that was hard to hide from her twisting face and panting moans.
Yira felt him caress her smooth buttocks with a hand, then spank her hard. She yelped in surprise as her ass jiggled and sent ripples down the length of her body. Her skin was cold, on edge, yet her body sweated. Her cloak had been thrown aside, to reveal her white rump to any who would look.
Their slippery royal flesh melded with one another, the king rubbing his belly across her asscheeks as he bucked his hips into her.
He grunted and rutted like a pig, sweaty and without any tenderness in his movements. He kept quiet throughout, even though his wife was starting to grow damp with pleasure and her shrill cries indicated how she really felt about the whole ordeal.
Queen Yira typically had paramours and courtesans to satiate her every need—secretive men who would come to relieve her, fill her, and then vanish without a trace.
It had been some time since she had performed any kind of sex with her husband—especially an act as lewd as this.
Her hands reached out and grabbed both arms of the throne, clutching down with white knuckles. The king laughed as he saw her hold on, her body thrusting forward with every powerful blow from him, until her head was almost knocking into the back of the chair. She was huffing now, guffawing in a breathless way with each heavy thrust that sent the king’s cock deeper into her warm canal.
From the shadows of the room, hiding behind a column near one of the guards, Rink watched, licking his lips. He had not left the room . . . entirely . . . as demanded by his queen. He didn’t take orders from that bitch—his duty was by King Cartherus’ side.
The royal advisor was pleased to see the king take matters into his own hands, putting the bitch in her place. While Rink wasn’t exactly approving of his king�
��s actions with Princess Ocena—though he understood the strategy—this was something else entirely.
His bony hand disappeared into his trousers, started rubbing his own stiff package as he watched King Cartherus drill into that mouthy whore.
Rink knew all about Yira’s nighttime activities with her confidants . . . the liaisons and rendezvous with her secretive lovers. It was the man’s job to know everything that went on in the castle, after all.
He had been waiting for the perfect time to unleash his cryptic knowledge to the king, to shame the queen and finish her once and for all—but he’d yet to find the perfect time. And with Princess Catera’s sudden disappearance the night before, he doubted it would come anytime soon.
More . . . pressing matters . . . at hand, Rink thought, nodding to himself as he masturbated in his breeches. His leathery tongue licked his parched, cracked lips once more, wetting them as the grunting and moaning cries echoed through the throne room.
And from the very back of the room, hidden behind the double-doors with her back to the wall, Princess Ocena listened to the goings-on in the throne room with tears streaming down her face.
Chapter Ten
“A problem,” Stecker said, raising a finger to draw the attention of the rest of the gang. The entire six-man Solver Siblinghood, plus Princess Catera, were stuffed into the small bedroom, seated about and lying around, waiting for Alberus’ decision.
The leader raised his head from his forward-leaning position on the chair. His hands had been cradling his prickly chin, lost in thought.
“I’ve been downstairs,” Stecker said, once he had everyone’s attention, “and I hear the murmurs bubbling up—‘who was that fair hooded lass swept in here like a noblewoman?’ ‘Perhaps she was a noblewoman.’ ‘Perhaps she was more—royalty, even.’”
“We catch your point, Steck,” Dered droned.
“Yes, well.” Stecker pointed at the opened window. “We can’t exactly take to the roof with Alberus and the princess—no offense, Alb.”
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