Princess of Thieves

by Bella Beaumont

  “None taken. I’m too old.”

  “And with the rumormongers flapping their tongues that we have a figurehead stuck up here, it’s only a matter of time before someone comes up to try to confirm that suspicion,” Stecker continued.

  “What are you trying to say?” Filtray asked, seated on the foot of the bed near Catera. He winced as he shifted his weight, but tried to pass it off as a sickly grin.

  “We’ll need to take the princess back through the front door, gang.”

  All eyes widened at Stecker’s announcement.

  “And,” he added, “we’ve somewhat trapped ourselves up here. Perhaps the least logical part of our nefarious plan.”

  “Hm,” Alberus grunted. “You’re probably right, son. Perhaps we should have planned the rendezvous point a bit better. We’re in uncharted territory. I didn’t expect word of the princess’ capture to spread so fast.”

  “Aye, like wildfire,” Stecker said.

  “Yes, but as pretty a mental picture as that is, it doesn’t help our current predicament,” Nemya said. She stood in a corner of the room with her arms and legs crossed, looking tired but upright.

  The same couldn’t be said for Sala, who was nursing her drunk self on the floor in the center of the room, seated cross-legged with her head wobbling, as if in a dazed meditation.

  “Perhaps if half of you hadn’t taken to ‘celebrating’ your immense efforts so quickly, we wouldn’t be stuck in this position,” Nemya said with a flat tone. Her gaze fell on Filtray, who quickly looked away, blushing, and Sala, who was oblivious to the mean gaze.

  “Ha,” Dered scoffed, rising up from his seat on the tabletop near Alberus’ chair. He thrust a finger in Nemya’s direction. “So says the cocksucker who couldn’t wait to fill her mouth with a guardsmen while we crept over the castle walls. Your superior attitude ill fits you, Nem.”

  “Oh, hush, you big bastard,” Nemya said, pushing herself up from the wall to step toe-to-toe with the larger, taller man. “You’re just jealous it wasn’t your co—”

  “Enough!” Alberus boomed, throwing his hands out, before the argument could escalate. Nemya and Dered were already just inches from each other, and he was worried they might either break into a scuffle or an orgy at any moment. He had seen how the two looked at one another. “This infighting will get us nowhere. Proffering blame is pointless—we’re all at fault for dallying too long here. We already have enough enemies on the other side of that door!”

  Nemya and Dered both frowned, their shoulders sinking. Nodding, Nemya spun around and stormed off back to her corner of the room. She had foregone her Royal Army-issued hauberk and now wore little more than a long tunic to cover her curvy body, plus pants of leather hide.

  Quiet, again. Then, from the bed in a meek voice, “Perhaps we just . . . wait?”

  All eyed turned to Filtray.

  “Excuse me, boy?” Alberus asked, frowning.

  Filtray shrugged. His gaunt cheeks burned red, and it was clear the young man was embarrassed that his salacious expedition next door had been heard by all, if not seen. All of his brothers and sisters knew he was different than the rest, but he typically tried to hide his unorthodox relationships and dalliances from them.

  But he had gotten too drunk, he knew, his inhibitions flying away like a merchant hemorrhaging gold at the marketplace. And the man he had spoken to—he already had forgotten his name; N-No, it was Bino, he said—and subsequently become enslaved to for thirty gratifying minutes, had been so damned charming. And big where it counted. Plus, it wasn’t every day that Filtray could find such a bear of a man who liked to dabble in homosexual tendencies, like he did.

  Filtray had to find his fill, as it were, when he could.

  But now everyone was staring at him incredulously, not thinking about his squeals they’d heard in the room next door, but wondering what he was on about.

  He said, “Well, the patrons in this place have to leave sometime, right? Maybe we just wait up here until it thins out in the lobby, when all the drunks have passed out, and we’ll be okay to walk right through the front door.”

  Alberus thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, son, we can’t rely on that. The Hefty Teat has an influx of patrons at any given hour of the day—you know that. Sex and booze don’t get stale to the peasants of this city. We’re more likely to face torches and pitchforks before that!”

  “Also,” Dered said in a condescending tone, “by that time it may be too late—the king could be onto us, and there could very well be guards stationed at every corner of the city—right out the front door, for all that’s holy. No, time is of the essence, Fil.”

  The usually-flamboyant and lackadaisical young man nodded his understanding, his shoulders and head slumping. He looked strangely vulnerable.

  Throughout the entire brainstorming session, Princess Catera had stayed silent, but Stecker noticed her gaze falling on him a few times, as if she expected him to come up with a plan.

  It’s not like she can exactly try to help us with planning her own abduction, he thought. Not while her secret remains with me only . . . that this kidnapping was wished upon. No, to all outward appearances, she must remain sullen and angry on the bed there.

  He took a long look at every man and woman in the room—Filtray with his, quite literally, aching and hurt ass on the bed; Nemya, defensive and angry in the corner; Dered with his holier-than-thou stance; Alberus, cogs grinding in his head, hunched over on the chair; Princess Catera with her knees drawn up on the bed; Sala, a wobbling heap in the center of the room.

  His eyes lingered on Sala for a moment, as he was worried she might topple over—her meditative stance was interesting, eyes closed, perhaps trying to will herself to sobriety.

  Poor Sala—how quickly she went from being the center of attention downstairs, a rambling mess, to a cum-drunk tool screaming her content in the bedrooms . . .

  Furrowing his brow, wiping the smirk away from his face, Stecker tilted his head. His mind clicked, an idea coming to him.

  “I have a proposition,” he said, drawing all eyes to him once more.

  Glancing out the corner of his eye, Stecker saw how the princess’ face lit up at his declaration.

  “Oh? The Hero of the Siblinghood has an idea, everyone,” Dered said, jealousy clear in his tone.

  “Shut it, Dered,” Alberus growled. “You’ve said quite enough for the evening, and if I have to watch your pretty mouth open one more time, I might be of a mind to stick something into it . . .”

  Nemya snickered from the corner.

  Dered’s face twisted in a grimace. It wasn’t often that he was chastised by the boss he respected so much, much less twice in one night.

  “It’s funny you should say that, Dered,” Stecker said, “because the plan involves you.”

  Dered’s grimace deepened.

  “What is it?” Nemya drawled, rolling her eyes. “The suspense is too much.”

  Stecker said, “What is our biggest strength as a group, people?”

  Sighing, Alberus waved his hand at the excited young man. “Don’t, Steck. Please, don’t do this. None of us want to think.”

  Annoyed that his moment of showing off in front of the princess was dashed, Stecker said, “Fine. It’s improvisation. We’re masters at it—and little else, I might add. So, I suggest we use it now by causing a diversion downstairs, while the rest of us sneak by with the princess in tow.”

  “And what, pray tell, would this diversion consist of?” Alberus asked.

  “Well, like I said, Dered—inarguably the handsomest of our crew.” Stecker watched as Dered’s ugly grimace finally softened into something resembling acceptance. Stecker then looked down at Sala, who had stopped wobbling in place and now just sat there with a blank expression on her face.

  It was her sorry state that gave me this idea to begin with, he thought. The poor big oaf.

  “And Sala,” he said, his finger spinning a circle before whirling down to res
t near the large woman’s face.

  Sala snapped out with her neck like a turtle and pretended to bite his finger off, which caused Stecker to jump back in alarm, his face askew.

  “How are you feeling now, Sala, after your lewd display—”

  “Fine, shrimp,” the woman said in a raspy voice. “And don’t you dare mention my escapades without mentioning your own involvement, Steck—as a dinky voyeur.”

  Stecker nearly gasped. H-How did she know I’d been watching? His glance shot over to Catera, who fixed him with a narrowed look, as if she was disappointed in him. Reminder, Steck—don’t trust Sala’s appearance as being inebriated beyond reproach. She’s a sneaky one, just like the rest of us.

  “R-Right, well,” Stecker said, blushing. “That’s what I’d expect you to say. Er, about being fine. You’re always fine, woman.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she growled.

  “Anyway!” Stecker said, raising his finger once more. “Dered, Sala, you provide the diversion. It was only hours ago that Sala was the prime focus of every man and woman down there, as she regaled them of our tales of shadowy deeds. And Dered, as the looker of the crew, can aid in that.”

  Dered frowned. “What are you thinking, Steck? A faked bar fight, perhaps?”

  Stecker shook his head. “No, no, those are all too common, man. You wouldn’t get anything more than a passing glance from a few weary customers. We need something that will be . . . a complete debacle, unable to turn away from. Something more . . . resonant.”

  His eyes switched between the two—Sala sitting on the floor, Dered standing above her. Then his eyes fell somewhere between them both, and Dered seemed to catch the drift.

  “Ah.” He smiled darkly. “I see. Yes, I think that just might work.”

  “What might work?” Alberus asked, throwing his hands up in the air. “Are you all speaking a code I’m unaware of? Because you’re making little sense.”

  “Never mind the details, boss,” Dered said, waving his hand. “Just be ready to flee the tavern when the ‘debacle,’ as Stecker calls it, breaks loose.”

  He then bent down and spoke into Sala’s ear.

  The woman grunted, and Stecker realized it was a chuckle. “Yes, of course. I should have expected nothing less from a man like Stecker.” She groaned as she rose to her feet, one palm on the floor for support.

  “So, are you game?” Dered asked.

  Sala scoffed, then cracked her knuckles loudly in front of her. “Of course I’m game, you pretty pervert.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dered strode down the steps, every bit of confidence in his swaggering descent. When he came to the foot of the staircase, he looked up and saw that more than a few eyes were turned toward him.

  He lifted a single thin brow on his handsome face. His sword was still strapped to his hip, and Dered Brich was known as a man who wasn’t afraid to use it. He’d been in brawls before in the Hefty Teat and other brothels, usually to defend his honor, or a woman’s.

  In all honesty, Dered was a man with thin skin. He acted tough—was a fantastic swordsman and lover, in his own estimation—but was always worried what others thought of him. It was the reason he seemed so mouthy to the rest of the Siblinghood.

  He would never announce his insecurities, of course, because that would just invite ridicule from his peers. What on Carroen’s hairy tits could you possibly have to be insecure about, Dered? they would say. Aww, the poor pretty boy is hurt.

  But Dered was ever fighting to win the approval of his mates, and would do anything to get it. That also included standing up for them—as often as he argued with Nemya or the others, he would lay on his sword for the other Solvers, the men and women who had given him the life he lived.

  He only got in tiffs with Nemya so often because he found her immensely attractive and wasn’t used to having to woo women. They usually globbed onto him . . .

  Why must she play hard to get . . . all the time? Doesn’t she know what witnessing her lewd actions this night did to me—to my resolve?

  Grunting, Dered suddenly found that he wanted to unsheathe his sword and glide it across the throats of the men and women staring at him.

  But he held back.

  With a cheery look on his face, he said, “Is there something wrong, comrades? Something on my face?”

  One of the bare-breasted whores sneered. “Yes, two piercing eyes I wouldn’t mind rubbing my tits onto, sir.”

  Dered’s face lurched back at the unusual—but slightly erotic—comment.

  At that moment a large shadow was casting over him, from Sala as she made her way down the stairs in his wake. Her face was disheveled, her hair unkempt, and she frowned at the sea of faces staring at her.

  Two men near the back of the tavern actually clapped at her arrival, then yipped like hounds. “Ah, there she is! We were wondering when the cream-filled whore would awaken from her oblivion!” It was the two men who had spitroasted her in the bedroom above, Sala recalled vaguely. Now, they stared at her with dark faces, as if they wanted more.

  “We ‘eard y’all mavericks might be holin’ up someone ‘portant up there,” an incredibly drunk man said to Dered. He had two teeth, total, in his black mouth. Maybe three.

  “Pardon, my good man?” Dered asked in a booming voice, so all could hear. More faces were turning toward him and Sala at the stairs as conversations died down.

  “A sorceress, methinks!” one man shouted, raising his hand.

  “Nay, a witch! They’re harboring a witch!” a whore said, cackling as she wagged her fingers into the air. “Why else would she come sweeping in here with a black hood and nary a look at’er face?”

  Other patrons of the tavern laughed with her.

  It seems Stecker might have been right, Dered thought, eyes going from face to face. They’ve been left down here, drunk and rambling, to come to their own deluded conclusions . . . we should have kept a man down here to temper their illusions. Another misstep.

  Sala suddenly slapped Dered’s rump, causing the tall man to bump forward a step, hands rising in alarm. She shouldered her way past him, heading for the bar.

  “Barkeep, another Dark, if you please!” she shouted, gesturing toward the man behind the bar, who was toweling down mugs.

  The bartender frowned, nodded, and sloshed a cup of midnight-colord ale in her direction.

  When Sala turned around, she pointed with her mug at Dered and yelled, “This man here—this pretty, beautiful youth—believes himself to be a god among men, ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Horseshit!” a drunk man cried out. “Everyone knows, blech, that the tall handsome ones got the tiniest worm-cocks!”

  Sala slurped at her beer, her eyes ablaze. She wiped a forearm across her mouth, then smiled and shrugged. “He says he can dick me down better than those two idiots at the end of the bar ever could!”

  “Hearsay!” This coming from the skinny man who had recently had his cock jammed down Sala’s throat, and then curving into her anus. “Everyone here heard your yelps and screams from upstairs! Don’t lie about the pleasure we gave you, ya big wench!”

  Sala snorted, then downed her ale. Her attempt to change the subject from Princess Catera upstairs had been successful, but now it threatened to return to the second story with the man’s claims.

  “True, you two gave me a good roll in the sheets,” she muttered, turning around and facing the barkeep.

  Dered growled, then stormed toward her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Everyone watched him angrily approach the backside of the muscled woman, their eyes dancing with glee. A couple drunken mouths were open—blank, dazed visages.

  “You dare question the power of my lust, tart? The strength of my appendage?” he called out loudly, making sure everyone heard. His face was a mix of mock anger and . . . something else, which quickly became clear.

  Sala waved a hand over her shoulder, in an attempt to shoo him off.

  Dered bared his teeth. He then rea
ched out and grabbed Sala’s hips, abruptly tugging upward.

  Sala’s leather half-skirt, which acted as armor for her thighs, was lifted up past her hips to reveal those strong, hulking hams she called legs, and her bare, toned ass the size of giant melons.

  Her rear-end instinctively flexed, the cheeks going concave at the fleshiest parts.

  Then Dered was pushing her forward on the empty stool nearest her, close to the bar. On the other side, the barkeep’s eyes widened, but he stayed quiet and kept toweling mugs as he watched.

  “Oh!” Sala cried out, feigning surprise.

  She was bent over the barstool by Dered’s strong hands. He cupped her hips and pulled her rump upwards, angling her asscheeks into the air. The upper half of her body hung over the other end of the chair.

  Dered crouched and licked his lips as he looked down at Sala’s inviting buttocks.

  Sala was turning her head to reprimand him from over her shoulders, her eyebrows narrowed.

  But then Dered’s face shot forward. He plunged his mouth in between Sala’s cheeks as he spread them apart with both hands. His tongue darted into her asshole without warning.

  A collective gasp arose from the stunned audience watching. One man dropped a mug and it clanked and rolled to the ground, emptying its frothy contents onto the sticky wooden floor.

  Dered’s handsome face had completely disappeared between Sala’s asscheeks. His tongue roved and toyed with the large woman’s dark hole, licking and slurping at the tender skin. While he rimmed the thick woman, the rest of his features were flattened into those billowing buttocks.

  His tongue made circles inside Sala’s anus, his face animated and moving rapidly. Sala pushed back with her rear-end, inviting Dered to go deeper with his long, wet tongue.

  The muscle was strong—he’d had plenty of practice going down on women in his lifetime, but typically on the other end. Here, however, he wanted to give the peeping audience something they’d never forget. Something that would keep their attention. Thus, a diddling tongue in the ass to make her squeal with delight. And this time, it wasn’t a faux expression.