To the Princess Bound (Terms of Mercy)

by Sara King

  “Keep your voice down,” Victory growled, motioning at the Praetorian to stay back. “The house Praetorian are not allied to my brother or I, only to the Imperial House. These women around us wear the phoenix egg—it symbolizes my personal crest. You can trust them. They were sworn to me at my birth, and have served me since they were able. The ones down there belong to the house, and the phoenix upon their chests bears no nest or egg.”

  Dragomir frowned down at the black-armored women. “Now that you mention it, I recognize the one who tried to break my elbow.”

  “I have given orders for my personal guard not to hurt you,” Victory said. “That will not carry over to the house guard, as my father’s orders will overrule mine for those allied to the house.”

  Dragomir narrowed his blue eyes. “So keep my mouth shut and my head down around them. Gotcha.”

  “I also discovered while you slept that you can trust my brother’s guard, as well,” Victory said. “If you see a Praetorian wearing a dragon with his feet wrapped around an emerald blade, it means that the man was sworn into his service, personally. If he gives the man an order, he will follow it, even if it means his death.”

  Dragomir turned and gave her a long stare. “This is not putting food in my gut.”

  Provincials. Making a disgusted noise, Victory brushed past him down the staircase.

  “How many Praetorian in your personal guard?” he asked, as he followed.

  “Twenty,” Victory said, before she caught herself. Frowning, she glanced back up at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I only ever see four at a time. Thought I saw different faces. Was just wondering if there were more.”

  She watched him a moment, suspicious, then continued her march down the staircase, spine as straight as she could make it go. Once the house guard tried to fall in around her, however, she said in Imperial, “The slave and I will be sightseeing. I will be bringing my personal guard. The rest stay.”

  The house guard gave each other nervous looks. “We were instructed to guard you on your journey, milady.” Which meant that her father had told them to ensure she didn’t eat unless it was at regular meals, at his table.

  “You will stay here,” Victory said. “It is late, and I am not interested in a great parade.” She started moving forward, and watched with falling hopes as the Praetorian started to fall in behind her anyway.

  Then Lion, captain of Victory’s Praetorian, stepped forward and snapped, “You heard the princess. Back to positions.”

  There was a tense moment between the two factions, as her house guard and her personal guard faced off. As if she weren’t nervously awaiting the result, Victory kept moving.

  With Lion being the ranking Praetorian, however, the house guard stepped down.

  “Thank you,” Victory whispered, once they were out of earshot.

  She thought she saw the glimpse of a smile cross Lion’s no-nonsense face as she marched beside her. “I live to serve, Princess.”

  After a moment, Dragomir leaned down and into her ear asked, “What was that all about?”

  “Technically, we’re cheating,” Victory said. “My father stated that I would only eat if I came out of my room for meals. He meant, of course, that I eat every meal at his table, during mealtime, or not at all. I’m taking him a bit more literally.” She winked at Dragomir. “It’s a habit my brother and I got into, as kids. Often, my father’s bane is in the details. He completely overlooks the small stuff sometimes.”

  “How far to the kitchens?” Dragomir asked.

  Victory made a disgusted sigh and peered over her shoulder at him. “You really do have a one-track mind, don’t you?”

  He patted his chiseled—and bruised—abdomen. “She’s hungry.”

  “Ugh!” she cried. “Men!” She had turned on heel and taken three steps before she realized he was chuckling behind her.

  “Do you realize,” he said, “That we’ve passed three different males in the hall so far, and you haven’t even noticed?”

  Victory opened her mouth to tell him he was an ignorant native fool, then froze. She glanced behind them at a quickly-disappearing form in the darkened hall.

  “That was one of them,” Dragomir confirmed. “He saw you coming and bolted.”

  Victory stared at him. “You healed me?” Gratitude began welling up from within, mixing with the delicious warmth that still heated her chest.

  Dragomir made a sour face. “Unfortunately, no. Your body’s going to run out of energy again here soon, and I’ll have to repeat the treatment. You’ll never be truly fixed until we get those ramas open and working again.”

  The thought of falling prey to the horrible images of her past once more left Victory feeling sick. “Slave,” she said, “You keep that from happening again, and I swear to you that your hands will stay free.”

  Instead of grinning, like she expected, he simply glowered at her. “Bound and helpless,” he growled. Then he looked down at his hands. “Well, not so helpless.” He gave her an evil grin.

  Victory blinked, suddenly terrified that she wasn’t terrified. He was huge, he was a native, he was naked, and he was bound to her waist, and his arms were free and…

  Dragomir whistled a pleasant tune and shuffled past her.

  Victory stared until he paused and gave a slight tug on the chain, jerking the belt around her waist. “You coming, Princess?” he asked. “‘Cause that offer to drag you’s still open.” When she only gaped at him, he shrugged and started walking again.

  Fuming, Victory trotted up beside him before he toppled her over. “You are a cad,” she growled. “An absolute—”

  Dragomir twisted and kissed her. On the face. His big hand wrapped in her hair, his big body pulling her close.

  Time stopped for Victoria, and all she could think was that her Praetorian were going to kill him.

  Then Dragomir released her and grinned. “But thanks, Princess. I think I can manage that.” Whistling again, he kept walking, big arms swinging.

  Victoria’s heart was hammering in her chest so hard that she didn’t hear her Praetorian’s question at first.

  “Are you all right, Princess?” Lion asked. “Did he hurt you?”

  She glanced blankly at her Praetorian, who was watching Dragomir depart with something between astonishment and Death on her face. “Huh?” Her brain was still fuzzy.

  “Did he hurt you?” Lion demanded.

  Flushed, Victoria said, “Uh…” Then she realized the chain was about to snap taut again and, letting out a squeal, raced to catch up, giggling. “You cad!” she cried again, whacking him on the arm. “I’ll lead.”

  “Probably better if you did,” Dragomir said, “’Cause I have no idea where the hell I’m going.” He didn’t slow his shuffle at all.

  Victory had taken another few steps before she realized that her Praetorian were not following. When she looked back, she saw four mouths agape, four hardened, lifetime-soldiers staring at her like she’d grown a foot between her eyes.

  Seeing their stunned expressions, Victory giggled again. “This way.” She grabbed Dragomir’s arm and tugged him through a smaller hallway, toward the kitchens.

  Shaking themselves, her Praetorian jogged to catch up.

  They found the kitchens shut down, the stoves and grills cold. Victory snuck in and flipped on the lights, half-expecting to get scolded by the cook. Seeing the thin woman’s domain unguarded, Victory grinned and started rummaging through bins.

  Dragomir glanced around the kitchen like a panther that had suddenly been dropped into a den of lions. “Uh,” he said, “this place is huge.”

  “Just start opening up cabinets,” Victory said. “There’s crackers and things.”

  Dragomir turned to stare at her as if she had lost her mind. “You’ve got a kitchen like this and you’re going to eat crackers?”

  Victory frowned at him. “Well, I’d eat pastries, but I don’t know where Cook put them. Probably gave the leftovers to s
taff.”

  “By the gods’ stale nutsacks, woman, get out of my way.” He brushed past her and grabbed one of the skillets from the rack. She watched as he set it down on the burner and went rummaging through the wall of cool-boxes, picking out foodstuffs here and there as he went.

  Nervously, Victory said, “Um… What are you doing?”

  “Feeding us,” Dragomir said. He held up a chunk of raw flesh sitting in a glass dish, in a pool of blood. “What kind of meat is this?”

  Victory gagged. “I don’t know!”

  Shrugging, he tossed it on the pile. “You know where the cook keeps his spices?”

  “What spices?” Victory said, with a small frown.

  But he had already started sifting through the cabinets, plucking out bottles here and there.

  Victory watched him, curious, as he rubbed butter into the bottom of the skillet and flicked on the burner. Behind her, the Praetorian had come inside, probably to assure that the Emp wasn’t going to start playing with knives.

  When he did start playing with knives, they quickly positioned themselves between the man and herself, blocking her view.

  “Oh would you just get out of the way!” Victoria cried, pushing past the Praetorian to see the vegetable that Dragomir was chopping. “What are you making?”

  “Spaghetti,” he said, popping a mushroom into his mouth, then rolling his eyes with pleasure as he chewed it.

  Obviously, Victory thought, he had lived a sheltered life. She told him as much.

  He shrugged and went back to work dicing. “We usually only make spaghetti on feast days, and it’s a whole village affair. Everybody chips in a little bit of everything. I usually throw a goat or two into the pot.”

  Victory’s stomach twisted. “Goat?” she demanded, in disgust.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s gonna probably take an hour or so, so snack on something if you need to.” As he spoke, he handed her a slice of red bell pepper.

  Victoria stared down at the pepper. She saw no dip, no oils or cheese within reach. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Eat it,” he said, already chopping up another onion.

  She sniffed it, then took a tentative nibble. Without dips, cheese, or oils to accent the flavor, she wrinkled her nose and managed politely, “It’s…fresh.”

  He dumped the onion into the pan and started cutting olives. “Considering the Imperium steals two thirds of the crops of most of Mercy, it better be.”

  Victory made an indignant scoff. “You have yet to prove that the tax rates are so high.”

  Dragomir pulled a pot from the rack and started throwing tomatoes and vegetables into it. “That snooty woman with the stick up her ass didn’t bring any records back with her, did she?”

  Victory frowned. “Don’t be rude. Her name is Kiara.” But now that she was thinking about it, Kiara hadn’t brought the subject up again, and it wasn’t like Kiara not to be on top of things. Eight years under her watchful eye as her student had taught Victory that the woman had an amazing eye for detail, and she never forgot a task.

  Dragomir shrugged. “I don’t like her. I can’t understand what she’s saying to you, but I don’t like the feel I get off of her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Victory snorted. “I’ve known Kiara since I was a child. She helped raise me.”

  “Raised by wolves doesn’t make you a wolf,” Dragomir said.

  Victory, uncomfortable, nodded at the food. “It smells okay.”

  He grinned at her shyly. “It’s not often I can cook for someone. Even when I was home—” He slowed, his voice dropping soberly. “Even when I was at home, I didn’t have anyone.”

  Strangely, she got the sense that he was lying.

  He glanced at her, his face clearing. “You’re right, you know. Being an Emp in the colony isn’t just like having blonde hair, instead of brown. People look at you differently. They give you a wide berth. They…” He gave a soft chuckle down at the meat he was cubing. When he looked up at her, there was pain in his gaze. “They don’t want you around their daughters unless it’s to cure them of some ill.”

  “You?” Victory snorted. “You’re harmless.”

  He raised a thick black brow at her. “That’s not what you were saying yesterday.”

  “I changed my mind,” Victory said, plucking a mushroom out of the sizzling skillet. She blew on it carefully, then tasted it. “I never watched anybody cook before,” she said, peering around his elbow as he finished browning the meat and dumped it into the pot with the rest of the veggies. She leaned against the counter, enthralled, as he dumped a couple cups of wine into the pot and started to stir. “How do you know when it’s done?”

  Dragomir rummaged for a lid and dropped it atop the pot, then turned toward her to lean against the counter, facing her. He had a handful of walnuts in one hand, and was popping them into his mouth. He glanced at the clock above the exit where the Praetorian stood. “If my calculations are correct, it will take exactly one hour, twenty-three minutes and fifty-two seconds for the sauce to finish simmering. Then he cocked his head. “Give or take three seconds.”

  Victory was impressed. “Wow, that’s pretty—” She bit off the word ‘precise’ at the flash of amusement in his eyes. Narrowing her eyes at him, she growled, “You’re lying.”

  “Maybe a little.” He grinned and tossed the rest of the walnuts into his mouth.

  Wrinkling her nose, she looked around the kitchen. She found herself a little taken aback at all the numerous weapons hanging from racks, sitting in blocks, lying on counters… And was even more surprised that it hadn’t even occurred to her that he would try to use one of them.

  “Whatever you did to me,” Victory said, “You’re going do it again tomorrow.”

  The Emp raised a single eyebrow. “That so?”

  “Yes,” Victory stated. “First thing.”

  He dropped another walnut into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, watching her. “How about a trade? I energize your meridians, you unlock the ankle cuffs.”

  Victory laughed. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”

  Dragomir hesitated, a walnut half-lowered into his open mouth, a single eyebrow raised.

  Remembering that she was dealing with an Emp, and that her brother had supposedly beaten him half to death without so much as a blip on the meter, Victory grimaced. “We might be able to work something out.”

  Dragomir laughed. “Sounds like you were choking on something when you said that.”

  Victory sniffed and went to examine Cook’s huge copper pot where it hung from the ceiling. Easily big enough to cook a whole Praetorian cavalryman, horse and all. Twenty minutes later, the savory smells issuing from the top of the Emp’s pot were becoming too much for Victory to bear. “It smells good. Let’s eat it now.” She reached for the lid.

  “Wait. Not done yet.” When she ignored him, Dragomir frowned and smacked her hand.

  Instantly, four Praetorian had him backed over the stove, their swords at his throat.

  “Um, Princess?” he asked, sounding nervous. He looked at her over the folded steel blades, swallowing hard.

  Victory lifted the lid of the pot and looked inside. She inhaled, then set the lid back down with a grunt. She dug into the bag of walnuts that the Emp had found and started munching them thoughtfully. “You know,” Victory began conversationally, “you should be more careful. They’re trained to kill anything that touches me without my permission.”

  “I think they broke another rib,” he muttered.

  Victory sighed and dismissed her Praetorian with a wave.

  Dragomir patted at the bandages around his torso. He lifted his head and glared at the Praetorian, who glared back. Their hands started to slip under their cloaks, for their swords.

  “I wouldn’t stare,” Victory warned, popping another walnut into her mouth. “They’re getting agitated.”

  “They’re jumpy,” he growled, looking them dead in the eyes. “Like s
mall, annoying dogs with metabolism issues.”

  She lifted both brows at him. “You just raised your hand to a member of the royal family. By all rights, you should be dead.”

  He swung to face her, scowling. “I smacked your greedy little fingers away from my food.”

  She choked on a walnut. “Greedy? It befuddles me that you think you can speak such to a member of the royal family.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Be glad I didn’t use a spoon, wench.”

  Victoria choked. “Be glad my Praetorian don’t flatten you to the floor. They would in a heartbeat, if they knew you were referring to me as such. You may address me as Princess or milady or mistress or, on a very good day, Victory. Not ‘wench.’”

  “You know what, wench?” Dragomir said, glaring. “You’re right.” He snatched up his spoon and pointed across the kitchen. “Go stand over there and find your own food. I don’t want them getting the wrong idea and thinking I’m force-feeding you.”

  And, true to his word, when his meal was finished, he took out an enormous serving-platter from the cabinet, heaped a tangle of noodles in its center, and then dumped the entire pot of sauce atop it. Then he took out a fork and a knife, moved his heaping platter to an island counter, and started eating.

  “I want some,” Victory said, eying the pile. Her stomach was rumbling.

  “Sorry,” he said, stuffing noodles and sauce into his face. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “We can’t let the Praetorian take the chance that my cooking is so sub-par that your royal ass might suffer the ill-effects of food poisoning.”

  Victory stared at him. “You’re really going to eat that without me?”

  His answer was a loud slurp of noodles.

  Victory stomped over to the nearest fridge, yanked it open, and stared at the contents. She found a wedge of cheese, which she mutilated in an attempt to get it out of its rind, and yanked some crackers from a shelf in the pantry, then sat down opposite the island from Dragomir, eating with her back facing him.

  Behind her, he slurped like a pig in the trough.

  “Would you please not eat so loud?!” she cried. “You’re making me lose my appetite.”

  If anything, the slurping sounds grew louder.