by Sky Corgan
I should be numb to snuffing out life. I've taken so many lives since this war began. Countless is the number of bullets I've gone through. On the battlefield, all you think about is surviving. Each man down is one less that could kill you. But this isn't the battlefield. These men don't have guns in their hands. Their time for defending themselves is over. Now they are powerless. The accused waiting for the guillotine to come down. I bet they all wish they had died fighting. I know I would, in their shoes. Nothing is worse than knowing what's coming and being unable to change your fate.
I wait for my General to give the order, standing by out of respect for the men who were so brazenly willing to give their lives for a lost cause, grateful for not having to be the one to pull the trigger. There's no pride in slaughtering defenseless men, even if not long ago they were anything but.
The sound of gunshots firing echoes across the land. A cool breeze brings with it the smell of blood. Dirt kicks up from the bodies collapsing to the floor. It's done, I think, letting the softest sigh escape my lips.
I cast a glance up at the blue sky that's beginning to turn hues of purple. The sun is half-hidden behind the horizon. I want to think that it's a good day to die. Is any day a good day to die, though? Death is so final.
When my eyes begin to descend, they catch on something in one of the windows in the house adjacent to us. There's a sliver of a body peeking out from behind the curtains. A dark silhouette with a curvy figure. The tendrils of long blonde hair protruding from beneath the black hood are the last clues I need to know it's a woman. Her gaze is fixed on the fence. Her pink lips are set in a line. Her expression is hard. Angry.
A spy, is the first thing that comes to mind. Someone from the rebellion sent to report back on the status of their people. Why else would she look at me with such hatred when our eyes meet? Big blue eyes. I'm afforded only a second to gaze into them before she disappears.
I immediately spring into action, pulling one of the men from the firing squad to follow her. There's not a second to waste. If she is a rebel spy, I'll need to know where their camp is so I can eradicate the threat. Having sent him off, I return to my tent with General Daniel Hansson on my heels.
There's not much left to do here. With the main fighting at its end, I've been mostly busy with stomping out what's left of the resistance and setting up a base of operations. In a few months, I'll leave everything in Daniel's capable hands and return home. Father has been persistent in the issue of me marrying and siring him grandchildren that will one day be heir to the throne. Marrying has never been anywhere near the top of my list of priorities. And the way all the princesses throw themselves at my feet quite honestly makes me sick. It was fun when I was coming into puberty and realized I could have any woman I wanted. But after getting so much of what you want, you don't want it anymore. It becomes mundane. Ordinary. I've become so jaded with women that I've practically lost interest in them.
This is where I belong. Here with my men. Cleaning up the toil and creating a better, bigger dynasty for the heirs that I can't even dream of conceiving right now. I want to live life the way it was meant to be lived, not watch it pass by through the windows of the castle, listening to the deeds of better men. Many would say I'm the better man, at the top of the hierarchy thanks to my royal bloodline. But that doesn't make me better, just privileged. And I don't want what is mine to just be given to me. I want to earn it. This is part of me earning it, and now that I've had a taste of what it's like to actually achieve something, I don't want to go back to the way things were before.
“The threat to our forces grows smaller,” Daniel comments, speaking of the men we just executed. If it were anyone else, that comment would have been followed up with Your Highness. I'm glad he drops the honorifics when we're in private.
“But there are still some left.” I sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair that's been brought for me, my elbow propped up on the armrest.
“You sent Kenny Öberg on a rather urgent errand. Anything I should be concerned about?”
Nothing is lost on him. That's why he's the General. But beyond that, he's also my best friend. We've been friends since childhood, running around the castle together while his mother tended to my family. There's nothing special about his bloodline, but he's a hard worker, and with my support has managed to ascend to a coveted position in our army. When we were deployed, it was only natural that father made sure we were sent together. He knew that Daniel would gladly die for me, not out of a sense of duty but out of love. No one knows me better.
“Nothing as of yet.” I give him a look that says he shouldn't be concerned. I'm not. “There was someone watching the execution.”
“Oh.” He doesn't sound surprised. Very little surprises him anymore.
“It was a woman.” I wave the threat away. “He'll catch up to her soon enough and report back.”
He nods, dropping the subject and redirecting his attention to more pressing matters.
Kenny doesn't return until early the following morning. He has me woken to make his report and informs me that the woman fled to an abandoned building where there were a handful of other people. He didn't see any weapons. I tell him to prepare a map for me of the location, then pat him on the shoulder and praise him for his good work before returning to bed. This isn't particularly important and can be dealt with later.
I wait until I finish my duties the following day before I decide to investigate the situation myself. Normally, I would send out a small scouting party to sweep the area. That would be enough to drive any displaced persons out. Anytime they hear that the opposing military is coming, they scatter like cockroaches exposed to a light source. But something about the way that woman looked at me has me disturbed. To get that close to a military encampment... I'm not 100% convinced she's not an enemy. Maybe I'll see something that Kenny missed if I have a look for myself.
I make the journey on foot as to not arouse any suspicion. For all I know, the camp could have already moved. It's not uncommon for them to relocate if they fear the presence of danger. Our eyes connected, so she knows that I saw her. She knows we could be coming.
I must have arrived in the nick of time, because when I come upon the building marked on Kenny's map, there are people filing out of it with baskets of stuff. Like a line of ants, they carry things to the new location, and I follow silently.
The blonde woman is with them. The sides of her hair are twisted into braids and pinned back away from her face. The rest falls between her slender shoulders. Her blue eyes are larger than life, cast mostly to the floor as she walks. Her expression is that of a kicked puppy. She feels guilty for me having seen her—for them having to move; it's written all over her face. I find myself observing the others in her group less, my gaze mostly fixed on her. What was she doing in that house, I wonder. Maybe she is a type of spy, the kind that checks in and reports on our location to keep her people safe. Perhaps she's been watching me longer than I know. Watching me like I'm now watching her.
She doesn't seem like she belongs with the others. She's too small and frail. Her hair too light. Her skin too dark. Olive and golden and the blue of the sky all rolled into one. She's absolutely stunning. A woman like her shouldn't be walking around in tattered jeans and a dusty black jacket. She should be wearing exquisite gowns fit for a princess.
There's a strange electricity in the air. A need to connect with her. A desire for her to look up and see me staring at her, though it would most assuredly put me in danger. I'm alone. There are more than a dozen of them and only one of me. And I'm not just any soldier, but the prince. Capturing me could turn the tides of the war for them. It would give them a bargaining chip of sorts. It reminds me that I shouldn't stay out here any longer than necessary.
I head back to base, the memory of the woman burned in my mind. I spent too much time concentrating on her while she walked, my eyes taking in the shape of her body, wondering what she looks like beneath all that baggy ill-fitting clothing. Her
jacket covered her ass so I couldn't see the tightness of it in her jeans. And it hung down the slope of her breasts, denying me an image of their fullness. Fuck. Why am I even thinking about this? A woman hasn't caught my eye in what seems like a lifetime, and this is the last place I should be thinking about having sex. She's one of the last people I should be thinking about having sex with. She spied on us which makes her an enemy. I should be swooping in and having her executed, not fantasizing about what's beneath her clothing.
I'm agitated by the time I step foot back in the encampment. Thinking about such a delicate flower unprotected sets me on edge. A million horrible things could happen to her out there with those people. And who are they to her? Relatives? Strangers? Does she have a husband or a boyfriend? I saw no ring on her finger, not that that means anything in wartime. People trade what they have for things that they need, especially when resources are scarce and they have little to bargain with. If she was close to any of the men in the group, I couldn't tell. Mostly, they walked single file. The thought that she could belong to one of them irritates me even more. What man would allow his woman to go off on such a dangerous mission?
I return to my tent and try to forget what I saw. From what I could tell, her people weren't carrying any weapons with them to their new camp—no sign that they were anything other than displaced. It wouldn't hurt to leave them be, to turn a blind eye. That way, she would stay safe a bit longer. At least for as long as she was in my district and I was still in command. Once I leave to go back to the palace, there would be no guarantee.
For as much as I try, though, I can't stop thinking about her. Instead of the usual blood and horror that I'm accustomed to dreaming about at night, my thoughts are filled with soft olive skin, supple breasts, and those thick pink lips set in an O as I drive my cock into her. It's enough to make me wake in a pile of my own fluids, something that hasn't happened since I was a teenager. I curse at my body's inability to contain itself when presented with images of the displaced Goddess.
Every day that I'm in the encampment, I find myself gazing up at the window where I first saw her, hoping to spot her again—hoping to see her looking down at me with something other than hatred. But all I see are curtains and emptiness. And each day my yearning turns more into a nagging until I can't take it anymore and return to where I know she now resides, desperate to catch a glimpse of her.
I make the journey and watch her every chance I get. Until watching becomes not enough. Then I wait. I wait until she leaves her camp in the early morning, and I follow her.
She makes her way into one of the nearby neighborhoods with a bag slung over her shoulder. It doesn't take long for me to realize what's going on. She's foraging for supplies. I feel a mix of relief and anger knowing that. On the one hand, I'm less worried about what she has to trade for food. On the other hand, what she's doing is damn dangerous. A woman her size could easily be overtaken and raped. And what man wouldn't want to put their hands on her? My cock throbs painfully just thinking about touching her skin. I want to know if it's as soft as it looks, if she would be as soft in my arms as I've imagined so many times.
They sent her out alone. Without a weapon, by the looks of it. Defenseless.
She should be staying at the camp where she can be protected. I can't have her wandering around this war-torn city where any man who finds her could do unspeakable things to her. Just the thought of it makes my blood boil.
I decide to stop pussyfooting around and make my presence known, but I don't want to startle her. Or rather, I don't want her to be able to get away from me. If I had men with me, catching her would be easy. As it is, I have no idea of her athletic abilities. She may be able to outrun me. She may also know this neighborhood better than I do. And she's definitely small enough to slip into spaces that I wouldn't fit.
I wait until she enters one of the houses, then I creep in behind her, being extra careful not to make any noise. I come upon her opening cabinets in the kitchen. For several moments, I simply stand there and watch her. The fact that I was able to sneak up on her so easily is disconcerting. I could end her life right now, and she'd never even see it coming. Perhaps that would be a mercy. No doubt, life is hard for her. But I don't want to end her life. Far from it. I want to protect her from any harm that may come to her. In fact, I would kill any man who tried to hurt her. No, I'm here to save her. She just doesn't know it yet.
My breath is still as I take slow, calculated steps behind her. I plan to wrap her in my arms, to cup my hand over her mouth and hold her against my body. To feel her frantic breathing and get a taste of that soft skin against my palm, of how she molds back against me. But a misplaced footstep on a broken piece of glass sends a near deafening crunching sound into the air. Her body goes rigid for half a second before she turns and sees me, and then the chase is on.
I don't bother telling her to stop. I'm smart enough to know she won't listen. Because right now, she thinks that me catching her means her death. Even if I told her I meant her no harm, she wouldn't buy it.
Since I'm blocking the entryway, she takes off towards the back of the house. A sofa pushed in front of the back door causes her to divert up a set of stairs. She bounds up them, and I follow, praying she doesn't turn and deliver a kick to my chest that would send me tumbling back down. She doesn't turn, perhaps too afraid to confront me. I can already hear her ragged breathing.
She doesn't appear to have any solid plan, dashing into the closest bedroom and trying to close the door on me. I'm too quick, though, and far too strong for her. I don't even have to put all my weight against the door to fling it open. She stumbles back, her eyes wild as she digs in her pocket for something. A moment later, she's brandishing a small pocketknife at me. I hold my palms out to her, trying to calm her down. She casts a glance back at the window. It's closed, but I know she's desperate enough to jump. She's thinking it through right now. I can see the wheels in her head turning. Fight me and die, or take the chance that the fall might not kill her. Those are the options she's weighing; the only options she thinks she has.
As she edges back towards the window, I know what she's decided. She's caged in and frightened. Death by her own hands is better than death by mine any day of the week. That's what she's thinking.
I wait until she looks away from me again—drops her guard for a fraction of a second—before I move in. She struggles and screams when I clutch onto her wrists. I'm not even sure she would try to stab me if she got free, but I'm not about to find out. I pull her away from the window, away from the possibility of jumping through it. Then I wrestle her down onto the bed in the far corner of the room, squeezing her wrist until she drops the blade and pinning her down until she stops struggling.
Her chest heaves wildly from the exertion. The fear in her eyes from earlier has reverted to hatred. Tears cling to her bottom lashes. Angry tears. Tears of despair.
And then she spits in my face.
I'm taken aback by it. No one has ever spit in my face. Not ever. To disrespect me in such a way would be punishable by death. Perhaps she doesn't realize who I am. Or maybe she does, and she doesn't care.
The fact that she's resisting me instead of cowering like a frightened lamb stirs something deep within me. It makes me want her more. A sick need for something that I can't have. There are so few things in this world that I can't have. But I won't take her against her will. I'm not going to be the monster she fears I am. No doubt, she's thinking of all of the horrible things that I have planned for her.
I don't take a moment to wipe my face, because holding her down is more important. Hovering over her. Feeling her beneath me. Watching her chest rise and fall in that ill-fitting hoodie. The closeness to her makes my body react inappropriately. My cock is fully erect and twitching in my pants. Knowing what I could do to her. Having to restrain myself. It's all way too arousing.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” I say finally, longing to hear her voice.
“Of course you are. You're w
ith them.” She jerks her head toward the window. Even in anger and fear, there's a sweet silkiness to her tone.
“If I let you up, will you promise not to run?” I want nothing more than to keep holding her down on the bed—to keep touching her soft skin. But I know that the longer I keep her captive, the harder it will be to earn her trust. I need to show her that I mean what I say.
“And if I run?” she challenges me.
A smirk plays on my lips. “I'll catch you again.” The thought doesn't displease me. Any chance to hold her warm body against mine is more than desirable. I could play this game of cat and mouse all day.
She settles beneath me, the fight leaving her eyes as she contemplates her next move. Then she nods, though she gives no promises.
I wet my lips with my tongue, my eyes lingering on her face. I'm not sure what will happen if I let her up, but as long as my body is blocking the door, she won't be able to get away. Hopefully, she doesn't dart for the window.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” I remind her one last time before I push away from her, releasing her wrists and standing up straight.
She sits, resting her weight on her palms. She glances at the window but thankfully doesn't make any attempt to go for it.
“What do you want?” she asks, refusing to look at me.
“Who are you and why were you watching me?” I give her a chance to explain herself.
“Watching you?” Her eyes flick up to me. She seems confused by the question.
“A few weeks ago, I saw you standing in the window of a house next to my encampment.”
She clips her bottom lip between her teeth, and I hunger to do the same to her. Her lips are so full and lush. It's hard to tear my eyes away from them when all I can think about is tasting her.
“I was scavenging for food when I heard voices. I thought I would go see what all the commotion was about.”
“That was dangerous,” I chastise her.
