Fallen Princess

by Alexa B. James

  “That’s not what I was doing,” I said, hating the way he made it sound so calculated, like something Camila would say. I hadn’t taken any of my lovers for that reason. I’d taken them because I found them irresistible, and yes, I was dazzled by their wealth and beauty, but not because I wanted it to enhance my own.

  “They didn’t leave their old lives behind for a spot at your side, as an equal, either,” he said, ignoring my objection. “Shah tiger has a harem of concubines, but I didn’t think men would be so willing to put aside their pride and share your body among themselves. And even more impressive, they aren’t simple commoners like the shah’s lovers. Lord Balam is a powerful ally, and you were shrewd enough to keep it that way. Instead of moving on when you enchanted an even more powerful man, you kept him at your side, along with all the powerful men you attracted on your travels. It’s quite an impressive army, I must admit. And more than that, an astonishing feat that you kept them all satisfied and agreeable to serving you alongside each other. Believe me, I know how intoxicating one taste of the High Priestess can be. I would have killed any man who dared look at your mother.”

  I thought about it for a minute. What did I have to lose? Camila had taken my entire crew, my family, stolen the hearts of each and every man I loved, and claimed them for her own. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it from inside a cell. If I got out, I could fight for them. I could have my magic back. Maybe I could even win their hearts back. Right now, I was nothing but a prisoner. I was a traitor to our nation, a usurper to my sister, and a commoner in the eyes of the world. Sure, the humans in our nation had put their hope in me, but I’d failed them.

  I’d failed everyone.

  But when I opened my mouth to agree with my father, no words came. I hadn’t yet failed myself. I hadn’t yet sunken to his level. I couldn’t join a man who had killed his wife with no remorse. What was to stop him from doing the same to me? I couldn’t trust him. He might make a deal with me now, and in a year and a half, when I was ready to take the throne, he’d make a new law that said he got to stay on the throne forever. I’d end up right back here, with the addition of a sorcerer who could suck out my magic and feed it to the king.

  I thought of Mom, who had died at his violent, greedy hands. My biological father, who had never gotten the chance to even know I existed before he was killed. My sister, who thought he was on her side when really he was here scheming to keep her off the throne. I thought of my lovers, all of whom had been enchanted by the ocelot amulet because my sister had seen my father use it for his own gains, so why wouldn’t she?

  I pictured Lord Balam, with his thick body covered in tattoos, his rough words and gentle heart. Shadow, my broody young panther lover with his beautiful hair and unearthly green eyes and unwavering love for me. Sir Kenosi, with his million-dollar smile and dirty mouth; Prince Kwame with is scars and tenderness. I thought of Tadeu, his oversized new tiger body and his hurt and anger. And Jetsun, the half-brother who looked like the god that he was, so conflicted and yet so devoted.

  I imagined all of them loving Camila with their conflicted hearts. They must wonder how they could love someone else instead of their True Mate. Maybe they’d tried to see me, but they hadn’t been allowed. That was what my father should have offered. Not money or status or power, but the return of my mates. I would have given up the throne for them.

  Maybe he knew they would never come back to me, that they’d love her forever. She’d told me as much. Or maybe he didn’t want them close to me because he knew that if I had them at my back, I was strong. Strong enough to tell him that I would never be his pawn again.

  “No,” I said quietly, staring at him through the bars. I searched for the hatred and rage in my heart that would let me feel self-righteous in my decision. I wanted to feel certain, to know I was making the right choice. But I couldn’t seem to summon it from the depths of my exhaustion and sadness. I’d spent my time in prison scheming and dreaming of revenge so that I wouldn’t have to feel the soul-crushing sadness of losing my mates, but it suddenly came crawling up inside me, seizing my heart and ripping it from my chest.

  “You’re making a mistake,” King Ocelot warned.

  But all I could think about was my mother’s body, and how they hadn’t been able to identify it without a DNA test. My sister, who had my mates under her spell and my amulets ready for her coronation. And the harmless, blameless ocelot-leopard cub who had been born inside me and then torn out and killed before it knew why it was hated for its very existence. I vowed in that moment that I would never enable this monster further. He could kill me, but he would never use my magic for his own gains.

  Never.

  “I would rather die for what’s right than live my life as someone’s magical slave,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height. “I won’t have my magic perverted by your selfish, greedy desires. If I have to die to keep my magic from falling into your hands, then kill me.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. “I’m offering you everything you ever wanted. You can’t say no to the throne itself.”

  “No,” I said simply. He was offering me everything but freedom, just as he had my mother.

  He stared at me a long moment, his eyes glittering with malice. He might look calm on the surface, but I could see the barely controlled fury bubbling up inside him. He was beside himself with rage that I’d refused him, that I hadn’t taken his offer, which to him probably seemed generous beyond belief. But I wasn’t stupid. I was no longer his common daughter begging for scraps of his attention and simmering with bitterness that I’d never be good enough because I wasn’t a shifter. His approval meant nothing to me. In fact, knowing what kind of man he was, I’d have been ashamed to have his approval.

  “You’re a fool,” my father roared.

  “I’d rather die than rule the throne with you breathing down my neck,” I shot back. “If that makes me a fool, then I’ll die fool. At least I’ll die with dignity.”

  “You have no dignity,” the king raged. “You’re a common whore who spreads her legs for a parade of men every night. And I’ll make sure the world knows it before you die. I’ll make sure there’s not a shred of that foolish pride left in you when you die like the sniveling, pathetic slut you are.”

  With that, he spun on his heel and marched out of the dungeon, leaving me to wonder if I’d just made the worst decision of what would be a very short life.

  Eleven

  When the other prisoners had been there, the plotting to get out had occupied our time, and their stories had kept my mind from wandering back to what I’d lost. Without them, I had no distraction from the pain. It was as if I’d held it at bay, dammed up behind a wall of determination and anger over what Camila had done. During my father’s visit, I’d opened the dam, let myself admit and acknowledge what I’d lost. For days afterwards, I was lost in the flood. The grief tore me apart from the inside out, until I was sure I’d die of the pain.

  I’d always prided myself on being at least mentally strong, had prided myself on holding back tears and keeping it together when I needed to. Now, I sobbed like a baby, like the cub that had been torn from inside me. I could feel the hollow more than ever. It wasn’t an emptiness left by the cheetah. It had always been there. I’d just never known, had never felt it for what it was until the cheetah filled it and then left it empty.

  I curled in on myself on the dirt floor, sobs wracking my body, trying to block the sound of my screams with the iron cones that covered my hands. I called to Lilith, to my mother, but all was silent except the echoes of my sadness. My magic was what called to her, after all, and it was blocked inside the metal cuffs.

  The guards came twice each day to bring food, but they no longer taunted me. They wouldn’t look at me or speak to me. I had no companion but my loss, no solace but my tears.

  I stopped trying after a while, unresponsive when they arrived and departed each day. And then one day they didn’t leave. I was sitting on
the floor of the dirt cell, staring through the tangle of greasy hair that fell over my face. I saw their shiny, polished boots, the ones that had steel toes hidden inside so they could deliver the most painful blows when they beat men in the street.

  “To die for what is right is the highest honor a man can achieve.”

  I hadn’t heard a voice besides my own in so long it took a moment to register. And then I wondered if I’d imagined it, if the voice had been in my head. I jerked my chin up and found myself staring into the marble face of Camila’s guard.

  Something inside me snapped. I shot to my feet, diving at the bars. I thrust my hands at them, wanting to reach through and touch him, only to be stopped by the chain between my wrists.

  Die with honor? Fuck that. I had no honor. My father was right. I was weak and broken. I didn’t give a shit about pride or honor or dignity.

  “Gabor,” I cried. “Take these things off me. Please. I know you have the key. You put them on me. Please take them off. I can’t stand it anymore. I promise I won’t use magic. I’ll go to the Spirit World and disappear. I’ll never come back.”

  “Your Grace,” he said, his quiet voice grounding me. I met his eyes through the bars. They were filled with horror, with sympathy, with compassion. All the things a guard was never supposed to feel. My chest caved in on itself, and I wanted to cry again, but there were no tears left. I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped crying.

  My cuffs reached through the bars only to my wrists before the chain between my hands stopped them. But he reached through, all the way through. His fingers combed my dirty hair back with quick, rough strokes, pushing it off my face. Then he lifted my chin, his dark eyes examining my face.

  “Please,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

  His gaze shifted to the guard beside him, a boy who looked not a day over sixteen, who stood awkwardly with a tray balanced between his hands. Of course he couldn’t take off my cuffs. The guards always came in pairs for accountability.

  Gabor reached into the metal cup of water on the tray, dipping his fingers in and then raising them to my face. Slowly, he ran his cool, wet fingers over my cheeks. I swallowed hard, suddenly trembling at the intensity of the sensation of human touch. I closed my eyes, and he took his hand away. I heard his fingers dip into the water again, and then they were back on my face, their rough callouses gentle against my soft skin. I reached for his hand, wanting to touch him, but of course I couldn’t. I clutched my cuffs around his wrist, holding it sandwiched between the metal cylinders. I could feel the dirty water dripping off my chin as he washed my face with his bare hand.

  When I opened my eyes and met his again, I could see a faint glimmer of gold in his dark irises. I stared back at him, my breath coming short. His fingers moved more slowly, sending waves of tingling sensation through my entire body as he traced my lower lip with his thumb. A throb of something hot and almost forgotten in this desolate place pulsed to life between my thighs. I sucked in a breath, my lips dropping open.

  Inside my cuffs, my hands felt hot, almost turgid with magic. I could feel it building inside me, like a tsunami that would crest and break and obliterate all in its path if I couldn’t spend it soon. I looked up at the guard, my eyes pleading.

  “Gabor,” I whispered.

  “Your Grace.” His voice was low, just a murmur, but I could hear an edge of roughness in it that I’d never heard before. His thumb teased the corner of my mouth, and I could feel the heat of it all the way to my toes. His touch consumed me, his fingertip giving me as much sensation as if he were lying flush against me, our limbs tangled together. I could hardly draw a breath. All I wanted was to open my lips and draw his thumb into my mouth, suck greedily at it. He skimmed across my lip again, this time dragging it down over my chin, his eyes locked on my mouth.

  Somehow, his wet fingers on my face felt painfully intimate, more intimate than anything I’d ever done. Yes, I’d been fucked every which way by a half dozen men at once, but that was lust, mating frenzy, a fever of heat. That was fucking. This was something deeper, more terrifying. More dangerous.

  I fought for breath, gripping his wrist between my cuffs. I could hardly stand the intimacy of his touch, but at the same time, I wouldn’t have stopped him for anything. My lids dropped closed, and I inhaled, searching for the scent of him that would have comforted me far more than it should have. But it was lost under the scents of soap and cologne, the overpowering odors of my own body and my surroundings.

  I was suddenly, painfully, self-conscious. Every inch of Gabor’s impressive height was polished, from his fine boots to his hair, now cut short and combed back the way it had been all the years I’d known him. The last few months, he’d been more relaxed, his hair growing out and curling at the nape of his neck. Now, he was my father’s guard again. His face was cleanly shaven, his uniform spotless and pressed until the only wrinkle that remained was the seam up the front of each thigh.

  Meanwhile, I hadn’t bathed in weeks, maybe a month. My hair was greasy and dirty and tangled beyond repair. My clothes were filthy, and I could smell my own body. To someone who wasn’t forced to stew in their own stench until they were accustomed to it, it must have been a hundred times worse. Not to mention that I couldn’t use my hands to eat, so unless the food could be picked up between two clumsy metal cups, I had to eat off the tray on the floor like an animal. Needless to say, my face was probably even filthier than the rest of me.

  No wonder he was looking at me like I was the most pathetic, broken creature on earth. I dropped my hands from his, but his fingertips lingered another moment, skimming over my jaw and sending a shiver of longing deep into my core.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, stepping back. I didn’t know if he was apologizing for touching me, or that he couldn’t help me, or that he couldn’t love me the way I loved him. Or maybe he was apologizing for what my father had done to me. All I knew was that I couldn’t watch him go. I turned away, too ashamed to show that I was crying again, that I wanted to grovel on the floor, to clutch his knees and beg him not to go.

  My throat ached so fiercely I gasped with pain to get a breath into my lungs. I didn’t turn back until I heard the door close down the hall.

  Only then did I turn to look. The tray sat next to the slot where they always pushed it through the bars. On it, along with the usual cold, gelatinous soup remains, sat two little pink pastries called Cherry Pops. I’d loved Cherry Pops when I was a kid, and I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped eating them. The little balls of cake were coated with a shell of pink frosting and filled with a cherry at the center. I remembered Tadeu teasing me every time I ate them, saying they looked like tits or asking if he could pop my cherry.

  I stared at them, wondering what they meant. Was this my last meal, and my father had ordered something special sent down? Was it a message of some sort, and if so, what did it mean? Were the cherries in the center laced with cyanide? And if my father hadn’t sent them, who had?

  It could have been anyone. Cherry Pops were considered fancy, but not out of the price range of commoners on occasion, and everyone in our country knew what they were and had probably at least tried one. Magda or another rebel could have sent them to give me hope, to let me know they hadn’t given up. Maybe someone from the king’s own kitchen. After all, even if a rebel wanted me to have them, they would have had to find someone to put them on the tray and someone to deliver them without tipping off the king.

  Gabor.

  He had brought them to me. Surely he would have offered some warning if they were poisoned. Maybe he didn’t love me the way I loved him or the way he loved Camila, but he cared about me. He’d always watched out for me, even before I really knew who he was and thought of him as a person instead of just one of Father’s brutal guards.

  I reflected on how desperate I had become while locked up, that I could obsess for hours about a pastry. At last, I decided I was being ridiculous, and I ate them. They were almost too sweet after having
nothing but plain, unseasoned food for a month. I ate them slowly, savoring the grittiness of the sugar between my teeth, the syrupy center that seeped into the cake until it was saturated with the sticky, pink liquid.

  Then I curled up on the dirty canvas bedroll and slept.

  I woke to the clank of my cell being opened for the first time since the other prisoners had left. I leapt up, my first thought one of escape. I could take them by surprise, bash them in the head with the iron cuffs, and run… To the end of the hall.

  I sighed and let the guards march me out, down the hall, and upstairs into the palace itself. I blinked into the daylight like a mole. After being in the dungeon with only pale light during the day and pitch darkness at night, I could barely keep my eyes open against the intrusion of natural daylight. I stumbled as the guards led me down the hall and back to my old chambers, parading me through the palace so anyone around—guards, advisors, and servants alike—could see that I was filthy and bedraggled, my clothes tattered and stiff with dirt, but that I was unharmed.

  The guards shoved me through the door to my chambers with mutters of disgust, and I stumbled forward, barely keeping my feet. I hadn’t seen my childhood bedroom in months. It looked exactly as I’d left it, painfully unchanged and unsuited to the person I’d become. I wondered if Camila had felt the same way about hers, or if she’d rushed into the comfort of her familiar room with relief and joy. Before I could spend much time on the matter, I was marched into my bathroom and thrust roughly under the shower. A maid stepped in with me and washed me roughly, shampooing, shaving, and soaping with the same efficient no-nonsense manner you might wash an unruly dog.