Fallen Princess

by Alexa B. James

  “Don’t kill him,” I said, elbowing him hard in the back of the head, trying to twist away. I’d never realized how strong and fast my father was, but then, he was an ocelot and they all had superhuman powers.

  “Oh, I won’t kill him,” he snarled. “I’ll make him wish he were dead every day for the rest of his life, leaving him just enough energy for his ocelot to heal him during the night so I can start all over the next day.”

  “You let him do that,” I said through clenched teeth. “You can’t punish him for it.”

  “I can do anything,” he roared. “I’m the king!”

  We burst out into a room, and I blinked in the dim light until my eyes adjusted and I recognized the palace’s throne room. We seldom used the large room with polished marble floors that glimmered in the ambient light of sconces mounted high on stone columns throughout. The ceiling rose to dizzying heights, with stained glass skylights letting in light during the day. At night, only the faint, ghostly glow of moonlight lit the room, along with a few sconces dotted throughout.

  My father charged toward the end of the room, where the throne was elevated on a dais with five shallow marble steps wrapping around it on three sides. Though my mother had once had a smaller throne beside his, he’d had it taken away after her death. He’d promised the nation that he would never replace her, that no one else would sit beside him on the throne of the queen they adored. In reality, it was probably because he wanted the spotlight solely on himself. The eyes of his audience wouldn’t stray to the empty seat beside him. They’d stay locked on the towering golden throne set atop the dais, carved spires rising from the back of it, and the king seated there in his finery.

  I kicked and flailed in my father’s grip, trying to break out of his hold. I twisted on his shoulder, sliding in the grimy wetness of the cum that had soaked into the fabric from my skin. He stumbled up the steps, fighting to keep his balance with my writhing body still gripped against him. When he reached the top, he heaved me off his shoulder. I flew backwards, slamming into the oversized throne. My head hit the back of it, and blackness swam in my vision. Before I could move, he was looming over me, grabbing me by the throat.

  “You will take this throne and rule the land,” he growled in my face, his fingers digging into my throat until I choked.

  I grabbed his hand, clawing frantically at it, digging my nails in and shredding his skin, trying to pry loose his iron grip.

  “With me at your side during the day and in your bed at night,” he hissed, rage burning in his eyes until they turned gold with fury. “I spared your life not so you could defy me, but so you could be my pretty little token queen. You will obey my every command, both night and day. You’ll smile while you carry out my orders and pretend it’s your own will to do the things I command. The people love you, and you will use that to our advantage. I gave you the choice of ruling by my side as an independent, but you refused me. This is what happens when you refuse a king’s command.”

  I threw a punch, landing a blow to his jaw. He grabbed my hand and twisted, the bones crunching sickening. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I could only manage a strangled cry as his grip tightened more, and then I couldn’t make a sound. His hand was crushing my windpipe, and I couldn’t breathe. Blackness dotted my vision as I fought for consciousness. Panic blossomed inside me, and I reached for my magic, but it wouldn’t answer to pain. Only to pleasure.

  “That’s right, my dear wife,” the king growled. “You’d be wise to remember your place. To remember how weak you are and how strong I am. In daylight, I control your life, your breath, your voice. At night, I control your pussy, your pleasure, your magic.” His eyes gleamed with menace, and he thrust a hand between my legs. I bucked against the repulsive sensation of his rough, thick finger seeking my opening. He thrust it into me, baring his teeth in a sadistic smile as he pumped into my resistant flesh.

  “You’re as wet as the whore you are,” he said, driving his finger relentlessly into me while I sputtered for breath. “The High Priestess always is. Your nectar is magic elixir, and your cunt is always tight for the male pleasure.” He worked a second finger into me as blackness began to take my vision. “You can pretend, but I know you want it. I remember all the times you’d climb up on my knee, squirm around in my lap. You’ve always wanted to be queen, to be the king’s companion and plaything, since you were a child. And now you will be.”

  My walls clenched against the unwelcome invasion, but I was still wet from the arena, I couldn’t stop his rough fingers from plunging knuckle deep into my slick opening with each thrust. My awareness began to slip away, and my body went slack. For a second, all I could hear was his ragged breathing and the wet sounds of my pussy being violated by my father’s fingers.

  Then I heard the sound of a zipper, and a charge of panic went through me. I swung at him, using the last of my strength to punch him hard in the ear with my good hand.

  “You fucking bitch,” he growled, slapping me across the face. I tasted blood, tried to cling to the sharp sting to keep from going under as his fingers tightened around my throat, cutting off my air completely. “I was going to claim you in the arena, to consummate our union publicly, but you ruined it. So now I’ll take you here. Remember this the next time you’re tempted to refuse a king’s offer. It’s never really a choice, Itzel. I want you to be my queen, and I always get what I want.”

  The last thing I felt before I blacked out was my father forcing his bare cock into me.

  Thirteen

  I woke to a crushing ache in my throat, my face pressed to the smooth, cool surface I was bent over, and someone fucking me from behind. Horror rocked through me when I remembered King Ocelot thrusting into me before I passed out from lack of oxygen. My eyes fluttered open and I sucked in a loud breath, though I must have been breathing enough to bring me back to consciousness. I wished I hadn’t woken up until he was done raping me.

  I jerked up, trying to rise, but his hand slammed into my upper back, smashing my face back down on the seat of his golden throne as he fucked me with renewed vigor. I was pinned to the throne as he took me from behind, violently and relentlessly pounding his bare cock into my clenched pussy. Tears poured from my eyes, and my hands curled around the sides of the oversized seat of the throne. Agony tore through me when my broken fingers tried to hold on.

  King Ocelot grunted and cursed, driving into me like a man possessed, each thrust frantic and brutal, as if equally driven by lust and fury at my defiance. I thrashed to free myself, but he held me down, his bare cock plunging into me like a knife, violating my body and filling me with revulsion at the sensation of him taking this most intimate thing from me.

  When I couldn’t hold it back any longer, I opened my mouth and screamed. My voice echoed through the empty throne room, the one we only used for state events and ceremonial occasions. The sound was hoarse from the abuse to my throat and tortured with pain, the cry of a wounded animal, a lost cub in this stone cavern. I forced out another one, trying to find some relief from the king’s punishing strength.

  It went on and on. No one would think to come here, I realized. Even if someone wanted to find me—and at this point, who would?—they wouldn’t think to go to a seldom-used room reserved for special occasions. If my men had been in the audience with Camila, maybe they’d seen and they wanted to help me. They wouldn’t want their True Mate marrying someone else, would they?

  But none of them even knew where the throne room was, not even Tadeu.

  I struggled harder, but my father only punched the back of my head, and I almost blacked out again. I screamed until my voice gave out, and then I sobbed into the golden throne, despising him with a burning hatred that turned my heart inside out on itself. At last, I couldn’t even fight. I was empty, drained, beaten. I went limp, laying my face on the tearstained surface and praying for it to be over.

  Suddenly, a door on the side of the room flew open. I could barely see the shape of a man through my tears and the di
mness in the room. Was I dreaming?

  The man leapt at us, molten gold eyes glowing like lava in a volcano of rage. I screamed, only a hoarse whisper escaping as I tensed instinctively, cowering away. He grabbed my father’s hair, and the next second, the king’s head rolled onto the throne and thumped to a stop against the back of the seat. I thought my voice was gone, but I shrieked in horror as his blank eyes stared back at me from his face, still red with exertion from how hard he’d been fucking me. His body collapsed onto mine, his weight pinning me, so heavy I could hardly breathe. Blood cascaded from his severed neck, pouring down my back, my neck, my shoulders and arms and hands, splattering the throne and painting the gold seat scarlet.

  So much blood…

  “Get him off,” I screamed, revulsion electrifying me when I realized I could feel his cock still buried deep inside me, still hard even though his corpse was limp on my back. I convulsed under him, and my rescuer ripped his body from mine. I tried to catch my breath, my head spinning with shock. Warm blood pooled in his throne, dripping off the sides, cascading over my shoulder. I could smell it, sharp and irony and sweet, making me gag even though it brought fresh agony to my tortured throat. I heard the sickening thud of his lifeless body hitting the floor beside the throne, like a rotten pumpkin falling to the unforgiving marble surface.

  I tried to push myself up, but my palms slid in the gore on the smooth gold seat. I slid sideways and crumpled ungracefully to the blood-slicked marble steps at the foot of the throne, clutching my broken hand to my middle. Strong arms wrapped around me, and for the first time, I saw the man who had saved me, the very last man I would have expected to possess a pair of hands that could kill a king.

  “Gabor,” I whispered, my throat aching around the word.

  “Your Grace,” he said, cradling me gently in his arms. “You’re safe now.”

  It was the one thing I’d needed to hear, the one thing I’d always needed him to say to me.

  I hadn’t needed him to choose me over his job, the throne, and his life.

  “I thought you were dead,” I whispered, remembering that pile of guards beating him.

  “You were worth it.”

  Fresh tears sprang into my eyes, burning like fire. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face to his chest and collapsing into him. I let him hold me while I sobbed all the horror and terror and grief from inside me. He didn’t say a word. When I was finally empty, he stroked my hair back from my wet face and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

  “I’d better go.”

  “No,” I cried, my arms tightening instinctively around him. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”

  “I killed the king,” he murmured, as if that explained everything.

  I guess it did. At least, I couldn’t think of an answer, of anything to say.

  “You would think, after all the others, it wouldn’t be any different,” he said. “A life is a life. It shouldn’t matter what title was attached to it on this side. The result is the same.”

  I understood his shock, his disbelief at what he’d done. In his mind, he’d lost his honor. “But it does matter,” I whispered, fresh tears filling my eyes. “Because of your oath.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” he said. “I’ve never… Wanted to kill anyone before. Sure, the first few were hard, but I haven’t felt anything since then. It was a job, and I was good at my job.”

  “You are good at your job,” I insisted. “You’re supposed to protect the throne, both literally and figuratively. This room is a sacred place to ocelots, right? Do you think when the first kings and queens wrote those oaths that you swore, that they would have wanted you to serve a king who would rape his own daughter on their sacred pedestal?”

  He swallowed, a frown darkening his brow as he looked down at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” he said, stroking my cheek. “I wish I had saved you from that.”

  I reached up and covered his mouth with my good hand. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

  I stared at the back of my hand, the blood trickling down it, streaked down my arm. I’d almost forgotten we were sitting in a pool of the king’s blood, even as we talked about his death.

  When he pulled my hand away, I’d left blood fingerprints on his cheek.

  “I’m not saying what you think I am,” he said quietly, dropping my gaze and staring at the blood dripping down the steps of the dais toward the marble floors of the throne room.

  “What are you saying?” I whispered, my pulse fluttering in my throat.

  “I’m not saying I feel bad about it like I did the first few times I killed a man. I saw him hurting you, and I just… It felt so good. Satisfying.” He squeezed me against his chest, kissing my forehead again. “I would do it again. I’m not sorry.”

  This time, I raised both bloody hands to his face, cupping it between my palms, feeling his warm skin and strong bones like I’d wanted to do so many times. I stared into his eyes with all the love I felt for this beautiful man, this trained assassin who had so much blood on his hands it would never wash away, this man who had killed my father, the ocelot king, and felt no regret.

  “You were protecting me,” I said fiercely. “You shouldn’t be sorry for that.”

  Before he could speak, I leaned up and kissed him hard on the mouth. He pulled back, his eyes searching mine, the little frown creasing his brows again. “Your Grace…”

  “I want this,” I whispered. “I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

  “But…”

  “I know,” I said. “I should be scarred for life, scared of sex, terrified that you’re holding me after you killed my father with your bare hands. But if you can admit to me that you’re not sorry, then I owe you this honesty, too. I want you, Gabor. I’ve always wanted you.”

  “Not always,” he said with a little frown.

  I tightened my grip on his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Always,” I said firmly. “Maybe I was too young and dumb to recognize it, too scared to know what to do with it. But I saw you, Gabor. I saw you following me home, protecting me, all those nights.”

  “Not all of them,” he murmured.

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m sure there were more nights, more times I didn’t know about. But I remember. I remember the guard who carried me back to bed when I got into the liquor as a kid. I remember the one who was always patrolling the clubs I went to. I know what you’ve done for me, and not just tonight.”

  He swallowed hard, his dark eyes taking on the faintest glow. “I only did what anyone in my position would have done,” he said. “It seemed like no one was protecting you. So I did.”

  “When you were off duty for the night.” If I’d seen him a dozen times in uniform, how many nights had he changed out of uniform and watched over me, knowing I would never recognize or notice him out of the only clothes I’d ever seen him in?

  “A guard is never off duty,” he said quietly.

  My hands turned gentle on his cheeks, and I ran my fingertips down his sculpted jawline to his chin. Two of my fingers were twisted and swollen and purple, but they’d have to have been torn from my hand to keep me from touching him. “I know you’re not allowed to love,” I said. “I know you can’t say that you do. But everything you’ve ever done says more than words. And that’s enough for me.”

  “I loved Camila,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. She forced my heart, and I let her. But I always knew I hadn’t chosen it. And I knew I never felt for her the way I have for you, whatever this is.”

  “I’ve made mistakes, too,” I said, stroking his cheek, leaving faint streaks of blood. “I was immature, flaunting my other lovers even when I’d started to know you, to notice you, to feel something deeper for you than I felt for them at the time. Maybe I wasn’t ready for… Whatever this is. But I’m ready now, Gabor.”

  A small, sad smile tugged at his lips. “But you’ve just been assaulted, and I’ll be executed by morning,” he said, gent
ly taking my hand and pulling it away from his face. “Maybe some things, no matter how perfect you know they could be, just aren’t meant to happen. Fate gave you six mates, and I’m not one of them.”

  I linked the fingers of my good hand through his, refusing to let go. “This isn’t about being True Mates,” I said. “It’s about the fact that I love you. It doesn’t matter if we wear a mark proving it. I didn’t love most of them when I got their marks. And I refuse to give up on this because of poor timing. If anything, it makes me even more sure.”

  He searched my gaze for a long moment. If he was looking for doubt, he wouldn’t find it. He was the first mate I had chosen, not fate. I’d never given myself to a man like this, willingly, lovingly. Every man I’d been with, no matter how I felt about them now, had been a stranger or even an enemy when we got together. I’d fucked them out of desperation or as a trade for an amulet or by force. I’d never had to want something I couldn’t have before. It made me feel vulnerable and scared and desperate in a completely different way. It made me ache.

  “I won’t be here tomorrow,” he said at last, gently stroking a strand of hair off my cheek.

  “Then be with me tonight,” I said. “I want you. If you want me, then this might be the only night we get. I’ll take it.”

  “What about… What just happened to you?”

  “I know,” I said. “I could choose to let it define me. I choose not to. I don’t want to feel him inside me anymore. I don’t want this to be the night I was raped. I want it to be the night you made love to me.”

  He swallowed, then nodded slowly. “If it’s what you want, Your Grace.”

  “It is,” I said. “It’s my story, and I want to decide how it’s told, how it ends. And I choose this. I can’t erase what my father did, but I can replace some of it with something beautiful, something I choose. And I choose you.”