Conquering the Queen (3 page)

She knew she’d broken the skin; she could taste his blood on her tongue as she’d tasted her own when she’d bitten her lip in the throne room during her first punishment.

“How’s that for helpless?” she hissed.

His response was to silently shift her until she was facedown over his lap. Avin felt his broad arm go around her waist in the familiar grip that used to send pulses of delicious dread through her. From her view she could see the plate and its uneaten food lying on the floor. This would not go unanswered; she knew that.

She tensed and waited, this time for the flat of his hand to land a burning blow across the fullness of her bottom. But Xander was silent as he jerked up the hem of her simple dress. Somehow this was worse. He was taking his time, holding her, allowing her to realize that she was indeed helpless, lying there with her dress hiked up, her bottom bared to his gaze. The room was silent save for her ragged, anxious breathing. But he was calm. It unnerved her.

“If you’re going to beat me, just get it over with,” she said.

“Queens give orders. Slaves take them.” He paused. “Apologize for biting your king.”

“Never.”

She felt him lean forward.

“Apologize,” he said again.

He’d made her kneel in the throne room, but she was determined she would not apologize. Then she felt it—the blindingly hot streak of pain impacting the lower portion of her bottom.

“Owww!” She’d not meant to scream and looked back to see what he’d struck her with. His arm was raised, and she could see he’d used his own shoe, the wide leather sole as hard and broad as any strap.

“Apologize to your king.”

She was writhing on his lap. “Let me go!”

He brought the slipper down again. And again. And again. The sounds of the leather cracking against her skin reported off the stone walls, and in spite of herself, Avin heard them joined by the sound of her own wailing. And somewhere above it all, the king’s stern command.

“Apologize. Beg your king’s forgiveness.”

With each blow, her bottom grew more tender. This was, she knew, a spanking designed to break her. But she resisted, absorbing the pain that triggered the memory of past correction by the same hand—sweet correction that had ended with gentle rubs until his fingers slipped lower into her wet, throbbing pussy.

There were no such rubs today, but her pussy still clenched with little spasms of forbidden pleasure. But from what? His domination? Or from the heady thrill of seeing how strong she was in the face of it? She knew the answer, of course, and as Xander spanked her white bottom to a deep red, she found herself filled with fury—not at him, but at her own weakness. Her body remembered what it was like to be overwhelmed, and even if her heart was closed to him, at her physical core she still craved her former lover’s dominance. Avin clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms, seeking to focus on that pain instead of the sweet agony building between her legs as his hand finally came to rest on her throbbing mounds of flesh.

When Xander finally lifted Avin to her feet, she was gasping heavily and crying. But hers were not the tears he wanted. They were angry tears, and through them she shot him a look of bold defiance.

For a moment, he just looked at her. Then he shook her so hard she felt her teeth chatter.

“Why?” He roared the question.

She glanced down at the injured finger on the hand that gripped her. It was starting to swell. She wondered if it had hurt his hand when he’d spanked her; she hoped it had.

He shook her again. “Tell me!”

“Isn’t that what you expected?” she asked through angry sobs. “For me to bite the hand that offered me what I needed? To take your caring and turn it on you? Isn’t that who you think I am?”

“It
is
who you are,” he said between gritted teeth, and she surprised them both then by laughing through her tears. It was a maniacal laugh, the laugh of a woman perversely amused at the irony of her situation.

“We were to be married,” he continued, looking at her with disgust. “You toyed with me. Played with my affections.
Pretended
to submit. And all along, it was just a game.”

Avin did not respond. If he truly thought her capable of such deceit, he didn’t deserve her submission. He’d never deserved it.

“It’s not a game anymore, is it?” he asked.

It never had been a game to her. It had been a game to her father, and she’d been a pawn. But she wasn’t going to tell Xander that. He wouldn’t believe her anyway.

The king spun Avin around and she felt him lift the hem of the gown and reach around to tie it across her in the front, leaving the back open. Avin felt her face flame scarlet. She could feel the cool air of the room on her burning haunches.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

Avin didn’t have to ask where she was going. She well remembered his earlier promise to display her punished bottom from the castle window. Even now as they descended the spiral stairs down to the main hall, she was filled with dread. The disdain of people she’d been tricked into serving stung her pride far more than Xander could ever sting her bottom. Her father had regarded Windbourne’s simple, superstitious subjects with the tolerance a nurse might show a slow child. But her Ravenscroft enemies had exploited the simple beliefs of her people to have them blame her for something that was not her fault. They’d made her subjects believe she’d brought the winter that froze the crops and killed their children. They’d smuggled in summer fruits along with the promise that the young warrior who’d provided them would return spring if they would accept his rule. These simple, desperate people did not know that spring had arrived in the south and would make its way to Windbourne no matter who was the ruler. They believed in his power and promises. In their desperation, they had turned on her, betraying her.

When they reached the balcony, Xander roughly turned Avin so that her back faced the gathering crowd. “People of Windbourne,” he said. “I told you I would bring humility to the woman who selfishly ruled you. Today, she has started that journey. Behold the marks of her punishment.”

There was a roar from below, and Avin closed her eyes, feeling her face flush as scarlet as her bottom. Behind her, the crowd cheered, but she ignored the sound, focusing instead on the last of the ice that melted to fall like a teardrop from the highest parapet to the ground below.

Chapter Four

“The coronation will not be lavish.” Xander looked out over the room filled with the small gathering of nobility from Windbourne and Ravenscroft. “Yes, we are celebrating the uniting of our lands under one king. But half of these people have been without for too long.”

Lord Reginald interrupted his son. “All the more reason, don’t you think, to show the prosperity of the new rulers?”

Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

“No.” Xander shook his head. “It is unwise to flaunt comfort before it has reached the lowest subject. The fields are now planted, the trees bearing fruit. Stags and hares have been spotted in the wild wood again. When it is time for the first harvest, we will have a celebration all can enjoy.”

From the back of the room, Cynric smiled to hear his counsel dispensed so firmly by the new king. Cynric wanted to think that Xander was the kind of son he’d have had, had the fates seen to turn his inclination toward women rather than the men he favored.

Lord Reginald sat back in his chair, his shoulder slumped, one finger resting on his temple. He darted his eyes angrily at Cynric, who pretended not to notice the sullen reaction of a father who finds his advice publicly rebuffed.

Cynric knew the king’s father to be a malicious man. He also knew his value as an advisor made his position safe in spite of that resentment. Xander, a fierce and respected warrior, had been the muscle behind the battle to take Windbourne. Lord Reginald had provided the financing. But it had been Cynric’s strategy to turn the people of the surrounded city against Avin that had tilted the scales in their favor.

Lord Reginald had endorsed the strategy without his son’s knowledge or consent. It still bothered Cynric that he’d not consulted Xander—who’d been focusing on the military campaign—about the plan to prey on the superstations of Avin’s people. As Xander’s forces weakened Avin’s army outside, within the walls subversives bribed by Lord Reginald spread the word that Avin had cursed them with endless cold and made them believe only a new king could restore warmth to the land.

Now that victory had been achieved, Cynric believed Xander would make a good king. But he knew that the young man at the head of the room faced a very real, underestimated obstacle in the woman housed in the tower.

Cynric observed everything—expressions, body posture, glares, knowing glances—so when he saw Xander discreetly massaging the bandaged finger of his right hand, he knew there was some connection between the injury and the spectacle he’d seen earlier from another part of the castle: the bare red bottom of a former queen.

The advisor wasn’t surprised that Xander had punished Avin in this way. He knew the two had a history, and Cynric feared what had made it unique could easily undermine the very thing Xander was trying to achieve.

“I hope you have the physician cleanse the wound.” The room had cleared out when Cynric approached the king. He gestured to the bandaged finger. “A human bite can be quite serious.”

Xander looked up, surprised. “Who told…?” Then he paused. “I forget sometimes, even now. No one has to tell you a thing.” He looked down at the finger. “How did you know?”

“You looked pained when you clutched it, but not physically pained,” Cynric said. “You look like a man more hurt at having been bitten, than by the bite itself.”

Xander sighed. “She won’t yield, Cynric. I beat her pretty bottom until it was red as a summer cherry. I put her on display, exposing her punished nates to her former subjects. I’ve used a rod. I’ve used leather. I’ve used humiliation. And yet she defies me.”

“She submitted to you once. Remember?” Cynric arched a brow. “I do.”

“Don’t look so uncomfortable, Xander,” the advisor continued with a sly smile. “It’s always been my job to know what is going on. The desire to submit to strength is, perhaps, strongest in strong women. In you, Avin once found a man who gave her what she needed most.”

“She was only pretending then, Cynric.” Xander glanced solemnly toward the tower that held his imprisoned former lover.

“How many women have you been with, Xander?”

Now it was the king who chuckled. “Don’t you know?”

“Humor me by pretending I don’t.” Cynric grinned.

“Dozens. More, maybe?”

“And you stand here and tell me you don’t know when a woman’s reaction is real? Some things can’t be faked. I’ve never been with even one woman, and yet when she visited Ravenscroft, I could tell that the sounds coming from her chamber rang with true passion. She responded to your correction, and to your touch. You had her submission once. So get it back, but not through brute force. That only earns the pretense of submission. To get the real thing will require the caring domination she craves.”

“Caring?” Xander walked a few feet away and barked a mirthless laugh. “How can I care for a woman who hates me?”

“But how can you expect to win the submission of a woman who cannot respect a man afraid to face his fear?”

Xander narrowed his brow. “What is it I have to be afraid of?”

“Do not pretend you don’t know. Simply face it. If you don’t, her resistance—even collared—will speak more to her strength than yours.”

Cynric nodded and turned away. He knew the time for his words was over. The debate now was within the man who’d yet to tame his deposed queen.

Chapter Five

Was it his imagination, or was she even paler than when he’d escorted her back to her room? She was definitely weaker, and Xander silently cursed the stubbornness that had her refusing the food she needed.

The meal he held this time had been especially prepared with what he remembered to be her favorite foods—lamb in wine sauce, tender fiddlehead ferns, plums, and a cup of milk infused with honey.

Again, he set the food on the bedside table before firmly lifting Avin from the bed where she lay staring toward the window. Again he pushed her to kneeling. She raised her eyes to him in defiant silence, but she couldn’t stop them from darting toward the plate. Despite her denials, she was hungry.

“You kneel so prettily, Avin,” he said, using her name for the first time. “You will be rewarded.” He’d leaned down then, scooped her into his arms, and sat on the edge of the bed. Placing her in his lap, Xander ran his hand gently down her back.

She remained silent as he picked up a piece of the lamb. It was warm from the oven. He held it close to her mouth, knowing she could smell the tender meat, the sweet wine it had basted in.

“This is for your own good,” he said, and saw her eyes flash with recognition at the simple statement. How many times had he said that to her before putting her over his knee at Ravenscroft? How many times had she sweetly cried, knowing it was true, before offering herself to him? The juice of the lamb was running down his fingers, tempting her appetite. He swallowed hard, remembering how her juices had flowed after a spanking, tempting his.

His punishments had been for her own good. So was food. She needed both. He had not forgotten. She realized it. He could see it in her eyes now. She was fighting to resist. She was losing. She opened her mouth and allowed him to pop in the morsel of food. She did not bite him. He reached for another.

“Good,” he said, his voice deep and thick. “Very good.”

Xander studied her as she chewed. Avin was as beautiful as he remembered, but the trusting innocence that once animated her features was no more. In its place was a guarded reserve that made her sculpted face, with its high cheekbones, pale green eyes, and full lips, look like a haunted marble statue.

She took another morsel, and he could tell by the third bite that her body had awakened to its need for food. This time, she sucked the juices off his finger in eagerness, and while Xander knew it was unintentional, the mere sensation gave him an instant cockstand that had him hastily shifting his enslaved former queen to one of his hard thighs, lest she feel it poking into her.