To The Princess Bound (34 page)

Victory swallowed, hard.

“You don’t have to hold me so tight,” she managed.

“Making sure you don’t run off,” Dragomir stated.  “It’s cold out there, and I don’t know if you noticed, Princess, but I’m currently in a state of slight undress.  Don’t feel like getting up to go after you again.”

“You’re
naked
,” Victory cried.  “And
touching
me.”  She shuddered, though she wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation.  Or both.  She tried to squirm out of his grip.

He squeezed her closer.  “You keep wriggling and I might just have to sleep
on
you, Princess.”

Victory went utterly stiff at that thought.  With just her shift between her and the large man, she knew that could
not
end well.

Dragomir chuckled softly into her ear.  “If you’d gone any quieter, Victory, I’d say your little heart gave out down there.”

“Matthias will string you up by your testicles for this,” she managed.  Her mind was drifting to the muscular arm wrapped around her—as solid as a band of iron—the big legs tight against hers, the ribbed abdomen pressing against her back.  She felt the warmth pooling again, despite herself.

“What did you
do
to me,” she whimpered.  Instead of wanting to be free of him, a good part of her was wanting to roll over, to run her fingers down his muscled chest, to have his big hand stroke her thigh…

She shook that thought out of her head.

He bespelled me,
she thought, horrified.  Somehow, he had made her crave…
things
…like a wanton pleasure-house slave.

And yet, she found herself realizing, she didn’t care.  Her body was aching from the contact, yearning to feel his skin on hers, his big form moving over hers, pinning her with his weight.  The pressure was growing like a smoldering fire between her legs, and she desperately tried to think of something to put it out.

Instead, her mind kept coming back to the great beast sleeping behind her, and how badly she yearned to feel him moving with her.

She needed release, and she needed it
now.
  If she didn’t find it, she was likely to lose herself to the creature pinning her in the bed.

She waited until she was sure he was asleep, his breathing deep and even, his arm slightly slack around her torso.  Then, as carefully as she could, she slipped her hand down under her shift.  As utterly quietly and quickly as she dared, she began to pleasure herself for the first time since that ill-fated ship to the Imperial Academy.

The pressure within her surged, warming until even her hips felt encased in its hot glow.  Victory bucked slightly, then bit her lip, terrified that the Emp had noticed.  His breathing remained slow and even, and eventually, she found the confidence to start moving her fingers again.  It felt good…something that she hadn’t even considered doing in six years.

A moan slipped her lips, and Victory froze in horror.

For a long moment, she heard nothing over the pounding of her own heart.  Then she relaxed, feeling the Emp’s slow, even breaths against her neck.  She closed her eyes and decided to finish.

“Do you really want me that bad?” Dragomir whispered in her ear.

Victory screeched and flailed, trying to kick her way onto the floor.  Cursing, Dragomir held on, dragging her back to the bed with both hands, this time.  “Gods be good, woman!” Dragomir cried, forcing her wrists above her head and settling his big body over her abdomen.  “Calm down!”

Victory screamed and arced her back, trying to buck him off of her.

She would have had better luck throwing aside an Imperial tank that had decided to set its treads in her gut.

“I’m sorry!” Dragomir cried, holding her pinned.  “Just calm down!”

“You brutish peasant bastard cad you scared the
shit
outta me!” Victory screamed, horrified and humiliated.  “Get off!”  She renewed her struggles, screeching in shame and frustration.

“Listen,” Dragomir said, his blue eyes wary in the moonlight, “I’m going to lie back down.  I’m taking you with me.  I’ve gotta get up in the morning and go check on my herd.  I’d like to take you with me, but I’m not gonna be able to do that if you don’t get some sleep.”

“I hate goats,” Victory whimpered, but she was relieved he was finding something else to talk about, carefully ignoring the fact that he had just caught her pleasuring herself in his arms.

“I’m going to let you up,” Dragomir said.  “And lay back down.  Please don’t run, all right?  I’m not going to hurt you.”

Victory stared back up at him in silence, seething.

“Okay,” Dragomir said nervously, “Laying down now.  Just want to sleep.” 

She turned her head, ignoring him.

As if he were handling a bundle of aged dynamite, Dragomir gently let go of her wrists.  Then, pinning her body in place with one arm, he lay back down behind her.  Gingerly, he pulled her back to him once more, though not so tightly this time as to give her such excellent mental imagery of what loomed behind her in the dark.

“You all right?” he whispered.

She said nothing.

“Victory?” he asked, softer.

“You tell anyone,” Victory grated, “And I will be eating your bloody liver sautéed in butter and shallots.”

She could hear the grin in his face when he said, “And you’re squeamish about goat.”

Goats, Victory found, had slitty little eyes, cloven hooves, and horns; the very picture of malignant demon-spawn.  It didn’t help that they tried to eat her hair when she sat on a log to watch Dragomir tend them, or that they nibbled on her shift when she stood up and flailed, absolutely stoic to her shooings.

“Get them
off
of me!” she cried, tugging at the chain that Dragomir had padlocked to his waist.

Dragomir grunted and fell backwards on his rear.  The hairy brown goat he had been milking jumped aside and darted away, flicking its tail. The pail, which Dragomir had been collecting for breakfast, went spilling across the yard in a white wave.

“Hmph,” Victory said.  “Good riddance.”

“That is the
third time!
” Dragomir growled, snatching up the empty bucket and jumping to his feet.  “You don’t
have
to drink it! 
I’d
like to have something other than potatoes and eggs for breakfast!”

“And cheese,” Victory said.  “Don’t forget that.”  She was actually looking forward to the cheese, deciding that, if taken literally, she wasn’t eating the flesh of a goat.  Besides, the gods hadn’t struck her down yet, and with the alternatives being potatoes and eggs…

But Dragomir’s face darkened.  “I gave you all of my cheese last night.  You ate it in one sitting.”

Victory’s mouth fell open.  “That was
it?
”  She stared.  “But that was just, what, a
pound?
”

“Until you came along,” Dragomir growled, “I had been trading it for other things.  Like clothes.”

Victory snorted and looked away.  “When my brother gets here, I’m going to make sure he takes me back to civilization with him.  I am in need of a bath and perfume.”  She glanced down at her feet.  “It’s going to take my servants a decade to scrub the dirt from beneath my toenails.”

He gave her a flat stare.  “It’s not dirt.”

Victory laughed.  “Of course it is.  What else could it b—”  Then her eyes widened at the mangy, flea-stricken animals munching on the bushes growing through the fence, then at the squawking flock of fowl that was pecking at the ground by the hovel’s front door.

As she watched, a projectile squirted from one of the feathered posteriors.

“Oh.  My. 
God
,” Victory screamed.  “Take me back inside!  Now!”

He sighed at her.  “Thanks to you, I’m still not done here.  I take you back inside, you’re getting chained back to the bed until I can finish milking my damn goats.”

“Chain me to the bed!” Victory cried, for the first time noticing the delicate texture of the debris between her toes, the slippery feel, the digested bits of grass…  “Oh for the love of the gods, chain me to the bed!”

Instead, Dragomir sighed and said, “Fine.  I’ll just skip milk for breakfast.  Come here.”  Then, to her horror, he started walking
toward
the flock of disgusting feathered cretins.  She was given the choice of following or being dragged.

Screaming in dismay, Victory danced over the piles and plops, whimpering whenever she felt something go squish underneath her feet.  “What are you
doing?
” she cried, when the droppings grew more intense, like entering the center of a minefield.

“I’m getting some eggs for breakfast,” Dragomir growled.

“From
where?
” Victory screeched.  “The market’s back in the town!”

Dragomir came to a sudden stop, then turned, slowly, to face her.  After a moment of staring, he pointed at one of the feathered cretins.  “What is that?”

“That is filthy.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.  “What
is
it?”

“It’s a duck,” she said, disgusted.

“That is a
chicken,
” Dragomir said.  “What do chickens produce?”

“Meat,” Victory said.  Then, when he merely frowned at her, she said, “Soup?”

“You are joking,” Dragomir said, his blue eyes watching her suspiciously.  “Aren’t you?”

Victory frowned down at the dirty brown creatures.  “Feathers?”

He continued to stare at her.

Now he was just starting to irritate her.  “They produce fertilizer,” she growled, showing him her foot.  “
Lots
of it.”

“Eggs,” Dragomir said.  “They produce eggs.”

Victory frowned.  “But how would they—”  Then she felt her eyes widen, her jaw drop open in horror.  “You
eat
that?  After it’s been…after it’s come through…”  She pointed a finger at a chicken’s butt, wrinkling her nose in disgust.  “Never mind on the eggs.  I’m no longer hungry.”

Dragomir raked his hand down his face, watching her between his big fingers.  “Oh my gods, you
were
serious.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine with potatoes,” Victory said.  “Sautee them in butter, throw in some onions and rosemary, and I will make do.”

Dragomir narrowed his eyes.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I’m all out of rosemary.”

“Oregano?” Victory asked hopefully.  “Cilantro?”

He turned and started stalking toward the tiny excrement-covered hut.

“Chives!” Victory cried, dancing after him.  “Surely you have chives!”

Dragomir wrenched open the chicken-coop door and started plucking eggs from nasty, feather-encrusted wads of straw.  “Six eggs this morning,” he said, sounding satisfied.  “That’s enough for everybody to have two.”

“I said I didn’t want eggs,” Victory said, with a grimace.

Dragomir scowled at her.  “The alternative is potatoes.  With salt.”

“I’m not hungry,” Victory said.

Glaring, Dragomir said, “Fine.  Lion and I will have the eggs and potatoes.  You can have water.”

Victory thought again of drinking from a raw, unpurified stream and she made a face.  “I’m not thirsty, either.”

Dragomir made an exasperated sound and dragged her back across the filth-strewn yard to the hovel.  Inside, Lion looked up from where she had been standing beside the crude wood-and-pillow couch Dragomir had supplied for her.  A goose-egg roughly the size of the Imperium stood out on her temple, apparently, Dragomir claimed, because she refused to sit down when he slid the couch underneath her, choosing instead to topple over backwards.  Lion hadn’t argued, so Victory assumed it was probably the truth.

Victory went straight to the water bucket beside the stove and stuck her feet inside, rinsing off the grime.  “How long are you planning on keeping Lion like that?” she asked, rubbing the nasty accumulation off on the sides of the bucket.

Dragomir’s eyes were on the bucket.  “That was my drinking water.”

“And it’s
cold
, too,” Victory said, grimacing as she swished her foot around inside the pail.  “Be glad I’m not going to make you draw me a bath.”  She finished, dried her feet on the towel hanging from the stove, then gestured at the Praetorian.  “She’s only getting madder, you know.  Would probably be more survivable for you if you let her go.”