Chapter 19 -Rhydon-
\-Rhydon-
I don’t leave the stable.
The air still feels thick from the encounter with Avianna, and I find myself unwilling to let it go just yet. I stand in the far back corner where the lantern light barely reaches, one shoulder against the wooden wall, replaying every second carefully. Avianna lost composure. That is the important part. She still ran, still tried to recover herself. But I saw enough before she did. The trembling, the uneven breathing, the way her eyes kept searching mine like she wanted something she could not control.
A slow satisfaction curls through me. The princess wants me. And more importantly, she clearly does not know what to do with that fact yet. Good, that makes her easier to shape.
My gaze drifts toward the stable entrance. And Caylix was nowhere near her. For all his constant hovering, silent watchfulness, and his irritating presence at her side, he was absent. A fact I intend to capitalize on.
Still, the thought of him leaves a faint bitterness beneath my satisfaction, because there is something deeply unsettling about that man. Not his size, not his skill, men like that exist in every kingdom. It is the way he looks at me. Too observant. Too controlled.
As if he already knows everything about me. He understood my threat though, so he understands rank, understands consequence. But obedience is not the same thing as submission, and Caylix has never truly felt submissive to me. Men who quietly calculate are often more dangerous than loud ones. He needs to go and soon, before Avianna grows too dependent on keeping him close.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from the thought, a familiar laugh follows a second later.
“Well,” Charlotte says lightly, “you look entirely too pleased with yourself tonight.”
I glance up. Charlotte leans against the opposite wall of the stable corner, lantern light sliding across chestnut hair and sharp eyes. She looks relaxed, but nothing about Charlotte is ever careless. Every movement is chosen. I say nothing immediately. I let her study me. Charlotte smiles faintly.
“Was it that interesting of an evening?”
“Perhaps.”
Her gaze narrows slightly with curiosity. Then, after a moment, she says, “There are two princesses in this castle, you know.”
Interesting. My mouth curves faintly.
“Oh?”
Charlotte tilts her head against the wall behind her.
“Just because she’s older doesn’t mean you have to marry her.”
There is no teasing softness in it now, no pretending she means something harmless. She means exactly what she says. I study her carefully. Ambitious. Jealous. Bold enough to risk saying it aloud.
“And you believe I should choose you instead?”
Charlotte’s smile sharpens.
“I’m just letting you know it's an option.”
Gods. The confidence is intriguing. I push away from the wall slowly, taking a few steps toward her.
“And why,” I ask quietly, “should I marry you?”
Charlotte doesn’t retreat.
“Because,” she says, holding my gaze steadily, “I’m more fun.”
I stop a few feet from her, watching the way she tracks every shift in my expression, searching for weakness, approval, interest.
“And what exactly,” I murmur, “does fun mean to you?”
Charlotte smiles, then says casually. “I brought you a gift.”
Only then do I notice the second figure standing just outside the lantern glow. A maid. Young. Pretty enough. Nervous in the way girls get around power.
“Lina, Come here.”
The girl obeys immediately, stepping closer, and lowering herself to her knees in front of me. Interesting. I glance back toward Charlotte while the maid’s hands move to the fastening of my trousers. Charlotte watches carefully from a few feet away, assessing, like she wants to see what kind of man I truly am. My gaze holds hers. And slowly, I smile. The girl’s hands are efficient, practiced in a way that suggests this isn’t her first time being offered up as a distraction. She frees me quickly, her cool fingers a shock against the heat of my skin, and before I can even draw a breath to steady myself, she takes me into her mouth.
I don’t look down. I keep my eyes locked on Charlotte. She stands there, her posture relaxed, her eyes sharp, tracking the shifts in my expression and the sudden tension in my jaw when the girl takes me deep. She’s watching to see if I’ll break. It’s a power play, disguised as a gift.
The maid’s mouth is hot and wet, her tongue moving with a skill that is surprising for a girl who looks like she should be scrubbing floors. She takes me deep with a rhythmic, suctioning pressure that sends a jolt of heat straight up my spine.
But the true talent here isn't the girl on her knees. It’s the one standing up and watching me.
Charlotte doesn’t so much as blink. She watches the flush rise up my neck, sees the way my chest stills as the maid’s tongue works a particularly devastating rhythm, and she doesn't look away. She’s enjoying this. She likes seeing me unravel, seeing the composure of a Prince stripped away by a servant she commands. The maid is relentless, bobbing her head with a wet, hungry rhythm that builds a tight, coiling pressure in my gut. My hands fist at my sides, fingers clenching around empty air as the urge to bury them in her hair and take control wars with the need to keep my eyes on Charlotte. I feel the edge approaching fast. The girl senses it too, taking me deeper until I can feel the back of her throat constricting around me, dragging a guttural sound from the base of my throat.
But I don’t surrender my gaze.
I stare straight into Charlotte’s eyes as the coil in my gut winds tight, threatening to snap. The maid’s rhythm is ruthless now, a wet, heat-slicked tempo designed to destroy restraint. She is an instrument, and Charlotte is the musician playing her, conducting my arousal with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a steady, unyielding gaze. The pressure crests, a blinding wave that obliterates thought. My hips jerk forward and I spill myself down the girl’s throat with a rough, broken groan. I let Charlotte see every second of it, the flutter of my eyelids, the parting of my lips, the absolute shudder of surrender that racks my body.
I stand there for a moment, the only sound in the sudden stillness is the ragged echo of my own breathing.
But the air between Charlotte and I has changed.
The maid stays on her knees waiting for a dismissal that neither of us has given yet. She is nothing but a prop now, a tool used to prove a point. Charlotte finally breaks the stare, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips.
"See, Rhydon," she says, her voice smooth, laced with dark promise. "We could have a lot of fun together."
The words hang in the air. She isn't talking about the maid. She isn't talking about sex, at least not the simple kind. She’s talking about chaos. She’s talking about using people as playthings and watching the world burn around us while we sip wine.