Page 19 of The Princess Tied

“Sorry.” He shrugged. She was prettier this way. Legs tied, hands, the breast bondage he’d finagled, and that face rope that gagged her—perfection. Who needed gold trinkets?

With Ruth’s assistance, he found some river clay for her hair, filled a bucket with it, and brought it back. He also inked a temporary Kostan slave tattoo on her butt.

The ink would take a week to fade. She was going to hate him.

It was… nice.

Hands on hips, he grinned, taking in the sight a little longer. A princess in bondage at his feet, glaring at him. Not everyone would agree, but he’d rather Po in his ropes—a wriggly, red-faced, muddy-haired Po with extreme annoyance oozing from every pore—than one of the lauded paintings they’d sold put back on the wall of the de Guerre mansion.

Her nipples were begging him to do something to them.

No. Must not.

“What’s it say?” he asked Ruth, clearing his throat and distracting himself, though still admiring how the swirly blue writing curved over her ass.

“Mine,” Ruth told him.

“Absolutely perfect.” He kissed his fingers and smiled grimly at Po’s rope-muffled curses. “Why, Po, I never thought a princess would know those words.”

When he carried her out to the horse, Ruth said something he didn’t quite catch.

“What?” He swung, with Po draped over his shoulder and her muddy, mussed hair flopping against the back of his shirt. She was making his clothes sticky, but he didn’t mind, not one bit.

That agreement they were doing, once they crossed the border, he was already adding codicils, just like Po said one should.

“What was that?” he repeated.

“I will follow you. Pay me for these goods on the other side. I am ready to move on anyway, and I know these guards. They will likely question you, greatly, but not if I distract them.”

“Oh. Okay.” He would trust Ruth. She’d aided him far beyond what she needed to. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d take the help. Then he turned away and headed once again for Rocky.

He’d been sure she’d said something different to that, something about the construction of True love? Some of the mud had landed in his ear and must have clogged his hearing.

He was pleased with himself, pleased he’d found a moral middle ground. Kidnapped her, yes. But now he had the renowned brain that made Bitzocoin rich thinking for him.

Also, he had not done anything perverted to her.

Though he had her naked and bound. Her ass under his hand.

His fingers treadled her flesh. John inhaled. Biting that ass should be a priority.

It was lush, springy, with exactly the right curves and softness. His fingers slipped to the split of said ass and detected a slippery kind of wetness. That made him let out a small groan and curse.

A man knew what lay between Po’s legs. A man might do something about it if his damned conscience wasn’t working overtime.

Carefully, John put her across in front of the saddle and ignored the mumbled insults that reached him from the other side. He leaned in, fingers wrapping over the saddle strap. He counted to one hundred, and for once it was not to stop himself killing people.

He straightened, inhaled, exhaled, shakily.

Put it in the codicil. Time to go. Keep her too long like that, and she’d throw up all the picnic food.

“I am coming now.” Ruth had a voice that said announcing, not merely saying. It permeated the air as thoroughly as a thunderstorm might, full of weight with a tinge of ominousness.

When he turned, she was already doing some sort of folding magic on her stall—okay she was big and strong and so it likely wasn’t magic, but still…

The front shelf was tucked in, the walls and roof folded down, and down again, and now, with another swift, folding twist, and all there was before him was a lumpy rucksack of a size to fit her shoulders. She hoisted it to her back, settled it. An upper part was extended, and a little flop-up-and-over roof appeared above Ruth’s head.

The birds fluttered down onto that small, new roof.