Page 74 of The Discount Damsel

With his towel on the opposite side of the bathroom and his hands occupied with the soap, Bradley dropped into the water to cover his nakedness.

“But this is my bath!” She shoved at him with her feet.

“A-and th-this is my b-bathroom!” Harassed and harangued, Bradley cuffed the water and splashed some right into her open mouth.

While the princess spat and sputtered, he kept her in the corner of his eye so he wouldn’t be caught unawares if she tried to bite him or something and hurriedly soaped up his armpits. Oh this morning was turning into one bona fide disaster, but it was still salvageable.

Or so he thought until the princess kicked a wave of water that clobbered him square in the face. On the bright side, it rinsed the suds off his skin. On the decidedly not bright side, it sloshed a considerable amount of water on the bathroom floor, something he didn’t have time to clean up and something Miss Penelope would definitely notice. He would definitely be reprimanded, maybe even expelled from the tower. Because if he couldn’t even maintain his own living quarters, then what kind of respect was he showing the rest of the tower, and by extension, Master Excelsior’s generosity?

That water was spit in his master’s face. That water was the fate of Bradley’s future.

The apprentice, overcome by this extrapolation, snapped.

Bradley lunged for the princess, and Millie immediately retaliated.

The next few precious minutes were consumed by a ferocious splash war. More than one person’s modesty was exposed, more than one bruise was delivered—the entire ledge of bath accessories was knocked over, not to mention more than half the bathwater joined the little puddle already on the floor—but none of it mattered, because one of them was going to win, dammit!

Bradley seized the princess’s arm, swirled her around, and trapped her back against his chest.

“Sir! You will unhand me at once.”

To antagonize her, he wrapped his legs around hers so she couldn’t stomp on his instep again. Payback was like the ocean—a salty wench.

The princess growled and thrashed, but the apprentice had wrangled slippery things before, though none with such soft skin that smelled faintly of jasmine.

“You’re such a beast,” she shouted. “If I had my hairpin, you’d be⁠—”

She bucked, her backside sliding against the tops of his thighs and slamming into his abdomen. It didn’t have the desired effect on him, but stimulated a completely different reaction.

Electricity sparked everywhere they touched, zinging through his blood. Every thought vanished from his head. Except one.

The one that would compromise everything.

Hells of the deep, he had to get away from her.

Bradley stood with the squirming princess still trapped in his arms, stepped out of the tub, and, deciding that victory was more important than the floodwaters upon the floor, dropped her ass-first back into the water with the largest splash yet.

“You festering cesspit of disease,” Millie hurled at him when she resurfaced. “You dishonorable, tedious fungus upon the armpit of civilization! Hey, that’s my towel.”

Of course it wasn’t, because yesterday she’d concentrated only on finding clothes and accessories to match her brand instead of acquiring mundane necessities like towels. But the same rules that applied to the bath—it was hers because she had commandeered it—applied to the towel—it was hers by extension because it was needed after the commandeered bath.

The apprentice told her exactly what he thought of her pronouncement by spending an outrageous amount of time drying off his buttocks and those exposed genitals she kept harping about . . . before wrapping her towel low around his hips and stalking out of the room.

It took only a second of panicked listening to discover what he was up to—that fumbling noise was definitely her carefully organized shoes being tossed about haphazardly. The man was a monster—he could be scuffing the suede of her boots or ripping the satin of her slippers!

Millie scrambled out of the tub and peeked out from behind the door. “Don’t,” she cried as Bradley went from pile to pile and heaved it all onto the bed. “Those are all organized!”

When her protest went unheeded—the apprentice actually increased the speed of his tossing and throwing—and when he showed absolutely no regard for vintage lace or the silk with the hand-sewn pearl embroidery, Millie forgot her nakedness. That was her brand, her spoils! The essence of the woman she was striving to become.

She rushed out from behind the door, plucked up a purple dancing slipper whose mate was buried somewhere in the mound upon the bed, and flung it at his back. “You uncultured barbarian! You⁠—”

He spun around, blue eyes ablaze, and seized her wrists. “We don’t have time for this, Tula,” he shouted. “You must hide. Now!”

She halted as if she had been slapped; her brown eyes widened to resemble chocolate buttons. “Mr. Donmarin,” she gasped, “you didn’t stutter!”

The apprentice blinked, stunned by the truth of her words. Then, with no hesitation whatsoever, he said, “Dirk the Dangerous dozes dreamily deep in dungeons dank.”

The pair shared a laugh of disbelief, amazement, wonderment, and a whole host of related emotions. In the light of Bradley’s vocal victory, the two forgot that the apprentice was clad only in a towel and the princess he held had not a scrap on her and only her long auburn hair to hide behind.