Page 19 of Heartbreak Prince

A bell chimes thrice, indicating that our showcase is over, and a panel slides across the front of the box to shield us from the observation chamber.

Vawn withdraws his hands from my chest immediately, picks up my bustier, and hands it to me. I snatch it from him and head back into the dressing room.

The prince follows with the riding crop, closing the entrance to the box behind him. He takes off the helmet, then pulls on his pants, wincing as he fits them over his erection.

“So you liked pretending to assault a princess?” I aim a pointed look at the evidence between his legs.

“No.” He gives me a sharp, rebuking look, then nods to my bare breasts. “I like those. It’s that simple.”

“Well, the perverts watching us definitely enjoyed the scene.” I remove my mask and hang it up. “Admit it. I proved you wrong.”

Vawn gives me a saucy smile. “You had nothing to prove to me. But you responded exactly as I suspected you would.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I wanted you to be angry so you wouldn’t be nervous. And you put on a fantastic performance. One would almost think you had experience prancing around a palace and giving orders. Or calling men dogs and making them get on their knees. I wouldn’t mind being your pet for a day. You could put a collar on me, walk me around, take me out to piss, let me mount you...”

“You’re disgusting.” I arrange the bustier’s cups over my breasts and secure the hooks. “How can you joke around after everything that happened tonight?”

“I seem to remember someone telling me to bury my grief,” he points out. “You said I should save it for a more opportune time.”

Unsure how to respond, I pick up the riding crop and toss it into the basket where items are put when they need cleaning.

“You demand that I behave a certain way, then complain when I do,” Vawn says. “Typical woman.”

“Typical man—you can get hard even when your sisters, brothers, and parents have been slaughtered.”

I taste the cruelty of the words even as they fly out of my mouth. My anger withers to nothing at the look on his face. It’s torment, naked and terrible. The agony of inconsolable grief.

I press my fingertips to my mouth. “Vawn…”

“Don’t.” His eyes burn bright, a hectic pool of unshed tears. He turns away, lacing up his pants with violent tugs.

“Remember your mask,” I tell him quietly, holding it over his shoulder.

He snatches it without a word and puts it on.

Just as he’s sliding his arms into his shirt, Bridah bursts into the room. “Fantastic performance!” she exclaims. “Very good tips, considering you didn’t actually fuck or show the goody bits. Here’s your payment.” She grabs my hand and shoves the coins into my palm.

“Thank you.” I tuck the money into one of the pouches on my belt.

“I was hoping you’d stay for another session,” she says. “Word is already spreading among the clients in the waiting room. You two are magnificent. The chemistry—”

“We have to go, Bridah. I’m sorry.”

“Well, of course. But come back anytime, you and this gorgeous piece of man-flesh.” She pokes Vawn’s chest. “Strip down and fuck for them next time, and you’ll make more money than the royals themselves.”

I can tell by the tension in the cords of the prince’s neck that if she touches him again, there will be hell to pay. With a few more words of thanks to Bridah, I pull him away from her and tow him from the dressing room, along the hall, and out the back door.

The air smells fresher this time, bathed with the chilly sweetness that comes shortly before dawn. A man dressed in rags has taken up residence on the patio, among the wrought-iron tables. As we pass by him, he holds up a sign: “Forswear magic. Remove temptation.”

All of his fingers are missing their nails, and a pair of bloody pliers hangs from his belt.

“Magic is an abomination, unnatural and wicked. Remove the temptation from your fingers and toes! Show the fates your lifelong loyalty to their supreme plan. Five bits to pull all ten fingernails, seven if you want the toenails out, too.”

I don’t reply, and Vawn doesn’t speak until we’re crossing the bridge. “What the fuck was that?”

“He’s part of an anti-magic cult,” I explain. “Glyph rejectionists. They don’t believe we should have ever learned to harness the magic in our extremities. Magic belongs to the fates alone, they say. The glyph system breeds inequality, nail sets are blasphemy, and so on. Those people are usually a bit sick in the head. Don’t listen to them.”