That damned girl!
Prince Mikhail wanted to reach out and shake her hard again. He'd thought she'd be wise enough to keep to herself. He'd also thought she'd be perceptive enough to realize that if his men thought that he'd taken her to his bed, they'd mostly leave her be. Yet, he'd turned his back for a moment and there she was prancing around half-naked and slapping about his men. Stars of Torobirk! Was she an imbecile?!
She glanced back over her shoulder at him as they walked, making her eyes as wide and frightened as possible.
He almost scoffed. This was an act, of course. He knew exactly how those blue-green eyes appeared when she was truly frightened. He'd seen it two nights ago.
When they reached the tent, he allowed her to enter first as he lit the lantern by the door and carried it in after her.
Once inside, he noticed that she had already seated herself on the cot, her legs crossed in front of her as she leaned back on her arms. Was she trying to look seductive on purpose? Did she not realize that the side of her leg was exposed? No she likely knew exactly what she was doing.
He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. Whatever games she would try and play tonight, he wished for no role in them. He had enough to deal with. A messenger under the Emperor's flag had been sighted by the lookout only a few hours hard ride to the North. There would be much to do that night to avoid receiving the communication he carried, and now Ilya was saddled with the additional task of punishing one of their men.
"Speak!" he demanded. "What do you want?"
She winced.
"I wanted to ask something of you. Th...there is something that I want from you, something that I've wanted since you came to Gelt, back when Ora was Queen, and I... I know that I don't have much time left. This may be the only chance that I get..." her small voice faltered.
Lies, he warned himself.
All the same, his stomach tensed uncomfortably. When he'd gone back to Gelt, she had just turned 16. He remembered it well. He'd looked for her as soon as he entered the Great Hall, expecting the small girl with the mischievous sparkling eyes and the knowing smirk to be perhaps a little taller.
In her place was a young woman of thin but comely shape and serious blue-green eyes that made him forget how to speak every time they fell upon him. That small nose that turned up ever so slightly was still the same. When she was a child, he'd felt a strong desire to tap it, the way one would a naughty puppy, As a woman, however, it gave her face a certain air of innocence that immediately caught hold of one's heart.
There was something he had wanted since that day as well, something he hated to admit to himself that he wanted, because he knew he would never have it.
In fact, he hated himself for wanting it. It was better to leave a wildflower to grow, even in the harshest of elements, than to snap it off and watch it wither and die. That knowledge had steeled his will but did not stop him from torturing himself with visions of it.
"It's your marks. I-I want to see your marks. Will you show them to me?" she murmured, leaning forward.
"Why?" he growled, taking a step back.
"I saw them when I was a child. You told me that in Unaria it is a tradition to mark yourself in such a way. But... you lied. I can't even count the bodies I've seen, and the number of battlefields I've stood on. I've seen Unarians and I've never seen one marked like you. I want to see the--"
"No," he answered simply. "Go to sleep."
She frowned and stared hard at his chest, as though she could see through the cloth of his tunic.
"They're not designs. I thought they were just designs back then... swirls and lines. They're words, aren't they? Old words, written in the old language that no one knows how to speak anymore. I saw them in a book once a few years ago, and I remembered your marks. I wanted to know what they said, I wanted to touch them because the scars under them looked strange."
"I don't want to be touched. Go to sleep," he answered.
"I won't ask for something I can't pay for. In return, I will give you the same. Anywhere I touch you, you may touch me," she offered, dropping her eyes as though the words embarrassed her.
Mikhail's reaction was visceral. His entire body tensed at once.
"I don't... want to touch you," he muttered.
"You... don't?" she looked up and he found himself staring into the depths of the blue-green eyes that never seemed to leave his thoughts.
He wanted desperately to touch her. Though every part of her seemed as fragile as spun glass. Perhaps with one finger he could trace the curve of her leg, pull off the tiny slipper on her foot, and gently, ever so gently, massage it with one hand.
Since the day she had spoken of her father rubbing her mother's feet like a servant, he had imagined it. He had never heard of a man doing such a thing before and the strange intimacy of it tortured him with visions of how it might be. Would she close her eyes and smile? Would she moan low in her throat and tell him that it made her feel good? He could not... no he must not allow himself to imagine his lips and hands doing other things to her body. His hands had been too long stained with foul deeds to place them on something so clean and precious as her small self, but perhaps her feet were alright.
What would she do if he touched her there? What would she do if he ground his thumb into the arch of her tiny foot? What would she do if he gently lifted her leg and began sucking on her small perfect toes? And if he kissed her ankle and then lightly ran his tongue down the inside of her leg? What then? Would she watch him through hazy eyes? Would she bite her lip? Would she spread her legs wider? Would she--
Mikhail sucked in a sharp breath and turned away from her. He could feel himself beginning to grow hard- the tingling, throbbing feeling between his legs. He curled his hand into a fist and dug his fingernails hard into his own palm. He knew that pain would calm him.
"I thought you wanted to touch me, you look at me sometimes like you want to," Talia whispered.
He shook his head slowly. Her voice wasn't helping matters.
"I think you're afraid to," she continued. "I think you don't speak because you don't have any practice at it and you're afraid you'll say too much, and I think you won't touch me because you don't have any practice at that either, and you're afraid of what I'll think of you."
"Stop talking," he demanded, gritting his teeth.
"Or what? And why won't you look at me? Am I indecent, Prince Mikhail? Do you find my bare skin so offensive and unsightly that you can't even condescend to look at me? I don't think so. No. I think it's quite the opposite," she scoffed.
"Shut your mouth, princess," he warned, reminding himself, that somehow, this was a trick. She would never ask him to touch her for any reason. She hated him. She was laying a trap of some sort.
"What are you so afraid of? You're going to kill me no matter what happens. There will be no witness to it. No one will ever know that the great, big, war-mongering, cold, heartless, blood-letting demon wolf of the Empire wanted to be touched.
Mikhail bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He wished he could cover his ears, but then she would certainly know how she affected him.
"Do you remember when you came to take Ora, and I tried to stop you? I was 16 then. You had to stop me when she got on that horse. You could have pushed me down, or grabbed me, or held me back with one arm. But you didn't. You just stood there with your arms out and let me kick and punch you. I thought you were crazy, but I know better now. You wanted to touch me, and that's why you didn't."
"You're wrong, Princess," he growled. "I have no desire to-"
She stood and took a step toward him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
She reached up and lightly stroked his neck, cocking her head to one side, as if curious what his reaction would be. That light touch sent shockwaves through his entire body. Her fingers burned where they lingered and all he could do was to freeze.
If he shoved her away he might hurt her.
"You already touched me here, grabbed me here," she reminded him. "Show me your marks."
Fuck.
His entire body was already struggling to betray his will, and the girl probably knew it well.
What was she thinking? Could he really allow it? How far would she take this game she was playing? If he allowed it, would she really run her hands all over his chest and arms? He should terrify her again. He should grab her by the shoulders, throw her down on the cot, and take his shirt off. Show her what the outcome of playing with a man this way would be. Rip the light fabric of that indecent gown away from her body. Just enough of an act to make her scream and beg him to stop.
But he didn't want to see that fear and disgust in her eyes again.
Her fingers traced the path of his throat again and then ran along his collar. She began to rub small circles at the base of his neck.
Odd.
It was an odd place to touch a man if you were trying to seduce him. There were far more effective places to--
But she wouldn't know that, would she?
Because she didn't know at all what she was doing and he had only responded to who was touching him, not how or where.
He let out an audible sigh of relief and felt the tension go from his body.
Misreading him entirely, she grinned.
"You like it... when I touch you right here on your neck?" she asked.
"Not especially, no," he muttered.
She was attempting to play a game she'd never learned, silly thing. It wouldn't take much to scare her into stopping.
"You want to see my marks?" he asked, and his voice sounded rough like gravel, even to his own ear.
"Yes," she whispered.
"And I can only touch you where you touch me?"
"Yes, that's the bargain we strike for it," she agreed.
"But I don't want to touch your neck or your shoulder," he frowned.
She opened her mouth. The words 'where do you want to touch' almost came out of her. Almost. To do so would have been to give him permission to say any lewd or obsene thing that occurred to him. Her face flooded red.
Silly girl.
"My Prince!" Ilya's voice carried through the wall of the tent. "My Prince, I have word."
Mikhail continued to stare at the Princess. Her embarrassed face was one he wanted to remember.
"My Prince?" Ilya repeated.
"Yes," he responded.
He pushed her hand away and left the tent.