Page 17 of Heartbreak Prince

“That’s the fun of it. You get to be the royal, and I get to escape myself.” There’s a bite to his tone on the last words. A dark twist. He’s faking nonchalance a little too well—yet his heart must be cleaving itself into pieces, one for each murdered member of his family.

I’ve been staring at his chest, at the well-carved pecs no idle playboy prince should have. His physique is the type that’s been honed, not by wielding weapons or training for battle, but by gentler forms of exercise like climbing, lifting, and running. I can tell the difference between a body designed for combat, and one sculpted for beauty. Still, I like that he has a regular routine to better himself, and that he doesn’t rely solely on magic for strength.

Forcing myself to look away, I pretend to inspect the selection of makeup on the dressing table. “We can start out with a few pieces of clothing and shed them later, when it feels right. Wear the helmet and a couple of those necklaces. Keep your undershorts on. And don’t forget to apply the false nails. You can remove them when our time is up.”

“You’re so didactic about this,” he mutters. “Takes the fun out of it.”

Ignoring him, I strip down to the black panties and bustier I’m wearing, and I add a pair of mid-thigh stockings. A long blond wig, a fake coronet, and a bejeweled mask conceal my hair and my face.

Adding more costume jewelry and applying the black nail covers takes up the rest of our preparation time. Bridah raps twice and leans into the dressing room. “Count to thirty, then go.” She gives us both an approving nod. “Make it hot.”

“Always,” I reply.

After Bridah closes the door, Vawn murmurs through his helmet, “She seems confident that you can be sexy.”

“Of course I can. Did you miss the part where I’ve done this before?”

He shrugs. “Most of the men I know will spurt to the mere sight of a fine pair of tits. How much talent does it take to sway naked in a box?”

“Fuck you.”

The prince advances toward the showcase door, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. “I’m not sure you can commit to this scene, sweetheart. You’re a well-toned weapon with a beautiful face and no idea how to be vulnerable. Can you be the weak one, the sweet soft thing who gets cruelly destroyed? Can you release your armor long enough to play this game? Are you strong enough to let me overpower you?”

Another tap on the dressing room door alerts me to the fact that our time is up. We have to step into the showcase, and we must do it in character.

But Prince Vawn Molloi just made me madder than I’ve ever been.

4

The prince isn’t entirely wrong. In the past, when I’ve done sessions at the Lycan, I simply writhed and danced in the box. I whined, gasped, moaned, and stroked my own body, but I didn’t have to put in much creativity. Many times, Bridah chose my costume for me.

Vawn doesn’t think I’m capable of moving beyond my warrior persona and becoming a victim. He doesn’t think I can play a sweet, soft role, or be anything other than the blade-wielding, quick-thinking bodyguard who saved his ass tonight.

My heart thuds in my chest and the entire surface of my skin burns with fury and nervous determination as I arrange the golden curls of the beautiful wig over my shoulders.

I can do this. I can show him that I’m not all business. I can be feminine. Seductive. Vulnerable.

Why do I even care what he thinks? He’s a piece of entitled shit. Too bad he looks so fucking good in a pair of silky black undershorts and a gold helmet.

I enter the showcase first. It’s wide enough for two people to dance around a bit together, but there’s not much more space than that. A stool sits against the left-hand wall, and I perch on it gracefully as if it’s a throne, arching my back. One of the other performers taught me how to pose when I first started working here, and I’ve never forgotten her lessons, or her kindness.

A pink lantern hanging from a chain overheard illuminates the performance box, and a screen of delicate latticework separates me from the audience, who repose in comfortable chairs in their dark observation room. The strips of wood composing the lattice are spaced far enough apart to give the clients a decent view while still giving an aura of concealment and mystery.

Strains of music shiver in the air, piped throughout the building from a small central chamber where Shae, the Lycan’s one-man orchestra, plies his trade with the assistance of musical enhancement glyphs. The rhythm mimics a rapid heartbeat, a double-thump that my pulse rises to match.

Vawn follows me into the chamber, handing me a gold riding crop like he’s presenting me with a scepter.

I didn’t see him grab the crop. What the fuck does he expect me to do with it? Smack him? Not a bad idea. I could be persuaded to do that.

He kneels before me, lowering his body with an inborn elegance I envy. I touch his shoulder with the tip of the crop, like I’m knighting him, and a visible shudder runs through his frame. I know he’s faking it, but it earns the first murmurs of interest from our audience.

I lower the tip of the riding crop to his navel and draw it slowly upward, along the groove between his abs and pectorals. I trace it along his throat, tucking it under his chin and tilting his helmeted head up, while I lean down to him.

Then we begin to dance. It’s fluid, interpretative, guided by the music. My movements suit the princess I’m pretending to be, haughty and coquettish, casting flirtatious glances back at my knight and occasionally smacking him with the riding crop when he gets too close.

Every time I turn around, the knight seems larger, darker, more threatening. He gives off a simmering rage and a violent need that grows stronger every time the princess rebuffs him. Vawn has disappeared completely into his character, and the ease with which he assumed this new role scares me a little.

The visor of his golden helmet reveals nothing of his eyes, but I swear I can feel the sheer carnal magnetism emanating from him in irresistible waves.