I sink into the armchair, sipping my wine, watching my prisoner. The silence in the room is interrupted only by the sounds of waves outside and the occasional cries of seagulls.

The young prince seems a little pale, probably due to fatigue and the general shock of his unexpected ordeal. It suits him well, though, bringing out the rare green of his eyes and the red of his bow-shaped lips. They're pressed into a thin line now, but I can easily imagine them open to let my tongue in, or perhaps something more interesting.

We’ll get to that later.

"You're not a hostage," I say. "You're my wife."

He winces as if slapped. "I'm nothing of the sort."

"I imagine you are."

"You can imagine what you want. It doesn't make it real."

I smirk. "What I imagine, usually becomes real."

He shakes his head. "It's nonsense. I'm not a woman, so I can't be your wife."

"I'm the king," I say, savoring each word. "You are whatever I say you are."

"You can’t change the fact that I'm a man."

"First of all, it can be changed quite easily. Just ask the eunuch at my palace, they'll tell you all about it." His eyes widen briefly, and I make a dismissive gesture. "But I'm sure there's no need in that. There's plenty of things that can be done with you as you are. You've got a pretty enough face to help me overlook your extra body part."

"Well, your face is ugly," he snaps.

I raise an eyebrow. "I wonder why my other wives never mentioned that."

"They're afraid of you. I'm not."

"Good," I say, placing the empty goblet on the table. "Then I'm sure you won’t be afraid to tell me your name."

He rolls his eyes. "Why do you keep asking that? Do you have a problem raping people you haven’t been formally introduced to?"

"No problem at all," I say, getting up. "Should I prove that to you? I thought we were going to have a conversation and get to know each other better. Yet if you insist on proceeding to the raping part, so be it." I make a step in his direction, and he quickly backs away.

"Damn it." His voice wavers a bit. "It's Emilio, all right?"

"All right," I say, stopping. "Pleasure to meet you, Emilio."

"Great." He breathes out and nods at the armchair. "Now do you mind sitting back?"

I shake my head. "You won’t tell me what to do."

In a few steps, I close the distance between us. There's nowhere for him to go so he just remains with his back flat against the wall, his eyes widening at my approach. I stop in front of him, intentionally too close for his comfort, and examine him.

He's exceptionally attractive—a good bargain. I run a hand on his cheek, and he flinches away from my touch. I pause, then sink the fingers of my other hand into his hair, holding his head in place. Then, I touch his cheek again, this time unobstructed.

"Soft," I mutter. "Do you even shave?"

"I won’t answer you."

I shrug. "No need to."

There's a faint smell of lavender about him, the perfume invariably popular in these parts. There's also a whiff of the sea and a bit of sweat and something unfamiliar but pleasant that must be his own unique smell. I sniff at his face and neck as he stands there, frozen. I let go of his hair and run my hands down his shoulders and arms. Then I press against him, pinning him to the wall. Messenio was right. I am horny.

"Don't," he whispers as my lips find the naked skin between his neck and his shoulder. He shivers as I suck on it, his breathing rising to a panicked, rapid pace, like that of a frightened animal. I guess that's pretty much what he is now.

"Don't do this," he whispers again, as my hands continue to travel about his body, exploring, guessing how he will feel and look without the clothes on. "I don't want…this."

I detach a little to see his face. He stares at me, his chest rising and falling, the rest of his body unmoving and stiff under my hands.

"What you want doesn’t matter anymore," I say, and then press my lips to his.

The next moment, sharp pain hurls me away from him. My lower lip is on fire and my mouth is filling with blood. I swing instinctively and slap him across his face, sending him tumbling to the floor.

"Damn it," I growl, grabbing a piece of cloth from the table and pressing it to the place where his teeth have broken the skin.

He's cowering on the floor, his hand pressed to his cheek I hit. I want to kick him, to beat him up, or maybe to finish what I have started, to have him right there on the floor, no foreplay or oil or anything else to facilitate it, just fuck him rough until he begs for mercy. How dared he?

He stares up, one of his eyes concealed behind his hand, the other wide open. For a moment, nothing moves, except for my blood that's slowly soaking the cloth.

I make myself take a long, deep breath. I could force him now, but that would be like swallowing a gourmet dish without feeling its taste. He's not a simple meal, and he should be savored accordingly. I shall have him beg for me, not succumb with reluctance. Forcing him would only take all the fun out of it.

I should break him first.

"Guards!" I bellow. "Take him away and lock him up!"

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