Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,52

to the world in the adjoining room.

Well, served me right for being so fucking stupid, I suppose.

But, at the very least, my foolishness had finally—finally—livened things up a little. Sure, the walls were dreary in Xargi Penitentiary, the bed hard and the jumpsuit starchy. No one to serve me here, to wait on me, to cater to my every need, but hadn’t I secretly longed for the chance to stand on my own two feet?

Well. Thought about it, dismissed it, never shared that pathetic, whiny, childish desire with a soul. Not with my bedmates. Not my kin. Certainly not my parents. For my role, my life, had been set in stone from the second I popped out of my mother, and, tedious as that life had become, nothing could ever change it. It was written in the stars, or whatever nonsense they told the lesser fae of our court. We royals were destined for…

For…

Oh, fuck, I hadn’t a clue what I was destined for. Not the throne. Not an arranged marriage like my sisters, their station cementing political unity with allied kingdoms. Nothing.

Just… Prince Fintan, duke of some bullshit star and earl of a constellation no one gave two fucks about.

Huzzah.

I drummed my fingers on the metal tabletop, lips pursed, gaze jumping from one vacant cell to the next. The little rooms circled the common area of the block, smelling faintly of body odor and whatever cleaning chemicals the servants used on the toilets. Some had stronger scents. The dragon stood out, most impressive shifter of the lot, all brimstone and flame, and the demon’s cell smelled vaguely of death and rot and Hell’s ash.

Then that witch. Fiery red hair and sapphire marbles for eyes, so passionate in her defense of me, so valiant as she hurled herself into the fray—

I would bed her tonight. Guards or not, I would have her, bless her with all my sexual prowess. She deserved it, of course, for leaping to the aid of a prince.

And from the way she had studied me upon my arrival, unable to tear those marbles away, blushing whenever our eyes met, she would so thoroughly enjoy herself.

Mind you, this first time she would have to do most of the work. Possibly spend the entire time on top, riding me to her heart’s content. Pain dripped from my every pore, the unstylish collar severely diminishing my healing capacity. I’d never been in a fight before. I had started many in my time, but someone had always stepped in before my rival dealt the first blow: a palace guard, my private security, one of my siblings—even my courtiers were primed to interject, noble fae of prestigious birth getting their asses kicked, savagely in some cases, all for my smart mouth.

Today was one of many firsts. The most I had suffered in the past was a set of bruised knuckles from getting a few licks of my own in before someone dragged me away, like a royal was made of glass rather than stardust. My eldest brother had always been the true warrior. Rollo had legions under his command, thousands of warrior fae relentlessly devoted to him, ready to ascend to the kingdom’s elite fighters once he took my father’s throne. The brothers between us had some garrisons to their names too, but they had other specialties that made them valuable.

I had titles.

Names gifted to me by my father as if I truly were a war hero, when really, they were but a formality. I knew it. He knew it. The entire fucking court knew it; some even giggled when the court crier warbled them out. Father pursed his lips. Mother looked away. Rollo rolled his eyes. I drank.

But now I had real bruises. A busted lip. A bloody nose. A black eye.

Thrilling, really.

Next time, I might actually fight back—remind them of what I was, where we fae ranked in the supernatural order. Today, I’d sat back and let it all play out to get a read on my fellow detainees, to assess the hierarchy, to learn where loyalties lay within Cellblock C. Very telling, that fight.

My stomach roared suddenly, painfully empty and cawing for something greasy after drowning in bourbon last night. The rest of the jumpsuits had been escorted out for supper a good half hour ago; unless someone was coming back for me, my gut would have to go on bleating until breakfast. Apparently, starvation was penance for starting the fight—never mind that the demon had thrown the