Breeding The Royal Brat E-Book

Alana Church

• Herausgeber: Boruma Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Princess Kitiara is due to be wed. But in order to marry, she and her husband-to-be must prove themselves fertile! Will Kitiara's desire for spankings and rough play in the bedchamber put her at odds with her fiance? Can she control her perverse desires? Because it's time for "Breeding the Royal Brat!"

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

“We have only common fare tonight,” Kitiara said. “But I do not think that will be too much of a hardship, will it, Lord Weyland?”

“In truth, princess, bread and cheese and good company are far superior to a banquet when your companions are bores.” Weyland stabbed a carrot with his fork, trying to control his temper. “But one thing I will say,” he added. “I have never been bored in your company.”

“Yes. My company.” Kitiara chewed thoughtfully. “The fortunes of your family have risen since the announcement of our betrothal. Your brother has found advancement. And my mother and yours have grown quite close in a short amount of time.

“What a pity it would be, if those fortunes should fall.” A cruel smile passed her lips. “Your brother would be reduced to a mere country knight. And how many allies would your mother have if royal favor was removed from Stonehill?”

“You…bitch,” he breathed. “You would do that, just because your feelings are hurt? You’re not a princess. You’re just a stupid little girl with a lot of jewelry.”

Kitiara nodded, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and stood. Satin slippers whispering, she walked around the table.

And then she dealt a backhand blow to his face that nearly knocked him off the chair.

“You will never speak to me again in such a tone,” she hissed. “I am Princess Kitiara Tanthalasa, you ignorant peasant!”

Weyland surged to his feet. “I will speak as I like, princess,” he snarled. “I may not be a flattering courtier. But at least my tongue is an honest one. And if you strike me again you’ll regret it.”

Kitiara laughed in his face. “What? Now you’re going to pretend you’re a man? Eleanora is more of a man than you are.” Her smile turned cruel. “Shall I show you what we brought back from our trip to Chernavog? It’s the cleverest little device. She buckles the straps around her hips, and it has the largest, thickest phallus I’ve ever seen. Much bigger than yours.”

“You’re a vicious little guttersnipe and I curse the day we met.”

She slapped him again. “What do I care what you-”

Her words were cut off as Weyland grabbed her wrists. Utterly infuriated, he fell into his chair, dragging her with him.

“Let me go, you pig!”

“Oh, no, princess,” he breathed. One hand tangled in the wild mane of her hair. The other reached down, yanking up the hem of her silk gown.

His hand whistled down, smacking across Kitiara’s ass-cheek. The blow stung his palm, and she bucked under him, spitting curses. But he didn’t stop. His arm rose and fell, fury and shame taken out on the woman who had made the last few days a living hell.

Weyland couldn’t tell exactly when it happened. But slowly he grew aware that Kitiara’s voice had changed. Rather than swearing bloody retribution against him and his family, Kitiara was moaning and whimpering.

He surged to his feet, dumping Kitiara to the ground. She looked up at him from the rumpled circle of her gown, her eyes wide. He grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet, then fisted his fingers in the neckline of her gown and pulled.

Leseprobe

Breeding the Royal Brat

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2022 Alana Church

~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

Chapter 1

“No no no no no no no!” the armsmaster snarled, as Weyland knocked Prince Ashkelon’s dagger aside and bore him down to the sawdust of the practice ring. The prince tried to bring his second weapon up, but Weyland batted it aside and put his own daggers at the younger man’s throat.

Ashkelon grimaced. “I yield,” he muttered.

Weyland stood and backed three careful paces away, flipping the wooden practice weapons end-over-end in his fingers. Ashkelon stood, scowling. “What did I do wrong?” he demanded.

Weyland glanced at Armsmaster Trallix as she stalked forward, her face set in a thundering scowl. “Do you want to start? Or should I?”

“You overextended. Again,” Trallix said grimly. “Why, in the names of all the gods, do you always fall for the first feint? Are you so eager to draw blood? Or are you so bloody stupid that you can’t learn, no matter how many times you get your head handed to you, you misbegotten fool?”

A year ago, Weyland would have slit his own throat before addressing a member of the royal family in such terms, no matter how slim the prospects of Ashkelon ever taking the throne actually were. But the armsmaster was made of sterner stuff. As Trallix’s tirade continued, he glanced over to the edge of the practice ring. Three ladies watched, with every evidence of interest.

Three ladies, but as unalike as could be. One was his lover. One was his wife-to-be. And the third would be his doom, if he ever dared approach her.

Lady Eleanora Tentrees was a woman nearly ten years older than himself. As the Heir’s Companion, she had raised Princess Kitiara from royal brat to royal heir, taming her charge and calming the fears of the nobles, who had been terrified that the treason of Prince-Consort Welston had not been defeated, but only put off by a generation. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, she held herself with a sort of negligent grace, as if there were very few people whose opinions she valued, and even fewer who could make her step aside from her chosen course. And if no one knew that she shared his bed as often as she shared her Companion’s, that was all to the good.

Princess Kitiara Tanthalasa was one of the few women whose good opinion Eleanora did seek, as Weyland had cause to know. A good seven years younger than her Companion, her skin was deep olive, her hair midnight black, and her eyes an arresting shade of violet. His intended wife was insatiable in the bedchamber and possessed with a biting wit and a deep thirst for justice, whether the accused was a noble brought before the queen’s council or a lowly beggar-man who had run afoul of the royal guard. As he wiped sweat from his forehead, she cocked her head at him and smiled, as if his victory over her half-brother was nothing more than what she had expected.

Between the two women was a girl, though a girl on the very cusp of womanhood. Princess Linessa, like her twin, had just passed her fifteenth name-day. But where Ashkelon was all dark curls and scowling looks, Linessa bore the stamp of her mother, Queen Laurelin. Tumbling red hair reached nearly down to the small of her back. Her skin was pale, her eyes the green of spring leaves. And while her body was still lacking the ripe curves of her mother, it bore the promise of incredible beauty to come. She stood on the lowest rail of the fence separating the training ground from the barracks, putting her head on a level with Eleanora’s and Kitiara’s. Her face was alight, as if his practice bout with Ashkelon was a play put on for her amusement alone.

“All right,” Trallix snarled, jerking his attention back to where it belonged. “Let us begin again. Single daggers this time, I think. Lord Weyland, if you please?”

Weyland nodded, settling into a fighting stance, aware of many curious eyes. It wasn’t just the three ladies who were watching his bout with the prince. Others were conspicuous by their presence as well. Some were mere hangers-on at court, who wanted to be seen in the presence of the Heir, her siblings, and her husband-to-be. But there were others as well. A few captains of the royal army paused on their way to the barracks, placing wagers on the outcome of the sparring match. A sprinkling of his own friends from the university laughed among themselves. And his older brother Frederik, just back from a summer riding courier for the queen, raised his hand in silent salute, a broad grin on his beefy face.

Ashkelon began to circle, moving to his dominant right hand. Weyland mirrored his movements, his left hand guarding the dagger held in his right. At one point the prince’s feet crossed, and it would have been absurdly easy to dart in and catch him off-balance. Instead, he waited. Ashkelon could almost always be counted on to do something foolish, if you gave him enough time. The young man was intelligent, reasonably athletic, had lightning-quick reflexes, and was uncommonly strong for his age, even if he had not yet reached his full growth. He would make a good knife-fighter in time. If only someone could beat that sullen streak out of him and put him to work doing something useful…

The prince moved in, drawing his thoughts back to the present. But for once Ashkelon didn’t lower his head and charge in like a bull. Instead he moved in and out quickly, feints followed up by rapid attacks that for the first time in ages had Weyland hard-pressed to defend himself. He backed up three steps, then five, and felt the sawdust of the ring giving way to hard-packed earth under his heels. A grin of triumph stretched Ashkelon’s mouth, making him seem briefly the boy he had been, rather than man he was about to become.

Weyland crouched down, putting his balance on his toes. And as the prince moved forward, he lunged out, grabbing his knife-hand and pulling him down into a grapple. Ashkelon swore, but managed to free his hand just as Weyland rolled on top of him.

“Yield,” he gritted out, the tip of his knife pricking Weyland’s throat, forcing him to raise his chin high.

“Look down,” he murmured between unmoving lips. When the prince did, he saw Weyland’s knife a bare inch from his groin.

“A draw, my prince?” he asked. Ashkelon nodded and lowered his wooden blade. “You fought well that time. I would be dead, if it had been the real thing.”

“And my brother would have been unmanned,” a merry voice added. “Which might be a fate worse than death!”

Laughter rose from Kitiara and Eleanora, and even Armsmaster Trallix smiled, the expression creasing her seamed face. Weyland got up and extended a hand to Ashkelon, who was scowling at his twin.

“Your support, dear sister,” he growled as he allowed Weyland to help him to his feet, “is always a comfort in my hour of need.”

“It gives me joy to hear you say so,” she replied demurely, but her green eyes were dancing. “Oh, don’t frown at me so, Shadow! You fought very well. Especially since Lord Weyland has so much more experience.” The tip of her tongue wet her pink lips. “Experience in the practice ring, I mean,” she added, though she shot a glance under her lids at both Eleanora and Kitiara with a knowing smirk.

Weyland colored. He knew the princess, by her own word, was destined for the life of a priestess. But it did seem at times as if her insight went beyond the merely mortal and into the uncanny. “The prince is improving every time we cross blades,” he said, striving for diplomacy. “It won’t be long before he is more than a match for me.”

“It would be nice if I could win just once,” Ashkelon muttered.

“True victories can never be given, brother. They can only be won,” Kitiara said. “Tell me. Would you value a triumph you thought might be false? You should thank the gods Weyland is not one of the idle flatterers who would puff up your self-importance with an undeserved victory. When you finally best him, you will know you have earned it.”

Ashkelon opened his mouth for a hot reply, but whatever he might have said was cut off by the surprisingly smooth voice of Weyland’s older brother.

“Princess Kitiara. My lady Eleanora. Prince Ashkelon. Princess Linessa. Brother,” he added, almost as an afterthought, though his eyes gleamed with suppressed mirth. Frederik (Sir Frederik, Weyland reminded himself) had taken the news of his younger brother’s betrothal to the crown princess with his usual stolid acceptance. But a summer of exposure to the machinations of the royal court had whetted his wits. Neither he nor Weyland were the rural bumpkins they had been when they had ridden in with their mother four months before. “The queen and Prince-Consort Roland wish to see you in their chambers.”

“What? All of us?”

“Yes, my prince,” Frederik said. “All of you.”

“On what business?”