Looking back, Marrok would be very ashamed to admit that he had almost wet himself in his fear. He said nothing, his eyes darting back and forth in search of an escape.
"Come," Jannali insisted. "It was you who suggested getting to know each other. So I want to tell you more about me."
Despite his terror, Marrok found himself obeying and took a seat next to the killer. Jannali had perched herself so that the skirt of her robe was hitched over her thigh, and Marrok did his best to avert his gaze. "I hate you," he declared.
Jannali arched an eyebrow. "Why? That seems quite backwards—I let you go, didn't I?" Her smile turned to a pout. "It seems to me that you should be rather fond of me. Heaven knows I'm fond of you."
Marrok held back a gag, not only at her words, but also at the wave of pleasure that coursed through him. He did not want her. He would not want her.
Jannali placed a hand on his thigh. He hissed, and it shocked him how much he sounded like an animal. The prince scooted over; he wasn't satisfied until there was at least a metre gap between him and Ugly J.
In response, Jannali rubbed her arms, her chestnut curls bouncing around her shoulders in a hypnotizing display. "Your father seems upset with me."
"You killed his son."
"His bastard," she corrected. "The fool was trying to take me to bed, so I gave him what he deserved."
Marrok wanted to scream. To claw her eyes out and beat her until she bled, for causing his parents such pain. Yet, he didn't leave. He was intrigued.
He wanted to kill himself for it.
"Why do you do it?" Marrok asked, gripping the fabric of his coat. "You have nothing to gain."
"Oh yes, I do." Jannali fingered the necklace draped over her collar. Marrok hadn't noticed it before; it must've always been beneath her glamour. "You see, I hate men. Not because they've ever hurt me—I would never let myself be harmed by such primitive beasts. You know of which ones I speak: the ones who would leer and stare at me, from the time I was eleven on. And it doesn't frighten me or even disgust me." Jannali grinned. "It amuses me, Marrok. The way all their civility and sociability and intelligence just sluice away like sand under a hose."
Marrok's heart hammered in his chest. Jannali inched closer and put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes gleaming as she rhapsodized. "My own father noticed my changing body. Stared. Became foolish and stupid until the day I finally killed him."
Distant memories of the queen's sadness when Lord Delacourt was killed rang through Marrok's head. Cynthia...my dear friend, Aisha had sobbed. All she has left is her darling daughter!
That's what she did, Cynthia's darling daughter. She tore families apart.
Jannali didn't seem to notice Marrok's discomfort, and if she did, she didn't care in the least. "My cleavage makes them idiots. My legs turn them into morons. I realized early on that men do not matter. That they are pathetic, subhuman creatures." Jannali snorted. "And that makes women even worse. Because everywhere I look, women paint themselves, glamour themselves, dress themselves, put holes in their flesh to dangle jewelry, all to attract one of these pitiful, abjectly infantile male beasts that can barely control their own urges."
He glared at her with his eyes like steel, thinking of his mother, modest and in love with her wise and benevolent mistress. "That isn't true, and you know it."
Jannali waved a hand. "Oh, yes. Not all women, of course, but enough that it's unavoidable, and it tries to force itself upon me. Since birth I've been groomed to desire men, to please them. I was never one to obey," she tittered.
"All this because you feel oppressed?"
She laughed this time. "I don't care enough to be oppressed. It's a game, Marrok." It wasn't often that she addressed him by his name, and Marrok further resented how much he liked the way it rolled off her tongue. "I'm a hunter. And they're like..." Jannali looked up at the ceiling, as if she were searching for the proper description. "They're like stupid deer, bucks in heat. I've heard that's the ideal time to go out and shoot them, when you hunt on Earth."
Marrok had not the faintest concept of earthen hunts, so he leaned back and asked, "How often do you do this?"
"It depends on my mood and when I can slip out unnoticed. I pay my off one of my lady's maids to pose as me under the pretence of sneaking off with a lover. Then I'm free to go prospecting."
"Where do you...prospect?" Marrok raised an eyebrow.
"Mostly in the outer sectors—no one really tends to notice disappearances in the mines. If I'm the mood for an aftermath, I'll go to Dianan or Elathia."
"And Artemisia."
She nodded. "Sometimes I like to stay close to home." She flicked her hair away and put her second hand on Marrok's chest. This time, he didn't push her away; the fear and interest and pure want made him accept her embrace and sink down with her. She rested her head in the crook of his neck and he put a hand on her back, overwhelmed with desire.
He hated her. He hated himself. "Do you plan on killing me?"
"No," she lied, her voice sweet as honey. "I am the princess of Luna, and it is my duty to ascend my husband's throne as queen and give birth to the next monarch. And to do that I need you alive."
"In all honesty, I do not look forward to it." Marrok gulped, cursing himself. Do you have a death wish?
Jannali clucked her tongue. "You lie, My Prince. I can tell that you want me; I see it in your eyes." Her gaze softened, and Marrok's cheeks flushed. "I've been there a thousand times over. You're a prospect in heat and I'll take great pleasure in—"
"Take me with you."
Jannali blinked. "Pardon?"
Marrok ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to look at her in the eye. "Next time you go prospecting. Take me along." He took her hand and put on his best debonair smile, in an effort to slip into his prince charming persona. "I want to see how you do it."
The princess' eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. "I've never…I've never done it with a partner before. It's just double the work."
Marrok stared deep into her with a fierce intensity. He didn't know whether he was acting on instinct, buying himself time from Ugly J's claws, or if he really—
"You truly want to come with me? If you do…" She fiddled with her necklace, "You have to be with me until your death. As soon as you see me kill, you're mine."
He gulped. "Jannali…" This was also the first time he had ever said her name, and it was a lovely ballad dripping with threats and poison. He would begin to find that he loved her name. "I've been yours since I set foot in this room."
Jannali's breath hitched, and for a moment, she wasn't the image of menace. She was a lovesick teenager, eyes wide with anticipation as the man of her affections leaned down and kissed her gently. This time, she didn't push him down and deepen the kiss. Instead she let Marrok run his hands down her back and he moaned, relishing in her taste, in her form. He forced down the self-loathing and indulged himself, just this once, in his bride.
Luckily, Marrok had woken before the servants came with breakfast, thus preventing them from seeing the blood smeared all over the snow-white sheets. Jannali was still asleep beside him, her shoulders gently rising and falling with each breath. He sat up with a wince, and he pulled off the fabric that had been glued to his back, biting back cries of pain. The sheets came back red and sticky, and his back stung like a swarm of bees.
He didn't need to look in the mirror to know that this was the result of Jannali's nails. As she cried out in pleasure the night before, her fingers were buried in Marrok's back and he was too lost in ecstasy to really notice. Not all the blood was his; as Marrok had slipped her out of her robe, Jannali sheepishly told him that she'd never lain with a man before. The prince kissed her and promised that he'd be gentle, but Jannali quickly urged him to go faster, harder, that she wanted to feel pain, that she wanted to bleed—
He heard Jannali sigh and roll close to him. "Good morning..." She took his hand. "Are you alright?"
Marrok hissed. "I'm in pain."
She sighed again. "Oh, me too—I'll be sore for days. Thank you."
Marrok pushed her away and stood on his wobbly legs. He quickly slipped on his pants and took in his reflection in the tall mirror. It was worse than he'd thought; the scratches had scabbed over, leaving crimson slashes across his flesh. Jannali had ravaged his neck as well, leaving it covered in purplish-black blotches. His eyes were erratic, as was his hair—all combined, he looked as if he had just sobered up from a particularly bad acid trip.
He shrieked as he felt something warm and wet rub his back. "Hush," said Jannali, gently kissing his shoulder. "I'm cleaning the wound. Just stand still and relax."
Marrok couldn't help but whimper in pain as Jannali wiped away all traces of dried blood and rubbed on a disinfectant salve. The cream numbed the pain, and Marrok let out a sigh of relief.
Jannali smiled. "Better?"
"Yes," he said, lifting his arms as Jannali applied a dressing and wrapped him in a bandage. After, she helped him remove the sheets and discreetly shove them through the laundry chute. As they refit the bed with fresh linens, Marrok noted that the blood had not soaked through to the mattress.
"Hopefully this will give them something new to talk about."
Marrok lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow. "You mean the courtiers?"
"Who else? Don't tell me that you thought I had no idea what they say," Jannali tittered. Marrok noticed that she had a habit of doing that. "They aren't as discreet as they like to think."
"No, they really aren't. It's a wonder that Father hasn't had them executed for treason."
"Your father isn't that kind of man. He doesn't have the courage or determination to put such powerful people to death, no matter how much they deserve it."
Marrok thought about for a moment, and came to the conclusion that she was right. His father was a weak man; weak for power, weak for women, weak for his son. He nearly jumped as Jannali turned towards him with a gleam in her eye.
Jannali would never be foolish enough to off the king. Of course not. But Marrok figured that it would be better not to challenge her on that front; it was already very apparent to him that she had no qualms about harming anybody.
