Burning for the Bastard Prince

Roman

I was born first.

Not that it matters anyways.

Not when your mother is a maid and the crown above your head is made of shame instead of gold.

My name is Roman Valerius, and I am the bastard of House Valerius and the first born of King Aldric, blood of his blood, but never the prince anyone prayed for, not when your birthright is the result of a king’s late-night appetite and a servant girl’s trembling legs.

I belong to Calvare, a kingdom carved from iron, black rock, and winter winds. We do not kneel to gods here. We kneel to power. Sword, coin, cunt, and blood.

And I have all four.

Just… none in the way that counts.

They keep me locked away in Blackstone Keep, a smaller, colder wing behind the main court where the walls sweat soot and the torches burn so low the air stinks of smoke. It’s a place for bastards, for war-born children, for discarded whores and petty traitors. The king’s secrets rot here.

So did my mother.

She was a kitchen girl with sea-glass eyes. Her fingers were soft from kneading dough. She used to hum lullabies while brushing the knots from my hair. She told me I had a lion’s heart and that royal blood was still royal, even when it came out stained.

She bled to death in the east wing. No healer was summoned. No priest was called. Her body went cold in the dark, and I was only fifteen.

The king sent one coin for her burial.

That was the last time he acknowledged me as anything more than a mistake.

Now he rules Calvare with an iron grip and the golden heir, Crown Prince Darius. My half-brother. The son of Queen Ilyra. The perfect son. The sanctified future. While I drown in wine and women, he bathes in blessings, signs treaties I helped win with blood, and smiles like he deserves the kingdom that may have been mine.

I fight. He reigns.

I burn. He shines.

But I was born first. And every time he looks at me, he remembers.

He knows what I am and he’s afraid of me.

That’s why they keep me hidden and that is why I rot in the shadows.

********

I was drunk again and slouched on the fur-draped makeshift throne in my chamber, my boots still streaked with mud, wine darkening my mouth like blood. A thin trail trickled from my split knuckle where I had driven it into one of Darius’s guard teeth not long before.

He’d called me filthblood under his breath.

He’s lucky I only took four of his teeth.

My cock stirred under my belt, half-hard from the fight, from the ache, from that dull emptiness inside me that nothing ever seems to fill.

The door slammed open.

I didn’t move. I didn’t lift my head. Just took another sip and waited.

I heard boots scrap against stone.

Then a grunt.

Then silence.

I looked up.

The guards had dragged in a girl and thrown her at my feet like meat.

She stumbled, but didn’t fall. She caught herself on one knee. Her chest rose with breath, her wet white dress clinging to her skin like a second layer. The firelight flickered against her, outlining the curve of her breasts.

She wasn’t delicate neither was she small. She was of average height, her legs looked strong and her hips were wide. Her hair was dark, soaked and tangled, plastered to her face. Her skin glistened with sweat and rain. Her wrists were raw from rope. Her mouth bruised.

But her eyes….

Her eyes were the color of steel, silver grey.

She wasn’t crying, neither was she trembling.

She was watching me.

“A gift,” the steward said stiffly. “For your pleasure, my prince.”

My lips curled. “My pleasure?” I echoed, amused. “I doubt she even knows how to kneel.”

“She’s southern-born,” he added. “A war captive. Sent by order of the Crown. She is…”

“Which crown?” I cut in. “The one that rots on my father’s head or the one lodged so far up Darius’s ass?”

There was a moment of silence.

Of course. None of them ever have answers when it matters.

“Leave,” I said, rising from the throne with my goblet in hand.

They hesitated.

“I said….leave.”

The door slammed shut behind them and the echo lingered.

It was just me and her now.

She stayed kneeling. Not in submission….no, never that. She knelt like a creature at rest before the pounce.

“My name is Roman,” I said, circling slowly. “Though I suspect you’ve heard it before.”

I was closer now. She smelled of wet earth and blood. My blood stirred within me and my cock twitched behind my leathers.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice dropping to that of a whisper.

I heard nothing in return.

She turned her face away, her jaw tight.

I reached for her chin and she jerked back before I could touch her.

A grin cracked across my face.

“So you bite.”

She was still silent.

“Do you know what I do to women like you?” I asked softly.

That’s when she spoke.

“Aveline,” she said.

Her voice was so soft.

“And I don’t break.”

Gods.

I was hard now.

My leather belt hit the floor and I lunged for her wrist.

She was faster.

I sighted a small, curved, rust, streaked blade from beneath her wet dress.

It flew and it was faster than me.

The blade caught me just above the bridge of my nose and gushed down my lips. I staggered back, laughing.

The sting set my nerves on fire. It felt good. Too good.

She rose slowly and she looked taller now. Her breasts were heaving and her dark hair looked so wild. Her hands were clenched into fists and she looked ready to strike me.

“Oh my,” I breathed, licking the blood off my mouth. “You really don’t break.”

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel drunk. I didn’t feel dull or dead in my bones or in my eyes.

I felt alive.

Leave a comment if you are reading unless you are a ghost 😂❤️