Royal Discipline by Annabel Joseph

“But I’m a princess. And I—I have food to share.”
    She began to unwrap her soggy bundle, but then the wolf advanced and she threw the entire thing at him. He began to nose through the linen with a bloodthirsty growl.
    “Violet!”
    She knew by the way the duke said her name that he was here, that he saw her. She shot a glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. Her dire situation was etched in the haggard lines of his face. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare do anything but take tiny, mincing steps backward as the starving wolf finished her meager stash of food.
    “Don’t move,” he said sharply. “Don’t run.”
    In her peripheral vision, she saw a dog of bearlike size at the duke’s side, a bloodhound with his fur standing on end and his fangs exposed. The hound moved to stand between her and the wolf, growling a warning at the creature. “Do not move,” the duke said again. “Violet.”
    She obeyed, because she was too frozen to move. She feared for her life, and certainly the life of the hound. The wolf’s malevolent gaze shifted between her and the hound, and he seemed to decide a princess would make a more appetizing meal. The wolf lunged forward, snarling, just as a flash of lightning illuminated the woods. In that same second, an arrow whistled past her shoulder and pierced the ragged beast in the heart. It fell to the forest floor. The hound barked wildly, rushing toward the fallen wolf.
    She turned and saw a woodsman lower his bow as the duke crossed to her. More men materialized out of the trees.
    She reached for her captor, struck through with fear. Rain fell on her face as lightning again illuminated the darkness. She could not stop shaking. “There are wolves,” she said. “Wolves in your forest.”
    “There are wolves,” he agreed, clutching her close. “We have to go back.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    When they returned to the manor, he was the one who bathed the mud from her body, dried her tangled hair, and dressed her in a fresh shift. He laid her to sleep in his bed, although he did not join her. He was with her in her dreams, though, tormenting her in his discipline parlor for running away. When she woke the next morning in his forbidding, velvet-canopied poster bed, she wished it was her crypt.
    “Yes,” he said, when she sat up and regarded him warily. His blue eyes bored into hers. “You’re going to be punished. Because I am merciful, I’ll allow you to break your fast first.”
    It was not precisely merciful, because he made her eat in his room, surrounded by his things, while he glowered at her the entire time. She was supposed to be on her way back to her kingdom this morning, but she was not. She could barely eat, but she feared if she didn’t eat, she would anger him further, and from the glacial expression on his face, that was something she didn’t want to do.
    All too soon, she was standing before him in the discipline parlor, clad, perhaps with intentional purpose, in her shameful, ragged crimson gown. Jeannie was there too, which disturbed Violet greatly. The trembling chambermaid would not look at her or anything else in the room, but kept her face trained on the floor, and her hands clasped nervously before her. He had positioned both of them in front of the central padded bench, as he strode back and forth with a stout cane in his hand.
    “I am at a loss,” he intoned, addressing Violet. “I never imagined you could be so rash, so foolish.”
    “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Violet murmured. Like Jeannie, she thought it best to keep her gaze to the floor. “I am so very sorry.”
    “Your apology means little when you nearly paid with your life.”
    His rough voice echoed off the high stone walls. Jeannie gasped and gave a small sob.
    “Everything ended well,” Violet said, more for Jeannie than any hope of the duke’s forgiveness.
    “Your Grace,” Jeannie breathed in a shaky whisper. “I can’t bear it. I won’t ever forgive myself.”
    “But you