Captive Prince, Volume 1. Prologue. Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter Chapter Read Captive Prince (The Captive Prince Trilogy)PDF Online get this book immediately from this marphersicanap.cfe Prince (The Captive Prince. Editorial Reviews. Review. Praise for C. S. Pacat and the Captive Prince Trilogy “ You will be completely enthralled and on edge.”—USA Today “Have you read.
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Captive Prince Trilogy). marphersicanap.cf ⇨ Kings Rising: Book Three of the Captive Prince Trilogy. marphersicanap.cf EBOOK #PDF Captive Prince (The Captive Prince Trilogy) FULLPAGE Click button below to download or read this book. Description From. Prince's Gambit: Captive Prince Book Two (Captive Prince Trilogy) Click button below to download or read this book.
The red scarf lifted. The first heave had enough force to break an arm. The man was a mountain, and when Damen matched strength to strength, he found, a little worryingly, that his earlier dizziness was with him still. There was something strange in the way that his limbs felt. There was no time to think about it.
Thumbs were suddenly seeking for his eyes. He twisted. Those parts of the body that were soft and tender, and that, in fair sport, would be avoided, must now be protected at all costs; his opponent was willing to tear, rip and gouge.
The man he fought knew it. The pounding blows Damen suffered were all brutally aimed to land on old hurts. His opponent was vicious and formidable, and he had been instructed to do damage. Outweighed and fighting that strange dizziness, skill still counted for something. He gained a hold on the man, but when he tried to call on his strength to finish things, he found instead unsteady weakness. The air was suddenly expelled from his lungs after a driving blow to his diaphragm.
The man had broken his hold. He found new leverage. It took more out of him than it should have. He heard his breath go uneven. Something was wrong. The weakness he felt was not natural. As another wave of dizziness passed over him, he thought suddenly of the over-sweet smell in the baths.
He had inhaled some sort of drug. Not just inhaled, had stewed in it. Nothing had been left to chance. Laurent had acted to make the outcome of this fight certain. A sudden renewed onslaught came and he staggered. It took too long to regain himself. He grappled ineffectually; for a few moments neither man could sustain a grip. He thought it was not the moment for stricken laughter.
In the next second he was on his back, pinned, blackness threatening the edge of his vision as the man applied a crushing pressure against his windpipe, above the gold collar. He felt the push of the man against him. The sound of the crowd surged. The man was trying to mount. Thrusting against Damen, his breath now coming in soft grunts. Damen struggled to no avail, not strong enough to break this hold. His thighs were forced apart. He sought desperately for some weakness that could be exploited, and found none.
A moment later, Damen followed up, perhaps unnecessarily, with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt.
He fell, heavy flesh collapsing, partially across Damen. Damen somehow pushed away, instinctively inserting distance between himself and the prone man. He coughed, his throat tender. When he found that he had air, he began the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. Rape was out of the question. The little spectacle with the blond pet had been all performance.
Even these jaded courtiers did not expect him to fuck a man who was unconscious. Except that he could feel, now, the displeasure of the crowd. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. The words of Councillor Guion came back to him, almost crazily.
It was not over. It was not enough to fight through a drug haze and win. There was no way to win. He knew what he had to do. Against every rebelling instinct, he forced himself forward, and dropped to his knees before Laurent. May my victory reflect on your glory. He spoke as clearly as he could, his words for the onlookers as much as they were for Laurent. He tried to look as deferential as possible. Laurent extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen.
His stomach heaved; his heart, in the cage of his chest, was pounding. One public humiliation substituted for another. But it was easier to kiss a foot than be raped in front of a crowd. Damen bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather. He forced himself to do it with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. He kissed just the curve of the toe tip. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship. Damen recognised the older man he had glimpsed in the audience earlier.
The one who had sat with his son, or nephew. But close to it. Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him. Perform, he thought, and felt sick. He was a pet, not yet adolescent, with thin limbs and his growth spurt still far in his future.
It was obvious that he was petrified of Damen. The little barrel of his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was, at the oldest, fourteen. He looked more like twelve. Damen saw his chances of returning to Akielos gutter and die like candle flame, and all the doors to freedom close.
Play by the rules. Jump through his hoops. He had really thought he would be able to do that. Objection came from an unexpected quarter. But when Damen looked incredulously at him, the boy promptly went white and looked terrified. Laurent was looking from Damen to the boy and back again.
Laurent, who could speak his language, stared back at him, and Damen met his eyes and did not regret his words, feeling nothing but loathing. Laurent turned to him eventually. He declines his services. Audin frowned and departed. His pet trotted after him, after an indecipherable look at Damen. As for Damen, he had no idea what had just happened.
In the absence of other orders, his escort had him dressed and prepared to return to the harem. Across the ring was a thin trail of blood. A servant was on his knees mopping at it. Damen was being manoeuvred past a blur of faces. One of them was Lady Vannes who, unexpectedly, addressed him. You had better get used to it.
The Prince has a reputation for leaving pets unsatisfied. Two men. It was the smallest escort of his imprisonment, but blindfolded and securely bound, not to mention worn out, he had no way to take advantage of it. The restraints were not taken off until he was once again back in his room, chained by the neck. Jord stood by while the taller man closed the door with himself and Jord on the inside. That might be worse.
He waited. Hearing the tone, Damen prepared himself for the fact that he might be facing another one. It did not go down well. Not with the taller man, at any rate. Jord took his arm, holding him back. There was a brief moment of resistance, before the taller man left the room. Jord remained, his own speculative attention now on Damen. Jord looked back at him, obviously weighing up whether or not to speak.
The Regent keeps him around. No idea how the Prince got him in the ring, but that one would do anything to piss off his uncle.
Apparently—in case a miracle happened and his drugged slave managed to win the ring fight—Laurent had arranged for himself a consolation prize. Damen had unwittingly earned himself a new enemy. Not only that, but beating Govart in the ring could be taken as a direct slight by the Regent. This was Vere, Damen reminded himself. And his petty plots were dangerous to someone as much in his power as Damen. That is excellent. Damen digested this compliment. There is nothing sinister about it. The Prince suggested that it might help you relax in the baths.
He has a mind for details. He thought that it would be the same as the previous day: that he was being taken to the baths to be prepared for some new grotesquery. But all that happened was that the handlers bathed him, returned him to his room, and brought him lunch on a platter. The bathing was more pleasant than it had been the day before. No chalis, no handling of intrusive intimacy, and he was given a luxurious body massage, his shoulder checked for any sign of strain or injury, his lingering bruises treated very gently.
As the day waned and nothing whatsoever occurred, Damen realised he felt a sense of anticlimax, almost disappointment, which was absurd.
Better to spend the day bored on silk cushions than spend it in the ring. Maybe he just wanted another chance to fight something. Preferably an insufferable yellow-haired princeling.
Nothing happened on the second day, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth. The passing of time inside this exquisite prison became its own ordeal; the only thing that interrupted his days was the routine of his meals, and the morning bath. He used the time to learn what he could. The change of guard at his door happened at times that were intentionally irregular. The guards no longer behaved towards him as though he were a piece of furniture, and he learned several of their names; the ring-fight had changed something.
No one else broke orders to enter his room without instruction, but once or twice one of the men handling him would speak words to him, though the exchanges were brief. A few words, here and there. It was something he worked on. He was attended by servants who provided his meals, emptied the copper pot, lit torches, extinguished torches, plumped the cushions, changed them, scrubbed the floor, aired the room, but it was—so far—impossible to build a relationship with any of them.
They were more obedient to the order not to speak to him than the guards. Or they were more afraid of Damen. Once, he had gotten as much as startled eye contact and a blush. Govart, said Radel, was not a royally sanctioned thug.
Where had Damen gotten that idea? Why was Damen asking about Govart? Did he not recall that he was here only to do as he was told? There was no need to ask questions. There was no need to concern himself with the goings on in the palace. He should put everything out of his mind but the thought that he must please the Prince, who, in ten months, would be King.
By now, Damen had the speech memorised. By the sixth day, the trip to the baths had become routine, and he expected nothing from it. Except that today, the routine varied. His blindfold was removed outside the baths, not in it. It was. Damen felt himself being released from his restraints. Here, outside. That word conjured up the curved alcoves, and their purpose, and the etched figures, intertwined. There was no time to absorb the idea, or to ask questions.
Much as he had been propelled into the ring, he was pushed forward into the baths. The guards closed the doors with themselves on the outside, and became half-seen shadows behind the latticed metal. Perhaps a debauched tableau such as had greeted him in the ring. Perhaps pets sprawled out on every surface, naked and steam-drenched.
Perhaps a scene in motion, bodies already moving, soft sounds, or splashes in the water. In fact the baths were empty, except for one person.
As yet untouched by the steam, clothed from toe-tip to neck, and standing in the place where slaves were washed before they entered the soaking bath. When Damen saw who it was, he instinctively lifted a hand to his gold collar, unable to quite believe that he was unrestrained, and that they were alone together. Laurent reclined against the tiled wall, settling his shoulders flat against it.
He regarded Damen with a familiar expression of golden-lashed dislike. Laurent smiled. The conversation was now on a knife edge. There was death on both sides.
We killed a few of you too. I would like to have killed more, but my uncle is unaccountably clement with vermin. Damen looked at him and thought: This is the place where you had me drugged.
Laurent rearranged himself against the wall into a position that looked even more indolently comfortable than the one before. He hunts boar. He likes the chase. He likes the kill, too. His subjects know better than to bother him with missives from the palace.
I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone. It was, when you shook off the sugared tone, a threat. The voice sweetened further.
I liked it best when you were on your hands and knees. Do you think I will tolerate insolence? By all means, try my patience. He could feel, too, the danger. He could hear himself. No soldier would talk this way to a prince. A slave would have been on his hands and knees the second he saw that Laurent was in the room. Is it very difficult to control yourself? Your little speech about fair play fooled me about as much as your show of obedience.
You have worked out, with whatever native intelligence you possess, that it serves your interests to appear both civilised and dutiful. Laurent pushed off the wall. Have I said something astonishing? The instant he had entered the room, he had weighed the option of physically overpowering Laurent, and dismissed it. That decision had not come without some regret. He came to stand two steps away.
He had expected bravado. Another man might. Nudity had never bothered him. He knew by now that it was proscribed among the Veretian nobility. But even if Veretian customs had concerned him, everything that there was to see had been seen, very publicly. He unpinned his garments and let them fall.
He was unsure what the point of this was. Unless this feeling was the point. The feeling intensified. He ignored it, and stepped forward. The foreign clothing gave him pause. Laurent extended a coolly peremptory hand, palm up, indicating a starting point.
Untying them took several minutes; the laces were small, complicated and tight, and he must pull each one individually through its hole, feeling the drag of the tie against the material of the eyelet.
Laurent lowered one arm, trailing laces, and extended the other. In Akielos, clothing was simple and minimal, with a focus on the aesthetics of the body. By contrast, Veretian clothing was concealing, and seemed designed to frustrate and impede, its complexity serving no obvious purpose other than to make disrobing difficult. The methodical ritual of unlacing made Damen wonder, scornfully, if Veretian lovers suspended their passion for a half hour in order to disrobe.
Perhaps everything that happened in this country was deliberate and bloodless, including love making. But no, he remembered the carnality of the ring. When all the various lacings were untied, he drew the garment off; it was revealed to be an outer layer only. Beneath it was a simple white shirt also laced , which had not previously been visible.
Shirt, pants, boots. Damen hesitated. Golden brows arched. The boots must be taken off; the pants were next. Damen stepped back when it was done.
The shirt now unlaced had slipped slightly, exposing a shoulder. Laurent reached behind himself and drew it off. He was wearing nothing else. If not for that, he might have experienced a moment of difficulty. For Laurent was all of a piece: his body had the same impossible grace as his face.
Instead, he possessed the beautifully proportioned musculature of a young man on the new cusp of adulthood, made for athletics, or statuary. And he was fair.
In this over-clothed society Damen might have expected Laurent to display some selfconsciousness, but Laurent seemed as coolly immodest about his nudity as he was about everything else. He stood much like a young god before whom a priest was about to make an offering.
By now he knew the customs of the baths. But he felt a sense of subtle satisfaction from Laurent, and a corresponding internal resistance. It was an uncomfortably intimate form of attendance; he was not restrained, and they were alone, one man serving another.
All the appurtenances had been carefully laid out: a fat-bellied silver pitcher, soft cloths, and bottles of oil and frothy liquid soap, made from clear spun glass, their stoppers capped in silver. The one that Damen picked up depicted a vine heavy with grapes.
He felt their contours under his fingers as he unstopped the little bottle with a tug against the resistant suction. He filled the silver pitcher. Laurent presented his back. His body under the slick soap was nowhere soft or yielding, but taut like an elegantly sprung bow. Damen supposed that Laurent partook of those refined sports that courtiers sometimes indulged in, and which the other participants would allow him, being their prince, to win.
He continued from shoulders to lower back. The spill of water wet his own chest and thighs, where it ran in rivulets, leaving behind suspended droplets that glimmered and threatened at any moment to trail suddenly downwards.
The water was hot when it pulsed up from the ground, and hot when he poured it from the silver pitcher. The air was hot. He was conscious of it. He was conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, of his breathing, of more than that. He remembered that in Akielos he had been washed by a slave with yellow hair. She had been far less disagreeable. She had closed the distance of inches and pressed her body against his. He remembered her fingers curling around him, her nipples soft as bruised fruit where they pressed into his chest.
A pulse beat in his neck. It was a poor time to lose control of his thoughts. He had now progressed far enough in his undertaking that he encountered curves. They were firm under his hands, and the soap made everything slippery. He looked down, and the wash cloth slowed. The hothouse atmosphere of the baths only increased the impression of sensuality, and despite himself, Damen felt the first hardening between his legs.
There was a change in the quality of the air, his desire suddenly tangible in the thick humidity of the room. They were motionless like that for a moment. Damen let his gaze wander downwards—wet from chest to taut abdomen—and further. It was really a very, very nice body, but the cold outrage was genuine. Laurent was not even a little amorous, Damen noted; that part of him, quite as sweetly made as the rest, was quiescent.
A moment later, the blow he had thwarted landed, harder than he could have imagined, smashing across his mouth. It was no louder than his speaking voice, but the doors swung open. Not even out of earshot. Damen felt hands on him as he was pulled roughly backwards. Wait for me to arrive. There was no further prevarication. The palace was revealed to be a labyrinth, in which corridors flowed one into another, and every archway framed a different aspect: chambers of different shapes, stairs of patterned marble, courtyards that were tiled, or filled with cultivated greenery.
Some archways, screened by latticed doors, offered no views, only hints and suggestions. Damen was led from passage to chamber to passage. Once, they moved through a courtyard with two fountains, and he heard the trill of birds. He remembered, carefully, the route. The guards who accompanied him were the only ones he saw. He assumed there would be security on the perimeter of the harem, but when they stopped in one of the larger rooms, he realised they had passed the perimeter, and he had not even noticed where it was.
He saw, with a change in his pulse, that the archway at the end of this room framed another courtyard, and that this one was not as well kept as the others, containing detritus and a series of irregular objects, including a few slabs of unworked stone, and a wheelbarrow. In one corner, a broken pillar was leaned up against the wall, creating a kind of ladder. This led to the roof. The convoluted roof, with its obscuring curves and overhangs and niches and sculptings.
It was, clear as daylight, a path to freedom. So as not to stare at it like a moonstruck idiot, Damen turned his attention back to the room.
There was sawdust on the floor. It was some kind of training area. The ornamentation remained extravagant. Except that the fittings were older and of a slightly rougher quality, it still looked like part of the harem.
See more on captiveprince. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Pacat is the 3rd book in her Captive Prince trilogy. When I started this trilogy, I did not know what to expect, though the description sounded very good. I was also one of the lucky ones who did not have to wait a few years for the final book, as I read all three together.
PacatRainbow RowellC. The language is taut and tense, the atmosphere of the decadent Vere court wonderfully created. The story absolutely rips along. download a discounted Paperback of Kings Rising online from Australia's leading online bookstore. Book One of the Captive Prince Trilogy http docdro. Captive Prince, 3 Kings Rising - C.
Pacat - PDF Free She has lived in a number of different cities incl Your browser indicates if you've visited this linkFirst of all, I want to say that I love, love this series. So why is this book, Kings Rising, the last book, the one that we most anticipated, fell short and only receive 3-stars?
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Pacat and a great selection of similar New, Used and Collectible Books available now at great prices. PacatYour browser indicates if you've visited this linkKings Rising has 22, ratings and 3, Kings Rising Captive Prince 3 by. Her first series the Captive Prince trilogy began its life as an original web Your browser indicates if you've visited this linkRead an Excerpt. You can change your ad preferences anytime. Upcoming SlideShare. Like this presentation? Why not share! An annual anal Embed Size px.
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