THE KING’S SLAVEP
rincess Kamara hadn’t seen the king since she arrived. She heard he had been in court all day, but she could see him in the night. In the meantime, they showed her to her room, which was decorated and equipped specifically for her.
She’d spent her afternoon and evening walking around the palace, looking around and getting some fresh air with Henna. Kamara was still hurting, and anger was in still in her heart. She wanted to be in her father’s kingdom, not here. She missed seeing the face of Callan. She hadn’t been able to see him for some weeks because her father had forbidden her from doing so.
The consequence of disobeying his orders was that Callan would be whipped.
She wondered how he was doing now.
All these were in her thoughts as she walked through another hallway of the palace, only to see a woman slapping a slave hard across the face.
Princess Kamara looked at the oppressor, who was dressed in expensive silk and a well-designed corset that embraced her upper body like a lover’s arm, with high-quality lace that covered the rest of her body and the ground she walked on. A mistress, she’d realized immediately. She’d heard that the king had one mistress, which was very hard to believe because other kings and men of privileged status had over fifteen. The lowest she’d heard about was five. Her father had eight mistresses.
This must be the only mistress of King Lucien. Kamara cocked her head to the side and wondered what was special about the woman that she was the only one. Or was it because of the king himself? She’d heard stories about the king—about his time in slavery and his freedom. Everyone had.
Why was this mistress slapping this slave?
Not her business, she told herself solidly as she started walking away from the aggravating scene. She hated mistresses so much because of Mistress Donna, but she wouldn’t take it out on other mistresses.
“My princess?” Henna’s voice came from behind her.
“Yes, Henna?” She swiveled her head to the side to see her personal maid staring at the mistress and the slave.
“Isn’t that Princess Danika?” Henna asked.
She whipped her head towards the scene and looked again—really noticing the details.
It was Princess Danika. She recognized her when the mistress shoved her away and the slave fell.
Kamara found her legs carrying her to the scene even before she could give it a second thought. She walked to the mistress and slapped her across the face.
“What the---” the mistress began.
She slapped the mistress again, this time harder than the first time. Her body was vibrating with the force of her anger.
“How dare you put your hands on her!? How dare you!? Do you know who she is!? Even if you come from the noblest of families here in Salem, I’m sure your whole family would bow their heads and lick the ground Princess Danika walked on. How dare you put your hands on her because her status was reduced!? How dare you!?” Princess Kamara raged. Needing an outlet for her anger, she slapped the stunned mistress the third time, and then she grabbed hold of her hair and yanked on it.
“Ouch! Let go! Now!” Vetta snarled angrily, her scalp burning and her cheeks stinging. She never expected this from the new princess. Ever. It was so unexpected, it left her stunned.
“The next time you put your hands on her like that, I’ll have you whipped! The only person who can alter that judgment is the king, and if he isn’t available at that moment, I’ll whip you mercilessly! Am I making myself clear!?”
Vetta could only nod vigorously—anything to make the princess let go of her hair. Her hands itched to slap the princess back. They itched so damn much. But there was still sense in her head. A future queen was the highest status, next to the king himself. The last thing she needed was the wrath of King Lucien. Or worse, King Valendy.
Princess Kamara finally let go of her hair and stepped back. “Henna.”
“Yes, my princess!” The maid rushed forward.
“Get me water to wash my hands. I just got them dirty,” she snapped.
“Yes, my princess!” Henna was already running out, knowing her princess and the way she was when she was in a rage.
Apart from anger, Vetta felt a special humiliation. How dare this princess? How dare she!? She glared at Danika, who was still seated on the ground, looking stunned. Even the bitch didn’t expect that.
“I will tell the king about this!” Vetta vowed, her eyes filled with fire as she watched the princess in front of her. She knew exactly how to twist this event. She turned and stormed away. She needed to regroup! And then she would tell the king!
How dare she!?