I’m a Hostage Princess, But My Confinement Is Way Too Cozy - Chapter 8

Volumes 1 & 2 of HPCWTC are available uncensored on ko-fi! ※ This work contains depictions of coercive relationships, explicit language, and other graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

Following where the fragrance led, he entered the bedroom and stopped still before the bed. His red eyes, writhing like serpents, swept over the pale cheeks of the woman sleeping obliviously, then traveled downward. White thighs bathed in moonlight protruded from beneath the covers. That paralyzing sweet scent must be coming from between those thighs. With animal instinct, he recognized the source of the smell that was making him dizzy.

Instead of drawing his dagger, he removed his gloves. He didn’t need such a trivial blade to kill a woman. Simply pressing a sharpened fingernail against a pulsing artery would make blood spurt forth.

But instead of grasping that pitiful neck, he gripped her slender ankle. An ankle so thin that shackles would slip right off. He thought about snapping it in half for amusement, but didn’t bother. It was still too early to hear the woman’s screams.

Before that, just a little more, more…

“F**k.”

Kallist’s thoughts stopped there. His purpose had always been clear. Today was no different. Kill, watch the blood splatter, leave the cleanup to the hound, and depart. But that plan had long since been twisted. Something stirred his appetite more than slaughter.

A rough hand slid over her Achilles tendon and up along her calf. The woman’s skin beneath his fingertips was as addicting as the sensation of tearing through flesh and gutting entrails. Was human skin always like this? Clinging so uselessly, making it hard to pull away? Kneading her calf as if he were groping her b*****s, he shoved his fingers into the soft crook of her knee. Moisture clung there, damp and slick. Like a secret place. His straining e******n jerked as though it would tear through his trousers. Strange—he hadn’t even thought of killing yet, and still he was aroused.

“Haa…”

The more he touched her, the more the tension built in the nape of his neck, overwhelming. Turning this wretched body into a corpse wouldn’t be enough to sate it. A bizarre urge swelled within him—to rub his painfully hard flesh against her soft skin. Even sinking his teeth into those blood-stained lips did not sound so bad.

Such impulses were rare in Kallist’s life. No, this was the first. Where others would relieve lust between a woman’s legs, he had always relieved himself by severing a man’s head. He had never once embraced a woman with love, nor cared for the act of thrusting inside her and spilling seed. Even the thought of it was tedious, dull. Perhaps he had done it once, long ago—but if so, the memory had long since rotted away.

“Uhh…”

As if responding to the brute’s touch, Sylvia let out a faint moan. She didn’t seem awake yet, but at this rate she soon would be. His hand grew bolder, more insistent. The fingers that had been caressing her inner thigh now lazily brushed over the thin fabric shielding her most sensitive place. The delicate undergarment clung to her, damp and slick against tender flesh.

Still pressing against her through the fabric, he leisurely parted the folds beneath. When Sylvia’s eyelids fluttered and she moaned once more, his lips twisted upward. He wanted her to open her eyes—wanted her to see, with full clarity, exactly who was touching her. Just imagining the horror widening in her gaze made his blood rush downward.

“Hah.”

Yet Sylvia, naïve as she was, seemed utterly unaware of what was happening just below her navel. Her opening was small, narrow. Had no one touched her before? Then all the men of Roang must be eunuchs. Even he, who had never cared for a woman’s body, was stirred—how could men with c**k between their legs not be?

Even with her body bound up from head to toe, her sweetness alone would have drawn them like swarms of bees. He suddenly recalled her nickname, the ornamental flower of Roang, and his throat rumbled with satisfaction.

‘So the king of Roang is more of a fool than I thought.’

At the very least, he knew how to guard his kingdom’s most precious treasure.

With a flick of his nail, Kallist sliced through her undergarment, puncturing a hole, then pressed his middle finger firmly inward. The tightly sealed entrance yielded with difficulty, parting just enough to fit his finger. Moist walls, slick as the inner lining of lips, clung to him with sticky resistance. It was a struggle even to push in a single joint—there was no way anything larger had ever passed through. A strange sense of satisfaction swelled in him. The purpose that had first brought him into this chamber had long since evaporated.

That was how he always lived—following instinct. Until now, it had meant wielding a blade at will. But if his sword became his flesh, was that so strange? In truth, if he found a taste for rutting, the empire would rejoice, for it would mean a sturdier line of heirs.

He buried his finger to the base, twisting it within the still-tight passage that resisted as if forging a path where none existed. Pleasure rippled through him. The woman’s waist arched sharply.

“Ahhk!”