A Little Slave Girl by Lucky 97 (black female authors txt) 📕

my dress.

I let my gaze roam, and I spotted Princess Marilyn over to the side a little. She was wearing a pretty, peacock style dress with real feathers adorning her skirt. Her hair was, as always, perfectly curled, and her icy blue eyes were sparkling with laughter as she talked genially with Prince Lucas. He looked stunning as well, even more handsome than last night, his golden hair catching the light, making it glow.

I wondered why Prince Lucas was here, in the throne room. If he had told the king about my terrible deed, then why would he be here? A slave is not such an important person for a prince to be present at their beheading. Obviously Princess Marilyn was just in here because Prince Lucas was. I could tell she like him very much. She should. They were the perfect pair.

A sudden pain stabbed at my heart.

They both turned at King Henry VI's next words, "Your name is Evangeline, correct?" he asked me.

"Yes sir," I mumbled, hyper aware of Prince Lucas's eyes on me, raking over my face, my body.

"Is this the girl you saw?" he asked Prince Lucas. Fear mounted within me. I really was going to die. Everyone had seen me in the garden, and now I was going to pay.

He nodded slowly. All my hopes, if any, crashed at that moment. I was really going to die.

"Then you both may go," he waved his hand, dismissing us both.

What?!

I glanced at the king, obviously bored and done with me, with an open-mouthed expression. What does he mean? Where was I going?

I felt a vise-like grip grab my hand, and I turned to see Prince Lucas's eyes on mine.

"Come with me," he said solemnly, and, without releasing my hand, began the long walk out of the throne room.

When I glanced back behind me, I could see Princess Marilyn staring at me with pure hate in her eyes.

Mercilessly I was pulled through the narrow hallways, forbidden rooms, past nobles who stared at me, surprised that Prince Lucas was walking with a mere slave.

I could sense him, smell his intoxicating aroma as it danced around my nose, feel his impossibly soft hand, devoid of any real labor. I wondered how my hand must feel to him. My fingers were callused and raw from vigorous scrubbing and various taxing tasks. It was the first time I was actually jealous of a man.

He, finally having reaching his destination, opened a luxurious door covered with engraved designs. I instantly recognized it as one of the beautiful guest rooms, pure opulence that was not to be seen anywhere in the castle except in the King's own bedroom.

The bed was king-sized, a true masterpiece, and the furniture was extraordinarily beautiful. A huge vase stood in the corner, decorated with vines that winded around it, coming out of an even larger pot that was at the bottom. I had never seen anything like it before. Similar wonders filled the room, a museum's worth of gold, silver, and other tempting treasures. I realized this must be normal for a prince or king, being fantastically rich.

Prince Lucas finally released me, and I backed away from his stunning form. "What is going on?" I demanded, "Why am I here?"

Then I quickly realized I was talking to a PRINCE, a guest, no less, and shut my mouth in shame, looking down at my feet.

Prince Lucas, however, smiled. He seemed to actually enjoy my outburst, and he said, "So Evangeline actually has a voice."

I kept staring at the floor, regret searing through me. I could feel the silence sizzling between us, him staring at me, and I staring anywhere BUT him.

"We need to fix that," he tutted. I looked up at him in surprise. "Your not-looking-at-people problem," he explained. I kept silent. "Who told you to look at the floor when you're speaking to people?" he probed.

"Poe," I barely whispered.

"Look at me. Every time you look at the floor, you will be punished," he said sternly. I obliged him, discomfort mounting in my chest.

"Now," he said, "Who is Poe?"

"Our chief servant," I replied, the words flying much easier out my mouth. Talking to Prince Lucas was actually not as scary as I first thought. He was definitely different, a strange man compared to the respectable men of England.

"How dare he!" Lucas was actually angry at Poe, a thing the king wouldn't have thought of doing if Poe was maiming and killing us at a whim.

"I don't mind, Prince Lucas," I lied through my teeth.

"I mind," he replied, eyes narrowing, as if he wanted me to be angry also. "England is so different from France. In France, we do not put people beneath us. I mean, we are also above our subjects, but we treat them right, unlike your Poe and King Henry VI," he practically spat, "Citizens of England are inhuman! It is like the Indian caste system here in Europe."

"Yes, Prince Lucas," I nodded feebly in agreement with his words. He was right, but each poison-laced word against England stabbed at my chest. I was a citizen of England also. A very low-ranking citizen, but still a citizen.

"Oh, and call me Luke," he added offhandedly.

"I couldn't, Prince!" That was an intimacy reserved for the royal family.

"You WILL," he demanded, and I fell silent. There was a pause, then Lucas, the prater, spoke again. "I saw you looking at Princess Marilyn and I in the throne room."

"No, Prince, I-"

"Luke," he corrected.

"L-l-Luke," I choked out, somehow finding it hard to say his name. It was as I had committed some sort of great wrong, which the way the word tried to squeeze itself back into my throat.

Luke laughed, a wonderful, intoxicating sound. "I love the way you say my name, Evangeline," He flopped on the bed, laying on his toned stomach, glancing up at me, "It's so beautiful."

"Uh, thank you... Luke," I replied, still tripping over my words. Luke looked so handsome, laying on the bed enchantingly, his face looking up at mine. I felt unworthy of even being in his presence. He was too perfect, like Princess Marilyn, to even be around me, tainted by my ugliness. I was just a slave.

"Anyways," he continued, "are you jealous of Marilyn?"

I froze, staring at him with a frightened expression. Then, I nodded, unable to lie. I was incredibly jealous of her curly blonde locks, tumbling past her shoulders, her perfect smile, her mesmerizing eyes... the way she was treated.

He grinned, "At least you're honest." Then, he paused, and then looked at me with that searing gaze of his. "I think you're wildly attractive," he said sultrily, his mouth twisted into a smirk, "You shouldn't be jealous of Marilyn. She doesn't... interest me like you do."

He cast a glance at my tight dress, my face, grin widening. "You are different from the other England people. Are you Egyptian?"

"Yes, Prince."

"Luke," he corrected me again, exasperated. With one eyebrow raised, he gestured for me to copy him.

"Luke," I repeated timidly. He smiled in approval. Luke walked closer to me, his deliciously tempting aroma exciting me. I tried to reign in my thoughts, but I couldn't. His pull was just too powerful. I ached for his touch, his voice to caress my name.

He stroked my cheek with a single finger, brushing from beneath my eye to my chin.

"My little exotic wildflower..." he said softly, intimately. We both held each others gaze, unable to look away. Then he smirked, and the spell was broken.

I looked at the floor, embarrassed by my uncontrollable blushing. I couldn't stop the red from running into my cheeks. I had been affected by Luke. But he was just playing with me. He had to be. I was just a slave girl.

"Look up!" I heard his exasperated voice, "How many times will I have to tell you... I guess I will have to punish you until you understand."

I hadn't realized that I was even looking at the floor until then, his words alerting me to my forbidden position. I immediately lifted my face, surprised when I discovered he wasn't in front of me. He was actually sitting on a luxurious chair looking at a book.

He looked up, saw my face, then gestured for me to come forward. I obeyed, curious to know what his punishment would be. Strangely, I wasn't scared of whatever the punishment was. I wasn't frightened in the least of Prince Lucas himself. He seemed to emit a relaxing vibe, a soothing aura surrounding him that wove through my defenses effortlessly.

"Lean down," he commanded, and I bent my form to put my face near his. He looked at me sternly. "This is what will happen if you don't stop looking at the floor. Close your eyes." He seemed almost... eager to inflict my punishment upon me.

I closed my eyes, his breath tickling my nose. I waited for my punishment, a little anxiously, wondering just how hard he was going to end up slapping me...

A pair of lips, impossibly soft and sweet, brushed against my cheek, an extremely inappropriate act, but a delightfully dangerous one.

"Go to the next room, which is yours from now on," he whispered softly, his voice echoing in my ears, "my little slave girl."

I then realized, finally, why I was here. Prince Lucas had requested for King Henry VI to give me to him as a trifle. To be a little plaything of his, a toy. He, like the others, didn't think of me as a person, but an object. Somehow, Prince Lucas thinking that I was an object actually hurt worse than anyone else doing the same.

This was almost worse than being a slave of the castle.


The days passed by quickly. Unlike the long hours of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing, I was spending much time in absolute solitude, almost wishing for something to clean.

Being Luke's personal slave was not difficult. I had to collect his breakfast when he wanted it in his room, compelled to clean his clothes, and was always sent on various escapades to get something he needed. It was almost effortless, really.

It was the boredom that killed me. Luke was always in the meeting room negotiating peace with his father and King John, and I soon, in the long hours between his appearances in his room, yearned for a glimpse of his beautiful face, his heart-breaking smile that always managed to make me break into a sweat.

When he finally returned to his room, I would angrily leave it, satisfied after seeing his face, yet angry because he was not showing me any attention. I had grown selfish, false hopes growing after that very first night, wanting something more than I already had. He would usually let me leave, exhausted by the endless verbal sparring between him, his father, and the king of England.

But one night, yesterday, in fact, he did not. "Evangeline," he said, rather abruptly, just as I was about to leave the room. I paused, small tremors of excitement coursing through my veins.

"Yes?" I replied, concealing well the anxiety that seared within me. He was sitting, cross legged, on the floor, looking at letters splayed out in front of