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

him. They were probably letters from home, his beautiful France that he liked to talk so much about, where they treated servants well. I felt a pain stab my chest when I thought about France. In a couple of weeks, he would be returning to his homeland.

With... or without me.

"You are angry with me," It was not a question.

I kept silent, picking up his boot and placing it in his chest of drawers. His room was always spotlessly clean, thanks to my boredom. He watched me as I idly wandered around the bed, picking up trash and small scraps of paper and placing it in my pocket to put in the furnace.

"Why?" he finally asked, his eyes trailing over my body as I turned towards him. My eyes devoid of emotion, I made sure my body language expressed pure boredom.

"Luke," my tongue twisted still as I spoke his name. That was all I could say. Oh, how I ached to say the words biting at my tongue, the mean accusations that I knew he didn't deserve.

Luke smiled at me slowly, realization entering his features. "You're jealous," he said softly, teasingly. I, alarmed, shook my head quickly. He, however, just laughed. "You want my attention," he observed. He rose from his position and started walking towards me, purpose in his step.

"I just want to do something!" I quickly squealed in defense, backing away from his quickly arriving form. He laughed again, backing me into a corner, my hair messy from my movement.

He put his hands on either side of me, leaving me no place to go, no place to hide. "A slave actually wants to work MORE?! I thought I'd never see the day."

I flinched when he said the word slave. He didn't make it sound degrading, yet the word still hung between us, biting me to the bone.

"I promise I'll spend more time with you when all this is over," he said apologetically, "The long periods of time in the meeting room has been wearing me out these last couple of days."

I looked away, closing my eyes as he leaned in, brushing his lips against my ear, my cheek, my forehead. This was the first time he had touched me since that first night, but I knew now his kisses meant nothing.

"Please," I choked, nearly suffocated by his allure, his irresistible pull that I couldn't walk away from. His touch was so sweet, so full of softness and caring, an edge of desire thrown into the mix. He probably kissed Princess Marilyn too, bringing his beautiful, plump lips to hers, grabbing her waist and holding her tight. I tensed at that thought, sadness filling me, overwhelming me.

"What?" he asked suddenly, stopping the touches that made my heart tingle. He peered at me, concerned, waiting for words to come out of my mouth.

And come they did, but not the ones I really wanted to say. "Have you... touched Princess Marilyn? K-k-kissed her?" I stuttered.

Luke grinned, "Why would you ask something like that? That sort of stuff is private."

My face grew chalk white, my worst fears confirmed. He did touch her. Kissed her. Treated her like a precious jewel, admiring her perfect features.

He laughed melodiously. "No. I didn't," he answered me, taking a piece of my hair, stringing it along his fingers. Then, he looked at me, his hazel eyes staring right into mine, "Didn't I tell you not to be jealous of Marilyn?"

Yes, he did. I just didn't obey him like a good little slave girl would've. Luke did that to me from the very beginning. He made me think, and act, for myself.

"Am I just a plaything to you?" I asked quickly, my words in a rush. I had to know. It was now or never. Anxiety pounded through my chest as he drew back, startled.

"Did you really think that?" he asked, anger laced in his words. I kept silent, stunned myself by his outburst. His eyes were narrowed, fury in his expression, his body language. "Did you really think that I was just having a little fun with you?"

I nodded slowly, shamefully.

"Do you think I would do this," he rushed forward and grabbed me, his lips rushing to meet mine, want flooding between us both, "if I thought you were a plaything?"

This kiss was different than before. Filled with urgency, his lips forcefully met with mine, eager to make his point. It still was sugary sweet, but filled with determination, and a whole ton of fury. I had never seen him this angry before.

"Did you think that because you are a slave?" he asked bitterly, ceasing the kiss, leaving me breathless.

"I guess..." I whispered, "so."

He looked away, and when he soon met my gaze again, his face was more calm, more composed.

"Believe me, my little slave girl," he said sharply, "Just because you are a slave doesn't mean you can't be loved."

Then, he turned away, walking back to his letters, keeping his gaze away from mine. He sat himself on the luxurious carpet, focusing his attention on the letters. Anger still flooded his beautiful features, but it was controlled. More peaceful.

"Please go to your room," he crisply ordered, "so I can think."

I rushed away from him, opening his beautiful door, my head hurting with information I could barely process at once. He said he loved me. He loved me.

That can't possibly be true.


♪ Waltz ♪

The next day, I woke up to the sound of music... absolutely beautiful music that made the birds sing and the heart dance. It was rather early, about five thirty, and although my body screamed with fatigue, I quelled its qualms and got up to get my master, Prince Lucas some breakfast.

Prince Lucas liked to play the flute, and he oftentimes played it in the morning when he woke up. He usually asked for breakfast right after he played, so I, after a while, started to catch the hint and get his breakfast as soon as I heard the sweet whispers of a bright morning song. I wondered why he was up this early. Usually, his body woke him at a later time, like seven o'clock or so. I knew his usual patterns by heart, having seen him go through the motions every day.

Maybe he couldn't sleep, plagued with dreams of last night's events just like I was.

I almost knocked on his door when I returned, but the relaxing lull of the flute beckoned for me irresistibly. If I did knock, Luke would stop his playing, and I didn't want that. I wanted to see him play, see that confident smile grace his features, his expression of joy.

So I slipped in the door, carrying the tray of food, determined to get a glimpse of him when playing. He was not immediately in the room, where I expected him to be, so it took a few seconds for me to spot him. When I finally did, for on the balcony he was, I placed the tray on the ground, careful not to make a clatter, and headed towards the irresistible attraction.

It was wonderful, just like his voice, an interweaving of notes, chords, and melodies, a collage of emotions that stung my heart. It seemed to tell a story, and though I couldn't distinguish it from the song alone, I seemed to understand the emotions it was trying to convey.

It was a sweet song, a beautiful melody, until a crash of some kind, a downfall. It was like a completely different song then, full of terror, hurt, and anger. Then, just as the song reaches it's climax, the sweet song creeps in, taking over the crash, the angry song, until the sweet song was the only thing you could hear, as if the angry one never existed.

Luke turned from the balcony, the song over just as quickly as it started, and met my gaze.

I had never felt so in love as I did just then.

His face was stunning, his golden hair sparkling, his hazel eyes clear as could be. He was adorned in light, loose clothes, his huge muscles seen through his shirt. His expression was not of surprise, but sadness, exhaustion in his features from the effort the beautiful song had cost him.

"I feel so terrible," he said softly, looking directly at me, "You know that feeling, right? That feeling that you did something you shouldn't have and you can't take it back?"

I nodded. I understood that feeling very, very well.

"Well," he continued, "I wish I could take back my frustration from last night," his eyes were blurry and unfocused. Obviously he had done a lot of tossing and turning the previous night. "I know it must be hard for you, being a slave."

I nodded, apology already accepted. The word slave still bit at me, but not when he used the word so apologetically.

"I forget that you don't know love," he whispered, his eyes directly on mine. I knew he didn't mean parental love, but a different variety I had never experienced before.

He came to sit by me, his closeness taking my breath away. The tips of his knee was touching mine, energy surging through us both from that one touch. He brought his hand to my face, pulling it until it was directly in his view. "You are so stunning," he whispered, stroking my hair softly, my cheek, my nose. Then he laughed. "I never liked that silly style of curling your hair until it burned away."

"Really?" I asked, my eyes alight with surprise. Princess Marilyn had the perfect curly hair, in tight coils, bouncy and inviting. It attracted men to her like bees to honey. How could he be so different from all the others?

"Yes," he said laughingly, amusement across his features, "I much prefer your dark hair that doesn't stick out in every direction."

He truly was a strange man. But it only attracted me to him more, his quirky ideas a pleasure for me to listen to.

"Well, thank you," I laughed. Luke stopped touching my hair, a strange expression on his handsome face. "What?" I asked curiously as I watched his frozen form.

"I've never heard your laugh before," he said softly. I realized that I had never laughed in front of him, even after the weeks upon weeks of talking to him, seeing him, loving him.

I had not laughed since the day my parents died.

"Well, not anymore," I smiled, my fingers reaching hesitantly for his arm. I wrapped my hand around his muscled wrist, my hand grazing his. He looked at me, a smile on his handsome face, and he laughed softly.

"I guess so."

I smiled, my white teeth shining in the rather darkened room.


"So, do you think you could?" he asked me anxiously.

I had frozen, eyes wide with surprise. My hand dangled at my side, my hair waving in the breeze. I had never expected Lucas to do something like this.

Luke had just asked me to attend the annual Yen Ball as his partner.

"But Luke!" his name came easier to me than ever, effortless to say, "I'm a slave!"

"Not for much longer," he said quietly. My eyes widened, my mouth stretched into a smile.

"You're going to release me?" I