The Angry Princess

I turned and walked in the direction of Madeline, my boots sinking slightly into the plush, velvet carpet that lined the corridor. The air grew thicker as I neared—heavy with the sweet scent of jasmine incense and spiced wine, and the faint, cloying aroma of ripe peaches that seemed to cling to Madeline herself. Wisps of fragrant smoke curled around the silk veil that draped the entrance to her private chamber, filtering the candlelight into soft, golden streaks. When I stepped through, I froze: Madeline sat atop a throne-like red velvet upholstered chair, her head crowned with a circlet of glittering sapphires and rubies, a thick ruby necklace hanging from her slender swan neck—each gem as big as a thumb, catching the light. She wore a gold-trimmed silk bra that left her shoulders and collarbones bare, and her panties were stitched with tiny pearls that shimmered as she shifted. Her pretty face was flushed, as if from wine or desire, her eyes misty and alluring, like she was caught in