Praise Me: Princess (Praise Me Daily)
Praise Me: Princess: Chapter 2

Dear God, take me anywhere but here.

As I’m escorted into the lavish parlor with domed ceilings and rich, luxurious furnishings, I can see only the barracks and battlefields where I’ve slept on and off for a decade. These royals have been sleeping in peace, while I’ve toiled to afford them that right. I’ve given my service to the palace. Paid in blood. I owe them nothing, but here I am by order of Queen Ingrid to come babysit her pathetic daughter.

Kill me now.

I won’t even look at my new charge. My resentment won’t let me.

Just when I thought I was a free man, I’ve been dragged back into servitude. My grandfather left me his farm when he passed away and all I’ve ever wanted was to tend the land and animals. Wake up to the quiet and live in solitude, not being forced to interact with anyone, especially some spoiled brat who is too scared to set foot in the real world.

“Commander Conrad Larsen, your highness,” drone the man who led me into the room. “He has been secured in the guest quarters of the southern wing.”

“Thank you, Hans. That will be all.”

Queen Ingrid rises from her desk, scrutinizing me with an amused half-smile. “Your valiant reputation precedes you, Commander. It’s an honor to welcome you to the palace.”

“Yeah. Wow.” The sarcasm is dripping off me and I genuinely don’t give a fuck. “I’m so thrilled to be here.”

To her credit, the queen only looks more amused, rather than insulted. She’s known for being unflappable and fair, but I can’t help but disagree, considering I’ve been commissioned for this job against my will.

“May I introduce my daughter, Greta,” the queen says, sweeping a hand in the direction of the girl sitting across from her.

Still, I refuse to look.

This pampered princess can wither into a pile of dust for all I care.

“Great,” I respond dryly. “What are my orders, your highness? Am I to commence babysitting duty now or in the morning?”

A flicker of censure passes across her features. “You sound less than pleased with your new post, commander.”

“What tipped you off?”

“You’ll watch how you speak to the queen,” blusters one of her assistants.

I stare the little fucker down until he goes back to scribbling on a clipboard. This is not my scene. Where I come from, respect is earned, not passed on through birthright, the way it has been to these royals. “I didn’t ask for this post, your highness. It was tied around my neck like an anvil.”

“I don’t wish to be an anvil, Mother,” comes a hushed voice.

It’s from the princess.

My vision sort of glitches around the edges, something causing my pulse to skip around in confusion. I’ve never used the word “sweet” to describe anything but candy. But it would be a lie to describe her voice as anything but that. Sweet. It’s light and earnest, totally different from the nasally whine I was expecting. I haven’t had the opportunity to watch much television for the last decade, but as I recall, Princess Greta rarely appeared on camera as a child, and when she did, due to someone with royal blood being married or some other such occasion, she kept her head down and let her mother do the talking.

Probably doesn’t have a single thought it her head, that’s why.

Don’t look at her.

Maybe this is illogical, but as soon as I set my eyes on Greta, I’ve acknowledged this job and I don’t want to do that until absolutely necessary. The queen has stripped me of my free will, but I can control this one thing, as small as it is.

“You are not an anvil, Greta,” says the queen.

“Yes, she is,” I respond, spawning gasps around the room.

“Mother, please. I will go outside the gates alone. I promise.” The more she speaks, the more it becomes painful not to look at her. “Please, let him go.”

Surprise draws my gaze down, despite my iron will, but she’s facing the queen, leaving me a view of only her hair and shoulders.

But my God, those shoulders.

They are soft, delicate slopes that lead to a graceful neck, her hair in a gathering of heavy golden curls on top of her head. Exquisite. There’s another word I’ve never used. That’s what she is.

Resolutely, I rip my eyes off the princess and go about ignoring the continuous ripple in my chest. What is causing my heart to beat so strangely?

“That’s very brave of you, Greta, and I don’t doubt you would try, but as I mentioned, we’ll be traveling soon to make your potential betrothal, and we won’t have time for stopping to catch our breath. Best to begin improving yourself now.”

I’m highly stuck on the word “betrothal.”

Who is the princess marrying?

Why does this news make me resent her even more than I already do?

“I don’t wish to have the commander here if he doesn’t choose to be,” says the princess. “Can you not give me a few days to…improve myself?”

“I’ve given you enough time. It’s been a full year since the incident, dear.”

“What incident?” I ask, not liking the ridiculous softening inside my rib cage. The more the princess speaks up on behalf of my freedom, the harder she makes it for me to hate her guts. Also, hearing from her own mouth that she needs to “improve herself” means she can’t be as self-consumed as I’d expected. “What happened a year ago?”

Suddenly, the princess shoots to her feet. “I’d rather not say,” she blurts, her voice ever so slightly uneven. In a way that makes my head ache with the desire to consume the sight of her. No. Not yet. “Mother, if I succeed in leaving the palace tomorrow and suffer no ill effects, would you please grant the commander his leave?”

The queen purses her lips. “I’ll consider it, yes.”

“Thank you,” murmurs Greta, bowing her head. “May I be excused?”

“Yes, you may.”

Every muscle in my body begins to coil because she is turning away from the desk now to face me. Each one of her soft footfalls on the rug unbalances the scales inside of me, my heart heavy and burdensome with its oddly rapid pumping. Whereas before I was determined not to look at Greta out of spite, now I’m terrified to set eyes on her face. Somehow, I know looking at her is going to be a major problem.

When she stops in front of me, I keep my attention trained on a spot in the distance, using every last ounce of strength I possess to ignore her.

I last approximately six seconds.

I can’t put into words what it’s like to see her face in person for the first time, now that she’s a woman. Only that there are emotions that have been shelved inside of my chest without my knowledge and now everything on those shelves tumbles down. It’s almost offensive how beautiful she is with her deep blonde hair and porcelain skin, a mouth that must put shameful thoughts in men’s heads. Even mine, if I allowed myself, which I will not. Her mouth has nothing to do with me.

Nor do her eyes.

Her…enchanting blue eyes that look up at me now with apology.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, snapping my inner shelves in half, every cell in my body straining in her direction. “I’ll try my best to have you free by tomorrow, Commander Larsen.”

“Good,” I bite off, in defense against whatever she’s doing to me. “The earlier the better,” I add, half gratified, half loathing myself when she flinches.

“Yes,” she says softly, casting her eyes down at the ground. “Thank you for coming, even if it will only be for a short time.”

I grunt.

I don’t know what else to say.

She’s not a nightmare, like I was expecting—and now, I wish she was.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.” She rubs those succulent lips together, the action firming up my cock in a way I know is bad. Real bad.

“Tomorrow?” I hear myself say. “Who guards the princess when I’m not?”

“No one,” says the queen, breezily. “She’s safe enough within the palace walls. The incident occurred only when she left—”

“Can we please not talk about the incident?” Greta interjects.

The queen stops talking.

What is this incident they keep referring to?

“As ridiculous as I find this assignment, her safety is on my head now. As such, she’ll be secure at all times. Starting now.” My pride forces me to add, “My responsibility ends when this absurd exercise is over.”

The princess is very still, eyes downcast, her cheeks blazing with color.

But I won’t allow myself to regret being harsh.

Men are losing their lives up north to keep the rebels at bay and she’s scared to take a simple walk? She’s a chore. A beautiful and…unexpected one, but nothing more.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Greta says.

“There’s no excusing yourself from my presence, princess. Where you go, I go, for the moment.”

She nods. Regroups. “Then I’m due at my French lessons.”

My sweeping gesture is nothing short of mocking. “After you, oh brave and mighty princess.”

It was too far. I know it as soon as I step over the line, ridiculing her.

The pain and embarrassment in her eyes haunts me for the rest of the day.