Berenger was shaking his head. ‘Ancel, I’m not poor now. But if the Prince fails—’

‘If he fails,’ said Ancel. He was stepping into Berenger’s space. He put his hand on the laces of Berenger’s jacket, and Berenger didn’t move away. ‘But if he wins?’

‘Do you even like horses?’
‘I can’t read,’ said Ancel.
‘I see,’ said Berenger.

‘When I saw you in the ring, I thought you were incredible. You were fearless, powerful. You took on every lord in the room, and beat them. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.’
‘You want me, too,’ said Ancel.
‘Ancel—’
‘When we kissed, you—’
‘Yes.’

The Prince. The Prince, who had never taken a pet. The Prince, who had never taken anyone, or been taken, so they said. They said he was frigid, that he had ice in his veins, that pets failed to interest him.
But there was one person who had the Prince’s complete attention.

‘I’ve seen pets fucking before,’ said Ancel. ‘I am a pet. Remember? I’ll cover your eyes if you’re shocked.’

Arriving in the bower, the Prince of Vere was instantly commanding, with nothing soft or yielding in him. A young man with golden hair, cold blue eyes and an arresting profile, he had a pet’s looks and a Prince’s bearing, laced up tighter than Berenger, in dark, severe clothing. He looked capable of mastering the slave through force of will, as though the slave’s discomfort was his pleasure.