Cardan & Jude oneshots

Baby

Hello, everyone! 

So, before the special Christmas chapter, everyone was in the comments asking for a smut with a collar/leash, and I made it happen. Now, don't judge me for the chapter. I think I might have gone overboard, lol. 

But anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Also, before we begin, do you want to follow me on Goodreads and TikTok? EHEHEHEHEH Whoever's interested, here are the links

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Thank you! I post The Cruel Prince content almost every day or at least whenever I can. 

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Jude's POV

I lean back in the grand cushioned chair at the head of the table, letting my arms rest on the ornately carved armrests. My nails tap a steady rhythm on the dark, polished wood, the sound oddly soothing as I watch Cardan study a point on the intricately engraved map set into the stone table of the War Council chamber.

The room is cold and dimly lit, the flames from the silver sconces casting flickering shadows across the solemn faces of the Living Council.

I tilt my head slightly, my gaze fixed on Randalin, the insufferable Minister of Keys, whose voice grates on my nerves like the screech of a whetstone on steel.

He speaks to Cardan in a tone that hovers just shy of insolence, addressing him as "Your Majesty" but questioning every decision with the audacity of someone who doesn't realize how fragile his position is.

Cardan endures it with the patience of a saint — or a very tired monarch — but I notice the tension in his jaw every time Randalin dares to interrupt.

"Any sign of rebellion will not be silenced in the shadows," Cardan declares, his voice smooth but edged with authority. "Those responsible will be brought before me and the High Queen. Together, we will decide their fates. Publicly." His gaze sweeps the table, lingering on each face before settling on Randalin, seated stiffly to his right. "Am I understood?"

Randalin's goat-like eyes flicker toward me, his brows pinched with what he clearly believes is wisdom. "Your Majesty," he begins, his tone dripping with condescension, "allow me to point out that imprisoning the rebels, rather than dealing with them swiftly, may give the appearance of weakness to others who might see it as an invitation to challenge your rule—"

I don't let him finish. I lean forward, my hands pressing flat against the table's cool surface. The golden oak crown on my head tilts slightly, the flowers and thorns gleaming in the flickering light as I let my voice cut through his like the edge of a blade.

"Randalin," I say, my tone deceptively soft, "if you interrupt the King again, I'll personally see to it that your tongue is removed and gifted to the trolls. They've been complaining about the lack of decent scraps lately."

The air in the room grows colder. I meet his wide, disbelieving eyes and smile slow, sharp, and utterly devoid of kindness. "Or perhaps your tongue isn't the issue. It seems your hearing is as defective as your judgment. We could always take your ears as well. Imagine them hung on the doors of the council chamber as a warning — an eternal reminder to listen when your betters speak."