11
Killian portals me into the back corner of the palace garden, a safe place where we’re less likely to encounter anyone who might wonder how we emerged from thin air.
Traveling by portal is simpler than I expected—like stepping through a doorway. I felt a rush of cold and a burst of sparkling magic over my body, and then I was standing in the snow-covered garden, staring at a huge silent fountain featuring a pair of stone dragons and two knights on horseback.
“I trust you can find your way from here?” Killian asks.
“I can, thank you.”
“Then I’ll be off. Busy, busy.” He creates another shimmering portal and vanishes.
I pull the warm cloak tighter around me and head down the path toward the lighted windows of the immense palace. My plan remains the same—go to the library, see if the King is there, and ask if he’s willing to continue our trysts even though he now knows I have another agenda.
Truth be told, even if he wants to help me do research again, I’m not very hopeful we’ll find a solution for my problem. My Faerie godfather has been using all the resources at his disposal to get the anklet off me, with no luck. I doubt that a human library will provide anything Killian hasn’t already considered.
But even without the lure of the library and freedom, I would still want to see the King. And yes—it’s partly because it’s deeply flattering that the most influential man in the kingdom lusts for me. It’s a boost to my confidence, and I deserve to feel confident, desirable, and powerful.
I encounter a fork in the garden path and debate for a few seconds before turning right. As it happens, that is the entirely wrong direction, so I retrace my steps and go left—but that path also turns away from the palace.
I don’t understand the layout of this garden at all. It’s ridiculous. There should be a straight path going from the back to the front, a route that’s easy to find and follow.
For several more minutes I wander around, convinced I can find my way and too stubborn to call Killian. The cloak, shoes, and gloves I’m wearing seem to guard against the cold better than any clothing I’ve ever worn, probably due to Fae magic, but my face is cold, and the tip of my nose is going numb. So when I encounter a greenhouse whose glass walls are steamy with warmth, I open the door and duck inside.
Humid air envelops me, so heavy with moisture and heat that I immediately remove the cloak and gloves, laying them over a small table by the door. I move deeper into the greenhouse, admiring the rows of lush potted plants. Some of the flowers are strange to me, exotic and beautiful.
As I turn a corner around a cluster of small fruit trees, I spot a man standing in the next aisle, watering a plant. He’s shirtless. Corded muscles stand out on his arm as he holds the big watering can.
I would recognize that gorgeous mane of silver hair anywhere .
Panicking, I dart behind the fruit trees, but my heel hits a stack of empty clay pots and they topple over with a clatter.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“Who’s there?” calls the King.
I wince, but there’s nothing else for it. No way to escape.
“An assassin,” I say. And I wait for his reply.
There’s a smile in his voice when he responds. “You must be new to the assassination game. Announcing yourself isn’t the best way to surprise your prey.”
“They told me you’d be an easy mark,” I reply, still concealed from him behind the trees. “You’re always wandering around without your guards.”
“I shouldn’t have to rely on guards in my own home,” he says. “Besides, any assassin who came after me would have a fight on their hands.”
“Is that so? You think you could take me?”
“Sweetheart, I’ll take you anytime you want.”
The term of endearment surprises me. I’m smiling ridiculously wide and I can’t stop. Yet it hurts to be so happy, because I know it won’t last. “Prepare to yield, Your Majesty.”
“Gladly.”
It’s time to be brave and bold. To show the King that I still want him, and that I’m not someone he can easily dismiss or forget.
I undo the ties along my left side and let the dress fall. Then I step out into the greenhouse aisle, dressed only in bits of leather and lace, with the blond braid over my shoulder.
The King goes still for a second, taking in the scanty outfit I’m wearing. Then he starts toward me, a hunter’s ferocity in his eyes.
I run to him, forgetting any games of pretend, and launch myself into his arms. He catches me up and spins me around, then captures my mouth with his .
I moan into the kiss, conscious of his large hand gripping my ass cheek while his other arm bands my waist.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again,” I gasp, nuzzling the scruff that cloaks his jaw.
“I will crave the sight of you every night until I die,” he says.
I withdraw a little, looking into his eyes. Here is another man who charms women with pretty words that he probably doesn’t mean. I must remember that, enticing as his company is, I can’t trust him any more than I can trust Killian.
The thought makes me sad and angry at once, and I hate feeling that way when I’m supposed to be enjoying myself. This is my time. My escape from drudgery and darkness.
Fury blends with lust, and I shove him back with all my might. “Take off your clothes. Everything. The boots, too.”
He doesn’t protest or demand my respect—in fact, he looks rather excited at the prospect, a slow smile curving his mouth. He strips and stands in front of me, broad and brawny and naked, silver hair furring his chest and curling around the base of his cock.
I seize a folded cloth from nearby. It’s a little rough, probably used to wrap plants or their roots. “Spread this out and lie down on it.”
He follows my directions, and a triumphant frenzy blazes through my heart at being obeyed, at having someone who will yield to my commands and submit to me.
I don’t remove my stockings or heels—I rather like the effect they provide. Besides, they hide my anklet, and the last thing I need is someone else questioning me about it. I want to forget everything right now. I want to use this gorgeous, powerful man in a way I’ve never dared to use anyone.
I stalk up to his prone form, lift my foot, and nudge his erect cock with the glossy black toe of my shoe.
“This is a new side of you,” he says .
“I have many angles.” I trace my toe up and down the underside of his cock until he groans and reaches down as if to touch himself.
I switch my stance, catching his wrist with my foot, kicking it aside, and pinning it to the floor with just enough pressure to make him wince. He could easily break free, but he stays there, and his cock bobs twice, a sign that my forcefulness is making him even more aroused.
“Do not touch yourself,” I tell him.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Those words are the sweetest music to my ears. But I can’t let myself read into them. He would never make me his Queen, and even if he did, he’s planning to abdicate the throne to his son soon. My reign would be short-lived.
And my stepmother would never let it happen.
She ruins everything, everything…
As anger floods through me again, I move my foot from the King’s wrist to his chest, sliding the high-heeled shoe between his pectorals up to his throat, pressing lightly. He tilts his head back. “Fuck, Celinda.”
I freeze. “You know who I am?”
“I asked around. You’ve made quite the impression on my court. On my son, as well. He’s very interested in you.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip, removing my foot from his neck. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“He’ll find someone else,” says the King with a deep, desperate urgency that makes me hot all over. “Step on me again, for fuck’s sake.”
So I do. I press his neck and throat with my heels, and then I tease his cock with the toe of my shoe until he’s writhing, every muscle in his glorious chest and abdomen straining with need. Only then do I crouch over him, shift a bit of lace aside, and impale myself fully on his thick cock .
“Shit,” I breathe, pushing all the way down. He grabs my hips, and I clasp my hands over his pecs, jolting up and down as I ride him. The pleasure is building, but not fast enough, so I circle two fingertips over my clit, working my way toward the peak.
“I’m going to come,” he gasps, chest heaving.
But I grip his jaw tightly, then smack his cheek. “No. You do not come until I do.”
His handsome face contorts in pleasurable agony. “Oh fuck, do that again. Please. Please.”
I can’t express how much I crave his submission, his misery, his desperation. I slap his face once more, lightly. “Wait your turn.”
Then I lean back, with his cock still inside me, and I toy with my clit, holding his gaze the whole time.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says hoarsely. “So fucking beautiful, so wicked, so sinful. My exquisite Sin.”
I’m panting, squirming on him, so close. “Call me that again.”
“Sin,” he hisses. “My wicked fucking Sin.”
“Yes, fuck…” I bounce on him again, and the orgasm snaps through my body almost instantly, flinging me into a state of near madness. My vision whites out, stars burst in my head, my thighs tremble violently, and I scream my euphoria into the humid air of the greenhouse.
He comes the second after I do, our sweat-slick bodies throbbing in sync. He pulls me down to his chest, wraps me tight, and rolls his hips slightly, moving inside me, emptying all his cum into my body. The friction of his abdomen against my pussy, along with the movement deep in my core, feels too good to be true.
“Oh shit, I’m coming again,” I sob, and I do. I come on him a second time while he pushes my hair back from my face and closes his lips over mine, savoring all my tremulous moans within the heat of his mouth.
At that moment, the door of the greenhouse opens.
“Shit!” I whisper. Quickly I separate my body from his, dart to the end of the row, and grab my dress from the floor. I retreat just in time, ducking behind a tall plant as two guards come into view.
“Your Majesty?” one of them calls.
While I wrap my dress around myself, the King sits up on the cloth, naked and entirely unbothered. “I’m here, and I’m perfectly safe. Wait outside.”
“Is someone in here with you, Sire?” asks a guard.
“It’s a lady,” replies the King. “A little privacy, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Their footsteps retreat, and the greenhouse door closes.
The King grins at me. “The life of a royal.”
“Must be annoying.”
“Very.” He gets up and begins to dress himself. But a moment later the outer door bangs again, and the Prince’s voice calls, “Father? The guards said you were in here.”
“Oh no,” I whisper, aghast. The plant I’m standing behind won’t be enough to conceal me if the Prince comes down this row to speak to his father. And I dread the thought of causing Brantley any pain or jealousy.
“Hide over there.” The King points to a large clump of berry bushes with plenty of thick foliage. I duck into them and crouch down.
The King folds up the cloth we used and sets it aside casually as the Prince comes down the aisle.
“She didn’t come.” Brantley’s voice is strained, distressed.
“Who?”
“The girl, Celinda. The blond one with the lovely dresses, the one who is kind and listens so well. She isn’t here tonight. ”
“Isn’t she always late?” asks the King.
“Yes, but this is later than usual. I don’t think she’s coming. Her sisters are here, but not her.”
“Perhaps one of her sisters would be pleasant company.”
“Perhaps.” The Prince sounds deflated. “I’ll dance with them, I suppose. But I’ll tell them they must bring her tomorrow night, by order of the future monarch.”
“I’m sure they will love that,” says the King dryly.
The Prince’s footsteps draw closer. “Have you been watering the ankra lily?”
“Oh… yes.”
“No, no, no!” protests the Prince. “I told you not to overwater it! Only once a week, remember?”
“Why, yes, of course. I suppose I was distracted.”
“You’ve been behaving oddly lately,” the Prince says.
“Have I? I didn’t notice.”
“You’re avoiding me. Is it because of these confounded balls? Or the idea of me taking the crown? Do you not think I’ll be a capable ruler?”
“Of course you will,” replies his father. “But it’s an adjustment, you know—moving into a different phase of life. I suppose I’ve been hanging back to allow you full freedom in this matter of choosing your bride. I’m still not sure this is the best way to do it, but—”
“It’s what I wanted,” finishes the Prince. “A chance to see all the eligible ladies at once, talk to them, and quickly decide which one I want as my future companion and the mother of my heirs. I want to get it over with—there’s no sense dragging it out. And I appreciate you allowing me to make my choice in this way. I know it’s unconventional.”
The King chuckles. “When have I ever been one for convention?”
“Not often,” his son admits. “And even less so of late, if rumors around the palace are to be believed. There’s talk of you missing meals, skipping important meetings, leaving your bed at night, holding impromptu court sessions for the public, and making odd judgments when they bring petitions before you. I must ask—are you quite well?”
“I’ve never been healthier.”
“Then it must be the other thing,” says the Prince tentatively. “The servants say that when you disappear, you’re visiting a woman.”
“That’s it,” says the King. “You’ve caught me.”
“Well, who is she?”
“I can’t tell you just yet. Perhaps at the feast, when you announce your bride, I will reveal my new mistress. Now why don’t you head back in and enjoy the ball? Find yourself a lovely, clever wife from among the women who showed up tonight.”
“Will you come with me?” asks Brantley. “I would like your opinion about a few of the girls.”
“Shouldn’t it be entirely your decision?”
“Yes, but you said you would give your opinion if I wished it.”
“Of course, son. Allow me to tidy a few things here, and I’ll join you in a moment.”
“Don’t delay,” replies the Prince. “I need you with me in this, Father.”
“And you shall have my wisdom. I’m right behind you.”
The Prince’s steps retreat.
As soon as Brantley closes the greenhouse door, I climb out of the bushes. “What was all that?”
“All what?” The King grabs his shirt and jacket from a peg nearby and begins putting them on.
“What he said about you disappearing often. I know about the evenings, when you and I are together, but what about all the other times? ”
He works the buttons of the shirt into their holes, one by one. I wish I didn’t find his masculine fingers so fascinating.
“Would you be angry if I said that I’m seeing more than one woman?” he asks.
A flood of disappointment rushes through my heart, leaving a wasteland behind. And yet I feel guilty for begrudging him a second lover, when I haven’t been faithful to him, either.
“You are the King,” I say quietly. “You can sleep with as many women as you like. I’m not so vain as to think I would be anyone’s first and only choice.”
And yet… in my memory I see Killian turning around on the stairs, and I hear him say quietly, earnestly, It’s just you .
“Well… now you know,” the King replies. “I’ll understand if you’d rather not meet with me again. I wish I could stay so we could discuss it, but I must go. My son needs me. If you’d like to visit the library again, I’ve left the vault open for you.”
“You left it open ? Isn’t that dangerous? Someone could steal the books.”
“And what if they did?” He shrugs, buttoning his jacket. “Most of the information in those books is inaccurate anyway.”
“I thought you hadn’t read many of them.”
“I really must go. It was a delight to see you, as always.”
He hurries out of the greenhouse. I’m tempted to stay and stew for a while in the warmth, but I end up following him, snatching up my cloak and gloves on the way out. I walk far enough behind him to avoid his notice, but close enough so I can follow him along the garden paths and avoid getting lost again.
I hang back as he enters the rear doors of the palace, and then I go inside. I’m not used to this entry point, so it takes me a few minutes to orient myself.
When I finally enter the library, it’s darker than usual, with fewer lamps on, but the vault is open and aglow, just like the King promised. I don’t understand why he would keep the books hidden away for so many years, and then suddenly leave the place wide open to whoever wants to enter. Either he’s growing careless in his middle age, or he likes and trusts me more than he’s ready to admit. Which means I might have a chance of triumphing over the other woman and winning his love.
Not that I want his love. A relationship with him wouldn’t work—it couldn’t . It won’t, unless I can break free.
I spend a couple hours in the library and leave at precisely eleven-thirty. When I arrive at the bottom of the palace steps, the black carriage appears, pulled by four smoke-colored horses and driven by an illusion of a driver—a plain man in a dark coat.
When I reach home and climb the stairs to check on my stepmother, she’s sound asleep. I steal another dose of contraceptive herbs, then descend to my cellar without waiting for either my stepsisters or my Faerie godfather. Despite all the worries in my head, I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep at once.
I wake up in the night to find myself dressed in a soft nightgown, with a thick blanket covering my body. Blurry with sleep, I snuggle in and doze off again.
In the morning, when my pocket watch rouses me from sleep, the conjured nightgown has vanished, but the blanket has not. It’s real. And the entire cellar is not only spotless, but newly furnished. There’s a sturdy chair in place of the battered one, rugs on the earthen floor, new light fixtures, and a new dresser. The cracked washstand has been mended, and it gleams like it’s new. When I open the bureau, it’s full of clothes that I suspect are also purchased, not conjured.
On the hook where I usually put my old nightgown, there’s something hanging, wrapped in tissue paper. I rip the paper away and discover a turquoise gown studded with pearls. There’s a wrap to match, but as usual, my Faerie godfather forgot the shoes. I can’t help smiling to myself at the thought.
Then my smile fades, because he was in my cellar last night, sneaking around and fixing up the place. He brought me real things, and though it seems like a kindness, I can’t help wondering if there are conditions attached to these gifts. He wants my body—he has made that clear. Is he doing all this so I’ll fuck him? If I keep refusing, will he insist?
The idea of him forcing me goes against everything I know of his character. But what do I really know? Everything he has told me, everything he has said, and everything he has done could be deception, a plot to serve some sinister purpose.
What if he isn’t a benevolent godfather, but a demon who tricks people into giving their children charmed objects, only to entrap those same children later, when they’re doomed and desperate?
My heart tells me none of that is true, yet my bones and flesh have had caution and suspicion beaten into them for years. Distrust is a learned behavior of mine, and it is not so easily relinquished.