2

The girl doesn’t want to kiss me. She barely pecks at my mouth, and I have to persuade her to yield to a proper kiss, which is necessary to seal our bargain. Faeries operate through systems of bartering and exchange, particularly when dealing with humans. It’s our nature.

She hasn’t been kissed before. And yet, once she yields a little, kissing comes naturally to her. I can sense the awakening of her body, her eagerness to enjoy the pleasure of my mouth as long as possible. She speaks to me with every swirl of her tongue, begs for more with her quickened breath. When I slip my tongue into her mouth, my brain bursts into a tempest of stars and whirls away into a dazzling void where nothing exists but the two of us.

I could kiss her forever . I’ve never had that thought about anyone else.

I pull back, determined to focus on the task at hand. “There. A proper exchange has been made, and the bargain is struck. Now take off your clothes.”

She recoils. “What? ”

“I could take them off you with magic, but I thought that might be rather rude. Wouldn’t you prefer to do it yourself?”

“And why would I undress for you?” She sidesteps, casting a glance at the iron poker beside the fireplace. I suppress a grin at her audacity, to assume she would stand a chance against someone with my Fae strength and magic.

“I need to see your body, so I can create the right look for you,” I tell her. “This shapeless sack you’re wearing conceals your form.”

“It’s not a shapeless sack,” she snaps. “I’m not comfortable undressing for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“A man—a male—who is very…” She blushes fiercely.

She thinks I’m beautiful. Of course she does—the Fae are all beautiful. Some part of me sinks a little at the realization that if she ever did crave me, it would be because of my immortal loveliness, not my heart or my mind.

Perhaps another face would allow her to like me for myself.

I try on various glamours for her, but she claims to be most comfortable with my true form.

At last she concedes to my request and disrobes, leaving only her underclothes in place. They’re so threadbare they barely conceal anything, and it’s all I can do to center my thoughts on my goal—to craft the perfect gown for her body. I am not here to desire her, to lust for her… fuck , her breasts are perfectly shaped, but also fuck , she has so many scars. Unmistakable signs of cruelty and abuse mar her skin, old wounds long past the ability of any magic to heal them. I want to kiss each one and promise that nothing will ever harm her again…

“Stop staring at me and listen ,” she snaps.

I obey, trying not to let my expression show the anger and lust that are battling in my heart.

We make the arrangements for the evening, and I explain the limitations of my magic to her. I have often longed for the energy of a full-blooded Fae, but at least I have my portal ability, which is a distinct and valuable talent. And the girl doesn’t seem to mind the midnight deadline—she is grateful for anything I can do for her, though she tries to conceal her gratitude beneath layers of hardness and anger.

I allow myself one small indulgence—touching her hair—before I transform her. Once her entire outfit is done, I step back, enjoying the amazement on her face. For a moment she is utterly without defense, and I see straight to the soft, wounded heart of a girl who has always longed for love and for beautiful things.

“There now,” I tell her gently. “Some of my best work, I think. Of course I had a lovely subject, which helps.”

She casts me a wary glance. “No sweet talk.”

“Not even one tiny compliment?”

“Not one.”

“Very well.” I’m about to tease her more, but then I realize I’ve omitted something vital. “Shoes! I forgot the shoes.”

I’m not the most skilled with footwear, so even as my thoughts coalesce into physical form, creating a silver slipper around her foot, I drop to one knee and grab her ankle so I can inspect the result and ensure a comfortable fit. But my fingers encounter a metal band that scorches my skin like fire, and I yank my hand back quickly with a startled cry.

The girl draws back, a furtive awareness in her gaze.

“What is this?” I ask.

Anguish shines in her eyes, but her lips compress, sealing off any words. I’ve witnessed something similar before, most notably when I tricked my chatterbox of a sister into eating a silencing spell in the form of a cookie so she couldn’t reveal the plans for our mother’s birthday celebration. Unfortunately the spell prevented úna from saying anything at all. She was furious, and I was firmly reprimanded by my father, whose eyes sparkled with merriment the entire time he was lecturing me. It took him a while to find the reversal spell and set her tongue free. I’ve always suspected he was slow about it on purpose, so he could enjoy the peace and quiet a bit longer.

In this case, the imposed silence concerns rather than amuses me. “You can’t talk about it?” I ask the girl.

She shakes her head.

“You can’t tell me what it does, or who placed it on you?”

Again she shakes her head, while her eyes sparkle with tears. In a voice barely louder than a breath, she says, “I need my carriage.”

At that wounded whisper, my heart shatters, and anger rises from the rubble, twining red and ruinous through my chest. I stand up, buoyed by a new goal—to find out who hurt this girl and make them pay in blood.

She must recognize the fierce purpose on my face, because she cringes a little, wrapping her hand around the pocket watch at her throat, the talisman that summoned me. It’s an object of comfort for her.

“If you want to keep wearing that, I’ll glamour it to look like a fine necklace,” I offer. When she agrees, I alter the visible appearance of the watch and chain. Unluckily for me, the newly glamoured jewels make her breasts look even more luscious. I think that effect was unintentional… or perhaps my subconscious willed it so. Either way, I have to tear my gaze from the alluring sight and hustle her outside, where I cover her in a furry wrap so I won’t be tempted to stare anymore.

As the cold hits her lungs, she coughs. The sound is ragged, with a rasping wheeze that worries me. I shall have to figure out some way to heal her, and that could get awkward.

I can’t heal humans the same way I can heal animals. For me to be able to heal a human, they must swallow a certain intimate essence of mine. And she seems like the type of woman who would either flee or lop off my head if I suggested she consume my cum in any way .

Fuck, I’m harder than ever at the thought. Thankfully she is distracted by the sparkling carriage I’ve conjured for her and she doesn’t seem to notice the prominent bulge I’m sporting.

“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she says, staring at the coach. As if she assumed magic could only craft dangerous or deadly things. I don’t blame her for the prejudice, especially now that I know she is entrapped by a magical anklet whose purpose I don’t yet understand.

Though I don’t fault her for the assumption, I can’t resist correcting it. “Magic is not inherently good or evil. It can be used to help or to harm, and I wish you were not so familiar with the latter. But for tonight, think of nothing except enjoying yourself. Dance, drink, and flirt with handsome gentlemen.”

That last line is forced, insincere, but I doubt she can tell. The instant she’s in the carriage, I create a portal and step into my cousin’s private parlor. Torin still lives in his suite of rooms at his parents’ palace, where he makes himself useful in various ways—just useful enough so that King Lir and Queen Louisa don’t toss him out on his ass.

Out of deference to my cousin, I never appear directly in his bedroom. I suppose it’s also out of caution, since I never know what I’ll encounter in Prince Torin’s private chamber. The image of a Racer hybrid with its twiglike arm stuffed up my cousin’s ass is still painfully fresh in my mind, though it’s been years since I witnessed that odd coupling.

Standing in the darkened parlor, I rap on Torin’s bedroom door.

“Confound you, Killian,” he groans. “Come the fuck in.”

I enter to find him in bed, right where I left him, except now he’s buried under a mountain of blankets. “How did you know it was me?”

“You always knock the same way. Did you bring me wine?”

“No. You had too much last night. ”

“My head is splitting open. Did you at least bring something for healing? Or pain relief?”

“You have servants for that.” I drape myself on his bed.

As someone born to a Fae and a god-touched human, I have my own weaknesses. Torin’s human weakness is a propensity for ailments like hangovers and the occasional bout of sickness. It takes far more alcohol to produce a hangover for him than it would for a normal human, but the fact that he suffers from overconsumption at all is supremely irritating to him. He also heals more slowly and feels temperature changes more dramatically than most Fae.

“Pull the bell cord for me, would you, Kil?” he mumbles, his face half-sunk in the pillow.

I reach over and tug it. Moments later a blue orb floats into the room, and Torin speaks his request to it. The orb bobs once, then glides back out of the room, zooming off to find a servant to fulfill the order.

“I have a problem,” I mutter to Torin.

“Is it your voice? Because I’m finding that extremely annoying at the moment.”

“It’s a girl.”

Torin lifts his head slightly. “A girl?”

“The human girl I was called to help.”

“Go on, give me details.”

I deliver an abbreviated account of my interactions with the girl. “And then she got into the carriage, and I left.”

He’s sitting up now, staring at me as if I’ve gone mad. “You left ?”

“What else should I have done?”

“You sent your emotionally wounded protégé off to a palace ball. Your virgin protégé. She’s there unprotected, vulnerable, a prime target for a lustful vagabond such as myself… what the fuck were you thinking, Kil? Why are you st ill here? Go to the palace, wear a glamour, and watch her. Protect her like you’re fucking supposed to.”

“Isn’t that too overbearing? Shouldn’t I—”

“Go, for the god-stars’ sake!” He brightens as a servant enters his chamber, carrying a tray. “Ah, thank the fates, here’s my wine and my breakfast.”

I leap up and snatch the goblet of wine off the servant’s tray. “It’s for your own good,” I tell Torin when he protests. “I need it more than you do.”

As I swallow the wine, I turn my thoughts toward the palace where my protégé is attending the royal ball. I’ve never been there, but I possess a unique mutation of my mother’s god-touched gift, the Wretched Sight. When paired with my ability to create portals, I can use the Wretched Sight to perceive my destination and its surrounding area in my mind. I can locate the palace, perceive it, even mentally skim through its hallways and rooms to decide on a good entry point.

Setting down the empty wine cup, I take one breath in Torin’s room and the next breath in a broom closet of the palace’s central wing.

I step into the hallway, and as luck would have it, there’s a maid passing by. She’s alone, no one else in sight, so I flip open one of my rings to reveal a tiny compartment full of glittering dust. I step in front of the maid and blow the dust in her face. Within a second, she’s sinking to the floor, fast asleep.

I arrange the maid’s unconscious form in the closet, with her head resting comfortably against a stack of folded cloths. Then I drag a rack of sheets forward to conceal her, so she won’t be seen or disturbed. She’ll sleep for several hours and awaken refreshed. Meanwhile, I can take on her physical appearance and keep an eye on my protégé.

Navigating the palace is easy enough thanks to my Wretched Sight, and soon I find myself in a wide hallway graced with exquisite paintings. My mother would love to see them. There’s an especially fine portrait of an older human with silver hair standing beside a younger male, presumably his son. Both are wearing crowns. Must be the King and the Prince.

As I pass by an open door, my Fae ears catch a strange noise—a gargling, choking sound, like someone being strangled.

Perhaps I should keep walking and not interfere in whatever lurid palace drama might be unfolding. But if there’s something dangerous going on in the palace, something that could threaten my protégé, shouldn’t I know about it?

As I debate my course of action, someone wheezes, “Help!”

Decision made, I hurry through the doors into the room beyond—a library, judging by all the books.

“Where are you?” I call out.

No one answers, so I inhale through my nose, trying to identify the person’s location by smell. Beneath the fragrance of the winter roses by the window, I can smell a mature human male with a rich, strong scent, but there’s another odor twined with his natural one—an odor of wrongness, of death.

I follow the scent between two rows of bookshelves to a curtained alcove with a padded bench seat—one of many reading nooks along the library’s rear wall.

On the floor in front of the alcove lies a handsome human male with a grizzled chin and silver hair. His face is purple, his eyes fixed and expressionless.

It’s the man from the hallway portrait—the King. And he’s dead. I know it even before I touch him. There’s a rank finality to the scent of his body—a bitter reek of something gone wrong, deep inside. This isn’t a death I can reverse or a wound I can heal.

My mind races through possible scenarios. If the King is discovered dead, that will certainly put an end to the night’s festivities, which means my protégé’s evening will be ruined.

That’s unacceptable to me. She deserves a night of luxury, dancing, and delight after the horrors that have plagued her life. I may not know what all the horrors are, but I know they exist. I saw their marks on her body, and I perceived the hurt in her eyes, clear as the title of the book lying beside the King— Honorable States of Governance, Succession, and Acquisition . Godsfuck, that looks dull.

A plan forms in my mind—too quickly perhaps, but time is short. There don’t seem to be any bodyguards around, but a guest, a servant, or a guard could enter the library at any moment. I must make haste.

A quick investigation reveals that the padded seat of the reading nook can be lifted, revealing an empty compartment. All I have to do is place a preservation spell on the King and stuff him inside the bench seat. Preserving his body will create a persistent drain on my energy, but it can’t be helped. I can’t have him getting smelly and betraying his whereabouts.

Once the night is over and my protégé has had her fun, I’ll portal the King to his bed, and the servants can find his body in the morning.

It’s only a slight delay in the discovery of his death. Nothing dreadful or inexcusable.

I cast the spell, then cram his body into the compartment. It takes some maneuvering, since he is tall and broad, but at last I manage it.

As I close the bench seat, another thought occurs to me. What if people begin looking for the King? If he’s missing long enough, the palace staff will become alarmed. It’s not enough just to hide him—I need to replace him, temporarily. Just for tonight.

He was settled on this bench, reading. I can sit quietly and read, too—and if his bodyguards come looking for him, I can surely act the part well enough to fool them. After all, I’ve lived in proximity to royalty all my life.

To hold such a glamour for hours, I need to do a bit of blood magic. It’s a simple matter to retrieve a little blood from the King’s body, drawn from a shallow cut I make along his inner thigh. Using that essence, I create the glamour, cloaking myself in the King’s tangible and visible form so that I will look, feel, and smell like him. Thanks to the preservation spell I placed on his body, I can obtain more of his blood if I need it. But I don’t anticipate this ruse lasting past dawn.

I planned to shadow my protégé and observe her tonight, but unfortunately that plan will have to change. I can’t enter the ballroom glamoured as the King. There would be too many people to greet, too many acquaintances I should know. Gleaning the knowledge to successfully fool them all would require spells I don’t have time to cast. So my purpose must shift from spying on the girl to remaining here in the library, keeping the King alive, and ensuring that the ball proceeds without interruption.

I swap the dull book the King was reading with a more entertaining one, and I settle myself in the reading alcove with the curtains half-drawn. Engrossed in the book, I barely notice time passing until I hear soft footsteps in the library.

“Where are you?” murmurs a voice, and my entire body illuminates… literally. My skin is fucking glowing , and I have to rein in the surge of emotion engendered by that voice.

Ever since I heard the girl speaking to the animals in the barn, her voice became a core memory of mine. I’d know it anywhere. But I didn’t expect my body to react so visibly to the sound.

The glow happens to me now and then, usually when I’m with my whole family and I’m feeling especially beloved, joyful, and safe among them. It has never happened with a human.

I’ve barely managed to conceal the effect when four slim fingers curl around the curtain of my alcove and draw it back.

The girl gasps a little at the sight of me. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

God-stars, she’s exquisite—even more so in that dress .

I’m smiling at her—I can’t help it. But I must remember whose face I’m wearing, and the effect it will likely have on her.

For a moment I consider telling her the truth, but she would be alarmed if I explained that the King has died and I’ve taken his place. She might even think I killed him, no matter what I say to the contrary. Her distrust of magic runs deep.

No, the best course of action is to be the King, to carry on the ruse, even with her.

“Your Majesty.” She curtsies.

“No need for all that,” I assure her. “Who are you looking for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Earlier, you said, ‘Where are you?’ Are you searching for someone?”

“Oh… not exactly. I… well… I was looking for a book.” Her eyes widen slightly as she notices the salacious contents of the novel lying open on my thigh. She glances at me, a blush tinging her cheeks—but in her eyes I read interest, not condemnation.

“Ever read a book like this?” I ask.

“A woman of good breeding should say no, but… yes.”

I’m ridiculously pleased by her admission. “I respect your honesty.”

“I should say, I’ve only read short stories of that kind,” she clarifies. “Never an entire book.”

“Ah. Well, the story is good. It’s meant to titillate, of course, but there’s substance beyond that.”

Her lips part, and her blush intensifies, but I can tell it isn’t embarrassment, exactly. Or if it is, the embarrassment is mingled with lust. I was already aroused thanks to the delightful tale I was reading, and my arousal is now a full-blown craving, centered boldly on the young woman standing beside me.

She’s a mystery, this one. Bound by a magical device, aching for freedom, gifted with beauty, and brimming with suppressed desire. Her scent is warm and honeyed, yet fragile with mortality, like soft petals easily bruised. She is gentle with animals and vicious with me, and I love that dichotomy of her character. It’s so fucking intriguing.

Even more intriguing is the way her body language suddenly changes. Her hips tilt provocatively and she begins twirling a lock of glossy golden hair around her finger.

“Do you read books like that often?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” I reply honestly. “When I lack companionship.”

“I would think that a king could have companionship anytime he desires it.”

“I could have companions, but I happen to be rather particular about that sort of company.”

“Are you?” She cocks an eyebrow. “What kind of person meets the standards of the King?”

I close the book, set it aside, and stand up so I can look down at her. I can smell traces of fear in her delicate scent, but stronger than that is the scent of her arousal. My cock hardens still more, painful in its insistence to be sheathed in the slippery heat of her body.

She asked what my standards are. At the moment, the only standard is her.

“It’s not something I can define,” I say. “I know it when I see it.”

“Do you?” Her voice cracks slightly. She’s terrified and desperate all at once.

Much as I might wish to, I won’t attempt to seduce her. After all, this form might have an undue influence over a servant girl trapped in a life she hates. I should deflect her attention elsewhere, before I do something I’ll regret.

“Have you seen our winter roses?” I inquire. “They are something of a specialty here at the palace. A point of pride with our gardeners. ”

“I saw some. By the windows, when I came in. They were drenched in moonlight.”

“Drenched…” Fuck, now I’m wondering if the undergarments I made for her are also drenched beneath the skirts of her gown.

With a mighty effort I turn my mind from that tempting image. “Come with me. You can take a closer look at the roses.”

I lead her toward the urns of winter roses, and when she comments on their beauty I agree with her, though I’m not looking at the flowers at all.

I can’t seem to break the enchantment she has unwittingly laid over my brain and body, the overwhelming sense that this girl is different than anyone I’ve ever helped, that once my task is done I won’t be able to step out of her life like I did with the others, that I couldn’t leave her entirely, ever. Now that I’ve met her, I can’t imagine not being near her once in a while, hearing her voice, watching the play of emotions across her face. There is a depth to her character that I ache to explore, even more than I yearn for her body.

What is this magic? Does it have to do with the anklet she wears? Surely not. Judging by the scars on her skin, she is being held and harmed against her will. She doesn’t seem like the type to be wielding a love-spelled artifact against me.

Without warning, she touches me—one pale hand at my waist, her tapered fingers resting against my shirt. I can feel the warmth of her palm through the material, against my skin, and it drives me mad instantly.

She tips her face up and whispers, “Will you fuck me?”

Shock blazes through my body, and my cock jumps against the confines of my pants. With difficulty I manage to speak. “Aren’t you here for the ball? For the Prince?”

“I came here for your son, yes… but now I’d like to come for you, Your Majesty. ”

By the god-stars, she’s bold. Bold and desperate. There’s a wild, rebellious need shining in her eyes, a ferocious lust that won’t be denied. And my body responds to her unspoken command.

I pull her close and discard the comb from her hair, letting the silken waves fall free. Beautiful. My hand cups the back of her neck, and she yields, tipping her head back. Like a starved wanderer, I inhale the sweet fragrance unfurling from her warm skin.

This is not what I do. I don’t fuck the people who call on me for help. And I certainly don’t fuck anyone while in disguise, unless it’s a glamour they’ve requested.

I must not yield to my own lust, yet I can’t seem to make myself reject this girl. My heart is pounding violently and my breath bursts hot and heavy from my lungs. I sway forward, pushing my hard cock against her, almost groaning as the friction makes everything blissfully better and yet so much worse.

“Are you doing this because you want to fuck a king?” I ask hoarsely.

“No!” she exclaims, looking up at me. Her voice softens as she breathes against my lips, and I tremble with the overpowering need to kiss her.

“I don’t care who you are,” she continues. “This is simply a moment in time between strangers. I’ve been wretchedly miserable and this whole night is a dream, a beautiful one. It has given me hope when I thought all was hopeless. And your touch—the pleasure and freedom we could enjoy together—it’s something I need. Something I would beg you for, if my pride would allow it.”

I need her to repeat that, to confirm it. “You don’t care who I am. A different face, a different body would do just as well for you?”

“Yes. Maybe that’s wrong… ”

“No,” I say. “No, it’s right. Let this be a dream between us.”

One time. One night. I can give her the release she needs, the liberty she craves.

Just once, because she asked.