4

By the end of my first full day as the King, I’m exhausted. Thanks to several mind-melding spells, I’ve managed to gain the information I need to convince everyone of my identity; and thanks to the King’s blood, my glamour has held firm. No one suspects the truth of the King’s death, and the ball is still on for tonight.

Around midday, I portaled over to my protégé’s house and used my Wretched Sight to observe some of the goings-on within. I learned that she has a stepmother and two stepsisters, all of whom treat her terribly. Whenever her stepmother commands her to do something, she cooperates immediately. Her subservience doesn’t seem to match the feisty girl I’ve begun to love. Perhaps it has something to do with that anklet she wears. But I couldn’t spare the time to observe them for long, because a king has meetings to attend and obligations to fulfill.

Apparently the King and his son also make it a point to have one meal together each day, so I’m forced to join him for dinner. Contrary to my expectations, Prince Brantley proves to be a pleasant dinner companion. He’s full of useful information, the flow of which can be directed with slight nudges to the conversation. Judging from his behavior toward me, he and his father share a mutual respect and a positive relationship, which makes my task easier.

My bodyguards, Ren and Sevir, are stationed by the wall of the dining room. Brantley’s bodyguard Winston lingers nearby as well, never taking his eyes off the Prince. There’s a warmth and affection in his gaze that I don’t miss, though the Prince doesn’t seem to be aware of it.

After the meal, I retire to my chambers under pretext of a headache, and I take the opportunity to portal home to my mother’s kitchen in Faerie. Hers is always better supplied than mine, so I’m constantly popping in whenever I need to bake something.

She and my father love baking together, and when úna and I were children, our family spent many happy hours in the kitchen. My mother taught me how to make meals from the mortal world, and my father taught me how to infuse baked goods or candies with magic. So it’s a simple matter for me to whip up a batch of cinnamon rolls and vanilla frosting.

My mother enters the kitchen just as I’m setting one unfrosted cinnamon roll on a small plate.

“I thought I heard someone bumbling around in here,” she says, rising on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Who’s that for?”

“Someone.”

She peers at me, and I’m suddenly fearful she might see straight into my heart and perceive the deception in which I’m engaged. Guilt makes me avert my gaze from hers.

“Killian,” she says quietly. “Are you alright?”

“Of course.” I force myself to smile at her, but she immediately shakes her head.

“Oh, you can’t fool me with that smile. That’s the smile your father uses when he’s hurting and he’s trying to hide it. ”

I can’t bring myself to tell her everything, but I do venture a question. “You and Finias have encountered binding spells and curses before, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes. A variety of them.”

“What can be used to dissolve or break such things? I know the water of the Unending Pool breaks curses, but is there anything else that could have the same effect? And where could I find water from the Unending Pool? Is there any in the city?”

She frowns. “Are you in danger, Killian? Because if you are, I swear I’ll—”

“It’s not me,” I assure her. “It’s a friend. I can’t say more than that.”

“I think your father has some of the sacred water,” Clara says. “I’ll fetch it for you. As for the rest… You could try kissing this friend of yours. A kiss of pure, selfless affection can be surprisingly powerful against dark magic.” She smiles.

I can feel my face growing hot. “The water is all I need.”

“Very well. If you want more information, you could ask one of the stewards of the Royal Reliquary. They have more expertise than either Finias or I.”

It doesn’t take her long to find the vial of water from the Unending Pool. I thank her, tuck it into my pocket, and portal back to my own cottage with the single cinnamon roll.

Thanks to my unique parentage, my cum has other properties besides its healing power—specifically its taste, which is very similar to vanilla icing and will hopefully make it more palatable to my protégé. I don’t think she realizes how often she coughs, or how dangerous the condition of her lungs really is. When she came on my tongue last night, I could hear a sharp wheeze in her rapid breathing. I’m determined to do all I can to repair the damage done to her body. Since it’s an ongoing issue, not an old wound, my essence should have a regenerative effect.

I’m already getting hard just thinking about my cum in her mouth. I set the plate I’m carrying down on a table and pull out my cock, running my hand along it as I picture the girl’s beautiful breasts. They’re absolutely luscious, full and plump and smooth, with pert nipples. Fondling them last night was one of the best experiences of my life, and I don’t have to picture them for very long before my stomach tightens, a chill runs over my skin, and my cock pulses with pure ecstasy.

Carefully I aim my release at the unfrosted cinnamon roll, jetting thick white cum onto its surface. I take a moment to settle my breathing and put my cock away; then I warm the roll with a little magic and create a portal to my protégé’s house.

When I appear in the kitchen, I listen for a moment to ensure that the other members of the household have left. All is silent… so silent, in fact, that I begin to worry for my girl. Where is she?

I pick up on her scent and follow it to the front entrance of the house. She’s slumped against the door, fast asleep and white as bone. Dark circles are painted beneath her eyes. She looks painfully thin and frail, and my heart breaks anew. I want nothing more than to cuddle her, care for her, and protect her, from now until the day my spirit leaves my body and joins the everlasting stars.

The depth and power of that protective instinct frightens me a little. I’ve never experienced such a violent yearning for anyone.

Though I may long to prove my adoration with great and mighty deeds, what this girl truly needs from me is healing and strength. So I crouch before her, holding out the cinnamon roll, and I wait until her blue eyes blink open.

She questions me about the treat, and with a little prompting I reveal the true source of the “frosting” on the roll. She’s disgusted at first, but to my surprise, she acclimates to the idea and eats every bite. My cock is painfully hard by the time she’s done, but I find all the satisfaction I need simply watching her, witnessing her delight at how much better and stronger she feels.

With one problem solved, I proceed to the issue of the anklet. I apply the water my mother gave me directly on the band, sprinkling it generously, but it does nothing at all.

A kiss of pure affection or true love might have some effect. I’m not sure how pure or true my affection is, but I wish for the girl’s freedom with every beat of my heart.

I’ve already kissed her mouth to seal our bargain. For the removal of the anklet, perhaps a more direct application is required. I steel myself and press my lips to the metal, knowing the agony it will cause me.

The surface of the anklet burns worse than troll whiskey, worse than a Midwinter’s Eve bonfire. My lips are instantly charred black, and skin flakes off when I touch my mouth. My protégé panics over the injury and chastises me so fiercely that it’s clear she must like me, at least a little. I would give myself a thousand wounds to elicit more proof of her affection.

To my chagrin, my kiss has no effect on the anklet.

I design a more revealing dress for her this time, and despite her initial surprise, she likes it, naughty darling that she is.

I almost forget the shoes again.

When she leaves in her carriage, I struggle with myself for a quarter of an hour before I mutter, “Fuck it,” and portal to the royal library to wait for her. I am not the good Faerie I thought I was, because I can’t resist the opportunity to wear the King’s form and see her again.

I pace the length of the library, picturing how she looked last night—the mischievous glee on her face when she cut far too close to the deadline I gave her. I imagine what it would be like to chase her through the palace, throw her to the floor, and fuck her senseless in front of every guard, guest, and servant within sight .

When she finally slips into the library, my whole body thrills and glows. I have to hide in the shadows until I can control the reaction.

She blushes so prettily when I reveal my presence to her, and she gives me head—her first time. Instead of making her swallow, I mark her breasts and gown with my seed and scent. Then I lick my own cum from her skin, because I can’t risk her tasting the vanilla flavor and discovering my trickery.

She will hate me so much when she finds out. Worse than I hate myself. But tonight, she comes in my palm, and then I fuck her against the bookshelves. While I’m thrusting inside her sweet cunt, the anklet burns me, and I have to shift her leg down so the metal band presses against my clothing, not my skin.

She comes a second time, with gasping sobs of grateful relief. The yearning to kiss her sweet mouth is too great to resist, so I crush my burnt lips to hers. It hurts worse than anything I’ve ever felt, so much that my body shakes and tears trickle down my cheeks. I have to grip the shelves to keep from screaming.

The kiss is worth the anguish.

When she asks to see the secret vault in the library, I nearly panic. Thankfully my variant of the Wretched Sight allows me to perceive its location. I use a quick spell to open the vault, and I spend hours there with her, searching through volumes of human lore about Fae magic. Most of it is incorrect information, but there are a few helpful paragraphs, particularly about weapons that can slice through objects imbued with dark spellwork.

It’s during our research session that I realize how intelligent the girl really is. Not only does she read well, she accumulates the information quickly and analyzes it accurately. She makes a few comments aloud while she’s reading, and I observe that her brain instantly tucks away the most useful bits of information and discards the rest.

When the clock strikes midnight, I’ve never been so furious with the passage of time. And yet I’m pleased too, because even though our quiet research session is over, I still have one more opportunity to see her, this time as myself.

I portal to her house and pace the halls for half an hour, chafing at the delay. Finally I go outside and walk along the lane, intending to meet her. If her carriage and her glamoured clothing haven’t dissipated already, they will soon.

Moments later I see her, stark naked, running along the gravel drive through the freezing night. Her golden hair whips behind her and her breasts bounce as she races toward me. I have never seen anything so fiercely free and so heartbreakingly beautiful. I open my arms to her, but she only seizes my shoulder and marches me back inside, a scathing rebuke on her tongue.

Back in the house, I show the girl other glamoured forms I can take. Perhaps it’s a way for me to salve my conscience, nudging her toward the truth without actually saying it—yet she still she does not suspect that I’m the King. Why would she?

I take the game too far, though, when I assume her stepmother’s form. The girl’s fear is immediate and visceral, and my suspicion is confirmed. The stepmother is her captor, her abuser, the villainous influence in her life.

In her desperation to get away from the illusion of her stepmother, the girl injures herself. When I offer to come in her mouth and heal the wound, she lets me—even bares her body to my view so I’ll be able to climax more quickly. I tell myself it’s a step forward in our true relationship, the one that involves no masks or glamours.

When I return home, I sleep well.

I don’t sleep long, though, because she summons me again, this time with the pocket watch. She demands that I do her chores so she can rest. I tease her and feign reluctance, but truthfully I’m all too happy to assist. The huge mess she spoke of is a moment’s work for me, and when I return to the cellar where she sleeps, I’m greeted by the heavy, honeyed aroma of arousal .

She’s on the bed, with her hand between her legs. The moment I appear, she jerks her fingers out of her clothes, her cheeks turning a luscious red. Judging by how flustered she is, I must have been the subject of her fantasies. Me , not the King.

It gives me more satisfaction than I want to admit.