8

I enter the ballroom late again, trumpeted by the annoying herald. When he’s finished bellowing my introduction for everyone to hear, I look straight at him and say, “Do you enjoy embarrassing people?”

He shrugs. “Most people enjoy the attention.”

I lean closer, smiling, and say in a vicious undertone, “If you announce me like that again, I’ll take that bugle and shove it so far down your throat it comes out your ass.”

The herald clears his throat. “Understood, my lady.”

“Excellent. We’re going to be great friends, you and I.” I pat his shoulder and turn away, sailing farther into the room.

Tonight, thanks to the Faerie treat I enjoyed, I’m a little more comfortable with all the eyes staring at me. The golden gown turns every head, including that of the Prince, who hurries over as soon as I enter.

“There you are,” he says. “I was disappointed not to see you again last night.”

“I’m sure my sister was excellent company,” I reply .

“She was,” he admits. “But I prefer you. I like people who listen as if I’m not boring them to death. People who ask intelligent questions.”

I like him too. He seems like a kind person, and he’s certainly brilliant. With his propensity for long one-sided conversations, I’m not sure how well the throne will suit him, but if he surrounds himself with the right people, he should be able to govern well.

Except for the fact that I’m sacrificing him to save myself. Essentially I’m betraying an entire kingdom, yielding them to my stepmother’s will, just to set myself free.

What kind of person does that?

I don’t want to be forced into such a diabolical decision, so it’s imperative that I figure out how to disable the anklet myself. If I can do that—if I can remove it and possibly destroy it—then neither the Prince nor I will have to live under the command of my stepmother.

The Prince is looking at me expectantly, holding out his hand. I take it and move into the dance with him. “Tell me about your family,” I say quickly, before he can start the conversation. “Tell me about your father.”

Brantley’s handsome face brightens, and for a moment I see his father’s beauty in him. The topic of his father pleases him, and I’m gratified to see that their relationship is a good one.

“My father is a great leader,” Brantley says. “He knows so much about all the countries of this entire world, and he has studied what we know about the Further Realms as well. We’ve had many long discussions about realm theory.”

Unfortunately, he veers off the topic of the King into the idea of cosmic complexity, mirrored realms, the Void, and interplanetary pathways. On a normal evening I might follow him down that path with interest, but tonight I have other priorities, so when our first dance ends and I spot Amisa lingering nearby, I motion for her to approach .

“This is my other sister, Amisa,” I say. “She is also interested in realm theory.” I stare hard at Amisa and give her a firm nod.

To her credit, she musters enough enthusiasm to be mostly convincing. “Oh yes, realm theory. I love… realms. Which is your favorite realm?”

This odd question distracts the Prince enough that I’m able to move away through the crowd, but there are more eyes on me tonight. The Prince has shown a marked interest in me twice, and that puts a target on my back.

I traverse the rooms of the palace’s main floor, walking slowly so I don’t draw additional interest. I don’t want people wondering why I’m in a hurry, or following me where I want to go.

There are people in the library corridor, so I have to circle through other hallways and loop back a few times before I finally find it empty. Without hesitation I dodge through the library doors and close them quietly behind me.

The library is low-lit again, partly by moonlight and partly by the golden lamps. It appears empty at first glance, but I know the King could be lurking anywhere—if he shows up at all. He’s a busy man, and he might have things to do besides me. Or he might have lost interest in me after I ran off so quickly.

The skirts of my gown are more voluminous tonight, and I hold them in both hands as I walk along the rows of bookshelves, peering down each aisle, peeking into the alcoves. The farther I go, the lower my heart sinks.

When the King steps out abruptly from the shadow of a bookcase, I scream a little.

He chuckles, deep and rich and reassuring. “Forgive me.”

For a second I’m wordless, captivated by the wolfish beauty of him… that magnificent jawline cloaked in dark scruff, those icy eyes, and the wild mane of silver hair. He’s wearing a navy su it tonight, embroidered with silver thread, and it makes him look even more handsome than he did yesterday.

“I don’t forgive easily, Your Majesty,” I reply.

“No, I don’t imagine you do.” He steps back to survey me. “This gown is lovely. It enhances your beauty to perfection.”

“Its maker would be gratified to hear that.” I can imagine the smirk of satisfaction on my Faerie godfather’s face if he heard the compliment.

“You’re beautiful always,” the King continues softly, “but especially when you’re startled. All the defensiveness and anger leaves your face, and it’s just you . It’s the same way when you come. I can see your soul then, free of everything life has done to you.”

There’s a sweet intimacy in his tone that I wasn’t expecting, and I feel suddenly awash with sadness. “By all appearances, I’m rich and happy,” I answer. “What makes you think life has been cruel to me?”

“I can see it in your eyes. Caution, resistance, and suppressed rage.” His hand runs along my arm, up to my bare shoulder. “You are beautiful, and angry, and trapped.”

My jaw tightens. I’m not used to being read like this, and it makes me feel both naked and furious.

He watches me keenly. “You want to strike me for speaking to you so openly.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Do it.” He takes my hand and places it on his cheek. I like the graze of his scruff against my palm.

Instead of striking him, I trace the sharp corner of his jaw, then the straight line of bone down to his square chin. “How are you so fucking pretty?” I whisper.

“How are you so fucking addictive?” he replies, low and intense. “I haven’t been able to think about anything except your body since you ran away from me last night. I spent the night imagining myself chasing you into the front hall, throwing you down on the floor, and fucking you in front of all the guests.”

“What’s stopping you now?”

It’s an impulsive question, and a foolish one because I should be asking him about the vault. And yet I’m already desperately aroused, slippery wetness seeping between my legs. Being so deeply perceived by him has made me crave him twice as much as I did last night.

“Most of the women I sleep with are interested in my power and position,” he says.

“Not me,” I reply. “I could care less about thrones and crowns. What I want is far simpler. I want to choose what happens to me, to my body.” I move closer, my fingers trailing down the front of his shirt, my voice low and wicked. “Right now, I choose this. I choose you. Take me with gentleness or with violence. Choke me with your cock, spill your seed inside me. Do everything and anything you like, only don’t make me wait, because time is short, and I can’t bear it.”

He’s breathing hard, his chest surging against my palm. “On your knees then.”

I sink down obediently while he unbuckles his belt.

“Wrists together,” he says, and I hold my hands up for him while he wraps the belt around my wrists and secures it tight.

He takes out his cock, its thick length jutting from between his thighs while he positions my bound hands behind my head. He grips the belt that binds them, using it for leverage. “Open your mouth.”

When I obey, he feeds his cock into the heat of my mouth.

I’ve never tasted cock before. His is thick, smooth, warm, and faintly salty. It smells clean and fresh, not sour or unclean as I feared it might.

With my hands bound by his belt and trapped behind my head, under the force of his grip, I’m not in control of this. And yet I don’t feel trapped, because I chose to yield the control to him. I savor the wickedness of this act—I delight in it as he guides me forward on his cock and teaches me the rhythm he prefers.

“Relax your throat,” he advises when I start to gag. He waits until the urge has passed and I move to take him deeper again. “Swirl that precious little tongue around my cock while I’m in your mouth. Let your lower teeth graze the underside, right beneath the head—fuck, yes. Right there. Shit.” He groans as I begin to play with him, my teeth and tongue tantalizing his length.

“Your mouth is almost as good as your pussy,” he says raggedly. “I’m going to move you faster, if you can take it.”

I nod, drooling a little around his girth. He holds my wrists and uses them to move my head back and forth at a quick pace, bumping the back of my throat with every thrust.

My eyes are watering. I force my throat to relax, and I give myself over to the raw, primal joy of being used forcefully by this man, this King. I don’t care how many other women have done this for him. Right now, he likes me. Wants me . No one else.

Part of me wishes that my stepmother could see me now, choking on the King’s cock.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he groans, pumping faster… and then he gasps out, “Fuck, I’m going to come.”

But instead of pushing deeper, he pulls himself out of my mouth and finishes with a firm stroke of his hand, spurting his release all over my breasts. Some of the warm cum lands on my skin, and the rest sprinkles the bodice of the golden gown.

“Your dress,” he pants regretfully.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

He takes out a handkerchief and wipes some of his release off the fabric. Then he helps me to my feet and plants my back against a bookshelf, holding my bound wrists above my head with his right hand while his left hand pushes down the top of my dress, exposing my breasts. He ducks his head and licks his own cum off my skin with slow, wet strokes.

I would never have imagined a man doing such a thing, but it’s incredibly erotic. My panties are soaking wet.

“Oh my gods,” I whisper, shivering deliciously with each pass of his warm tongue. Every inhale makes my breasts rise, the nipples peaked tight for him. He grasps one breast in his hand, squeezing it lightly as he licks his release off me.

When he’s done, he shifts me over a few steps against the bookshelf. He loops the belt binding my wrists over a lantern hook affixed to a high shelf, so my arms will stay stretched above my head. I’m helpless to him, my breasts bare and my body prey to his hands.

The expression of fierce desire in his ice-gray eyes sends a quiver of anticipation along every nerve I own. He holds my gaze, unwavering, while he gathers my skirts, bunching them around my waist. His hand cups between my legs, fingertips slicking the thin, wet material over my pussy, tracing the shape of the two lips, then touching the sensitive bits of flesh between them. I let out a sound I’ve never made before—a faint mew of helpless desire.

His hand dips beneath the waistband of the underwear, swirling over me. Then he shows me his fingers, shining and dripping. “Do you see this? What your body does for me?”

I nod, my teeth catching my lower lip.

He notices at once. “Stop that, or I’ll have to kiss you.”

“Kiss me then.”

“Not until you come in my hand like a good girl.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I breathe.

He slides the panties a little way down my thighs, then curls his fingers over my pussy again. First he simply rubs me, moving his hand back and forth, slowly at first, then faster, faster, impossibly fast. It’s a direct, brutal stimulation of my clit, and within seconds I’m right on the verge of coming. But he stops and plunges his hand deeper between my thighs, sinking two fingers inside me.

I shriek softly, jerking my wrists against the belt. He looks up, questioning, and I nod to let him know he can keep going. Again he thrusts with those fingers, but he ramps up to a speed that has me gasping tight little screams. Wet slapping sounds echo through the library as those two fingers thrust into my cunt and the heel of his hand beats against my clit, over and over.

I come with a gush of ecstasy, my pussy spasming against his palm. I’m helpless to the pleasure, and yet I feel the same rush of liberated euphoria that I experienced last time.

The King grips me tightly between the legs, cupping my pussy firmly while I tremble in his hand.

When the pleasure ebbs, he pulls his fingers out with a sucking squelch, then runs his thick thumb over my sensitive clit. I whimper and jerk, and he pats my wet pussy with a chuckle.

“Keep that pretty cunt open for me,” he says, and I spread my thighs wider as he takes out his cock. He’s hard again, which surprises me. Lowering himself slightly, he angles his cock and pushes it up into the slick warmth of my body. A moan of relief issues from him as he sheathes himself to the hilt.

He fucks me against the bookshelves with such force that they tremble, even though they’re huge, heavy pieces of furniture. But they hold up to his passionate frenzy better than I do—I come again almost immediately, sobbing and panting with the exquisite bliss of the release.

Bound with my hands above my head, with a King braced against me, rutting into my body with ferocious desperation, I realize with stunned joy that I feel happier than I have ever been.

And immediately a crushing despair descends on my soul, because I can’t imagine feeling this way again, with anyone else. I can’t picture a future where the King wants me for more than a distraction or a dalliance. From the rumors I’ve heard, his mistresses never last more than a couple of months at most—usually less.

I close my eyes and focus on the crash of his body against mine, the fullness of his cock inside me, the throbbing heat as he comes. I will enjoy what’s happening now . I refuse to let the future steal the bliss of this moment.

He goes still, panting, his cock twitching once more, deep in my body. Then he growls, “Fuck it,” and kisses me.

A storm of fervent emotion explodes through my chest at the contact. He’s shaking as we kiss, his grip locked on the bookshelves, his arms rigid and straining. His lips feel wet, not smooth, and I taste salt. Is he crying? I can’t tell when I open my eyes—we’re both in shadow between the bookshelves.

The kiss is a thunderburst, intense and fervent, over as quickly as it began. He’s breathing harshly, and I can’t tell whether the emotion he’s feeling is from the kiss or something else.

When he drags his cock out of me, his cum runs down my leg.

For a moment he leaves me there while he turns his back and composes himself. Then he removes the belt from my wrists and puts it back on, while I straighten my clothes.

“Do you have to run off again?” he asks. “Or can you stay a while?”

Since my father’s pocket watch is glamoured, I can’t use it to check the time. I step out from between the bookshelves and look for the grandfather clock that alerted me last night. It’s nearly eleven.

“I have some time.” I wonder if I should wait to make my request, but since there’s only an hour left, I decided to plunge in. “If Your Majesty would indulge a girl’s curiosity—I’ve heard that this library contains books about Faerie magic. Your son mentioned that the two of you like to study other realms, and I was wondering if I might look at a few of the books? The subject fascinates me.”

“Books on Faerie magic?” he repeats.

“Yes, in the hidden vault.” I wince. “I know it’s silly of me to ask—you probably can’t show those books to common visitors—”

“You’re anything but a common visitor. Close your eyes and wait here, please.”

I shut my eyes, scarcely daring to hope that it could be this easy, that he would give up the secret so readily. I listen to him pacing first in one direction, then another. There’s a swish of heavy drapery, then a faint grinding sound, like something heavy sliding back.

“Come and view the secret vault,” he calls.

Opening my eyes, I hurry toward the sound of his voice.

He’s standing between two of the reading alcoves. What looked like a wall between them is now a doorway leading into a small yet cozy room, with bookshelves of gleaming yellow oak. On the floor lie three huge white cushions in which someone could nestle while reading. A small chandelier with frosted glass hangs overhead, white antlers branching from it toward the ceiling.

I step inside, afraid to breathe lest it disappear. “This is the vault? Are there any books about breaking spells?”

“To be honest, I haven’t spent much time in here.”

“But the Prince said you like to study the realms.”

“Well, yes… but I haven’t read many of the books on Faerie magic,” he explains. “My specialty is mostly volumes on cosmic philosophy. But we can look for some books about spellcraft. Is there a particular kind of spell you need to break?”

I want to tell him everything. The words flow to the tip of my tongue, but when I part my lips to speak them, the anklet grows hot as a warning. The King didn’t seem to notice my anklet last night or tonight, and I’m not about to draw his attention to the fact that I’m wearing an object of malevolent magic.

“I have a friend in need of help,” I say. “I’m sorry, I can’t explain more than that.”

“Hm.” He looks pensive. “We have no palace sorcerer whose services I can offer.”

“I know. A little information will be enough. Thank you.”

As I move to enter the vault, he bars my way with his arm, his expression sober. “You wanted this all along. Access to this room.”

“Yes,” I admit.

“And you thought, by getting close to me, the path would be cleared for you to enter it.”

I pucker my lips, trying to think of a lie, but I swerve back to honesty again. “I did think that, yes. But believe me—I would have fucked you even if there was no such vault. You’ve made me feel more liberated and more alive these two nights than I’ve felt in seventeen years.”

He tilts his head. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“There’s quite a gap between our ages.”

“I don’t care.” Impulsively I take his hand and kiss his knuckles. There’s a haunted hurt in his eyes, and I desperately want to erase it. “Please believe that I didn’t do this just to see the vault. In fact, if I weren’t trying to help someone, I would walk right out of here and prove to you that my interest was—and is—sincere.”

“I will forgive you for this,” he says, “if you will promise to forgive me for something.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“A future sin.”

I frown. “That’s cryptic.”

“So are you.” The corner of his perfect lips twitches upward, and he sweeps his arm toward the vault in a welcoming gesture. “Come, let us search together for books about breaking spells.”