Page 13 of The Maleficent Faerie
Fitzell walks over to me and checks each lock on my chains. “She is human, and with these bonds in place, she’s no threat to the King. Now come, Della—we have messages to send. You’re the swiftest, and I need you as one of my runners.”
“Yes, Captain.” Della heads for the tent flap, and I notice something I missed before. Her legs are unusually thin, jointed and furred like those of a doe. She must be a pureblooded descendant of the original Fae from the home realm.
Such dramatic physical differences used to be more common among the Fae, but over millennia, humans and Fae have grown more similar in appearance. I’ve heard that in Daenalla, Fae and humans actually interbreed. My mothers frown on interracial breeding between humans and Fae, since the offspring are sometimes born with weak magic or none at all. The Priests and Priestesses of Eonnula preach the same thing: that humans and Fae may fuck, but they may not have children together or bind themselves in marriage before the goddess. They say it is best for our two races to remain “partners, yet apart.”
Something about that doctrine has never settled well with me.
Fitzell holds the tent flap for the other two knights, still eyeing me. “Have they given you water, Princess?”
“Yes.”
“The chains are a necessity. You’re more skilled at combat than we expected. I’ll send someone in shortly to check on you both.” With a curt nod, Fitzell leaves.
It almost sounded as if she was apologizing for chaining me up. Strange.
My attention swerves to the Void King, who is making a low, growly noise in his chest—a persistent discontented rumble. His horned head rocks from side to side on the pillow. Then he sits up suddenly, his wings shuddering. The feathers bristle into a fluffy black stormcloud.
This is why his tent is so huge, and why the furniture is so spread out. It’s to allow space for his wings.
I’m lucky my wings are smaller, more pliant, easier to manage. I can’t imagine having to deal with those enormous feathered appendages every day. And the four horns—they must make it difficult to sleep comfortably. Perhaps he’s used to them, or perhaps he glamours them away at night—which he can’t do now, since his magic is drained.
“It’s so hot,” he mutters. “So fucking hot.”
As bodyguard and friend to the Princess, I often end up playing the role of nurse or maid as well, even though she has servants. It’s easier and quicker, sometimes, for me to spot a need and take care of it, rather than calling a maid. The familiar compulsion rises in me as I watch the Void King scraping his sweaty hair back from his forehead with his claws. He’s miserable. He needs cool, damp cloths, and something to drink, and someone to fan him. Surely one of the Fae here could provide some air flow in this tent.
Not that I give a damn about my enemy’s comfort. It’s just that his fidgeting and restlessness annoy me.
“Don’t you have servants?” I ask.
He startles as if he’d forgotten my presence. “Shit. It’s you.”
“That’s right. I’m the helpless infant you cursed.”
“Helpless infant my rosy ass.”
My eyebrows rise. “Rosyass?”
“You heard me.” He stands up unsteadily, blinking as if his vision isn’t entirely clear. “By the Void, I’m burning alive.” He fumbles with the buckle of his belt for a moment before managing to unlatch it. Swearing under his breath, he drags the belt out of its loops.
Wait, is he—
Is he getting naked?
He unbuttons the leather pants—or rather, he tries to, and then with a ferocious series of mutteredfucks,he slashes off the buttons with his claws and forces the pants down. Thank the goddess he’s wearing undershorts.
“And good riddance to you,” he snarls at the pants, flinging them aside with such gusto he nearly knocks off one of the lanterns hanging from a tent post.
Then he grabs the waistband of the shorts and begins to slide them off his hips.
“Oh—oh no,” I protest. “I don’t think you want to do that. Why don’t you leave those on?”
He looks at me vaguely. “Why?”
“Because—um—” I survey his body—stone-white, exquisitely muscled, almost luminous with the sheen of sweat filming his skin. The mortal enemy of my people is fucking beautiful.
“Too hot for clothes,” he mutters, and the undershorts fall to the ground.
Long, muscular legs, pale as the rest of him—lean hips, swaying a little thanks to his delirium. And between his thighs hangs a thick, smooth column of flesh, tinged faintly pink. I’ve seen a number of decent dicks, but this one is impressive even in its flaccid state.
