Page 12 of Fey Sovereignty (Fey Lords #4)

Chapter twelve

S oft morning sunlight is creeping through my eyelids and coaxing me to wake up. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The curtains are wide open, and I’m alone in the bed.

My heart thumps and I jolt upright. My arm reaches out and pats the empty space beside me as if I think Llywelyn is still here, just somehow turned invisible.

Unsurprisingly, my hand finds nothing. Only crumpled sheets. Where is he? It is not like me to sleep so deeply that someone can move around without me waking. He would have had to have been so quiet and careful when leaving the bed for me not to realise. Why would he bother?

My heart rate increases. Last time I saw him, he was upset. Vulnerable. Shaking from a nightmare. A terrifying, screaming nightmare he experienced mere hours after bottoming for me because I’m a depraved monster who stupidly mistook his conditioning for invitation.

Last night he was trembling in my arms and telling me how he will only ever be able to love the person who groomed him.

I throw the covers off of me and jump out of bed. I’m running, but I have no idea where I’m going.

The door to his dressing room is slightly ajar, so I dart through the gap.

Llywelyn flinches and whirls to face me. He is completely naked and standing in front of a long rail of silk robes. His hands fly up and cover his chest. But not before I catch a glimpse .

Pale pink nipples. Almost pastel in shade. Generous and plump and begging to be licked. And crowning soft mounds that could almost be breasts. Not enough to fill even the tiniest of bra sizes, but definitely not flat either.

Llywelyn stares at me for a moment. Then he sighs and lowers his hands, allowing me to see him in all his naked glory. My cock swells as my eyes feast. He truly is beautiful.

Slender shoulders. A slight curve to his hips, and his almost-breasts. The width of his chest is masculine. His cock is small and pretty, but definitely a cock. His golden hair, still slightly damp from his bath, is short for a fey but longer than most British men wear theirs. Put all together, to my eyes, he looks androgynous in a way that is lighting up my brain. I have always had a thing for fem boys.

Why doesn’t he show his body off more? The cut of the clothes he usually wears is very masculine in the fey style. My gaze lingers on his narrow shoulders. He must also use shoulder pads to disguise his natural shape. But I really don’t understand why he doesn’t flaunt and make use of his gorgeous body. The fey really don’t strike me as the type to have a problem with androgeny.

Llywelyn carefully picks up a robe and starts wrapping himself in it. I can’t tear my eyes away. His pale creamy body being covered up is a travesty.

He keeps his gaze on the floor while tying his sash. “There was a line of omegas amongst the fey, thousands of years ago,” Llywelyn says softly.

“What’s an omega?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I’m too distracted to care.

“Males who can bear children.”

His words rattle around my head for a moment. Then my mind makes sense of them. Oh my god! What the fuck did he just say? Shit! We didn’t use protection! I gasp and take a step back .

Llywelyn lets out a low, rueful chuckle. “Do not fret. The last true omega was generations ago. But sometimes flukes happen and males are born with traits.”

He hangs his head and continues to slowly dress. Fey clothing has a stupid amount of layers, but right now I am grateful for every single one of them, and the time that they take.

I watch his body language. If he was human, I’d be one hundred per cent convinced I was observing shame.

I swallow thickly. I’m beginning to suspect that the fey aren’t so very different from humans, and that I’ve been a dickhead for refusing to acknowledge it.

“Is it a shameful thing?” I ask quietly.

Llywelyn shrugs, a sad, miserable gesture. And he is still avoiding eye contact.

“Do many people have these traits?” I try again.

“I don’t know,” he answers dryly. “It is not talked about.”

Okay, so that pretty clearly screams shameful to me. Is this why no one likes him and he doesn’t have any friends? I mean, he is an obnoxious asshole, but I’m not sure his behaviour and attitude is worse than what is expected of a fey prince. It annoys the hell out of me, but perhaps all princes do?

“Do people know you have these traits?” I ask.

He shakes his head, sending his golden hair into fluttering motion. “No, not even my brothers know.”

My eyebrows rise. Well, there goes that theory. This thing he is embarrassed about is not affecting his social standing.

I watch him as he carefully ties the laces on his voluminous sleeve. I really think I’m starting to understand why he is such a jerk. He feels other and wrong, different from everyone else. And he was fucking groomed and abused by some vile piece of shit who still has claws in him.

“Excuse me,” says Llywelyn. “Rhydian will be here soon to berate me. ”

Wordlessly, I step aside. He brushes past me and I follow him out. Okay, from now on I’m going to try to treat him with a little more grace. It is the least I can do, especially after what I did to him last night.

He walks across the bedchamber, his back straightening with each step. His shoulders settle into a confident line, aided by the shoulder pads I now know are there. I glance up at his golden hair, and my heart skips a beat. His antlers are there. Looking majestic. They weren’t there a moment ago, when he was naked in the dressing room.

Llywelyn flings open the door to his sitting room and strides in. I’m only a little surprised to see that Rhydian is already here. This time, he is accompanied only by Dyfri.

The dark-haired prince is leaning over the table and peering at Llywelyn’s discarded red-stained robes that have been spread out on the tabletop. He sprinkles a green powder on the stain and then watches intently as a soft hazy smoke rises from the substance.

“Poison,” he states. “From several different mushrooms.”

Llywelyn nods sharply, as if satisfied. “I told you!”

Wait. When did he tell his brothers anything? My mind frantically scrambles over the timeline of events. Hmm, he could have sent a note either when I was in the shower last night or this morning while I was sleeping.

“Who was the target?” asks Rhydian.

Llywelyn pouts and crosses his arms over his chest. “How am I supposed to know?”

Rhydian’s topaz coloured eyes narrow and the princes glare at each other. Dyfri observes them with a vaguely amused smile on his face.

Eventually, Rhydian breaks the tense silence. “The servant used to be part of the alltudid’s household.”

Tension stiffens Llywelyn’s posture. A minute amount. I can only see it because I’m highly trained and I’m getting to know him well .

He shrugs elegantly, and it is a good move to hide the unease written in the lines of his shoulders.

“I doubt even he can pull strings from banishment,”

Rhydian gives him a long, probing, searching look. One that not even I can fully interpret.

“Do you mean me harm, Brother?” he says softly.

Llywelyn flinches, then he bristles. “I killed a would-be poisoner of an unknown target! How do you twist that in your mind to mean that I intend you harm?”

Because Rhydian is no idiot. He is considering the same things that I did last night. Stopping the attempt doesn’t mean Llywelyn was not involved. It could even be a ploy to win Rhydian’s trust.

It is not at all surprising that Rhydian is suspicious of his brother. The man has a brain.

The confirmation of Rhydian’s intelligence changes nothing. Whatever plans we come up with, were always going to have to factor in Rhydian’s mistrust.

The Crown Prince continues to stare at his brother with a stern, imposing look. I can imagine him lowering his head and charging with his antlers.

“Do you mean me any harm, Brother?” he repeats. Enunciating each word precisely, as if it is some kind of ritual.

Llywelyn sighs heavily and dramatically. “No, of course not.”

Rhydian blinks as if surprised. One of Dyfri’s eyebrows rise. That’s interesting. They were both taken aback by Llywelyn’s answer. Even if they were convinced of his ill intent, surely they would not expect him to just suddenly confess all?

Abruptly, Rhydian nods, turns on his heels and sweeps out of the room. Dyfri follows behind him, pausing very briefly at the door to cast one quick glance over his shoulder.

As soon as they are gone, Llywelyn huffs out a sigh of relief and collapses onto a chair by the table. Tae rushes in with a laden silver serving trolley. He snatches up the poison soaked robes and swiftly begins setting the table with breakfast .

I sit down next to Llywelyn. “That’s it? No repercussions for murdering someone? No trial?”

Llywelyn lifts his golden eyes to look at me. His brow is furrowed, as if he thinks I’m crazy.

I exhale and pick up something that looks like a blueberry muffin from the plate of them that Tae just placed on the table. It seems if you are a fey prince you get to kill people. I’ll just have to console myself that he did have a reason, and it was verified before he was let off scot-free. It is not something I should be sulking about, especially since it makes my life a whole lot easier.

“Why did he ask you directly like that?” I ask. Time to stick to business. This is the stuff I need to know. The issues I should be focussing on.

Llywelyn pours himself a cup of tea. “He used magic and put power behind the words. A compulsion to speak the truth.”

I nearly choke on my muffin. “How did you resist?”

“I didn’t. I spoke the truth,” he says calmly before taking a sip of his tea.

I scowl. “Explain!”

Llywelyn’s golden eyes narrow, but he places his teacup down and takes in a breath.

“Rhydian hates being the crown prince. He’d be much happier exiled. He’d find peace living in the woods with his consort. Pursuing whatever hobbies he discovers once he has the time for them.”

That’s…that’s a very idealistic picture Llywelyn is painting. Is he delusional about this? Is this really what he tells himself in order to ease his conscience?

“I’m shallow and vain and narcissistic,” states Llywelyn. “I will love all the fawning. The curtsying and bowing. The favours and attention. Whereas Rhydian finds no joy in any of those things. To him, they are simply another burden to bear.”

Llywelyn takes a breath .

“He hates everything about being the crown prince, but he suffers it stoically out of a sense of duty.”

Llywelyn picks up his teacup.

“So I spoke the truth. I do not mean him any harm. We will both be happier once I am crown prince.”

I’m lost for words, I really am. I don’t even know what expression is on my face.

Llywelyn looks at me. “I will relish the attention and the glory. I want the glory,” he insists.

I give a vague nod, and it seems to assure him that he has convinced me. He turns his attention to his breakfast. Dismissing my presence utterly, as only someone used to being constantly waited on hand and foot is capable of.

I sit quietly and watch him. I understand him now. Better than he knows himself. He doesn’t want glory. Or flattery and favours and shallow attention.

He is desperate to be included and seen. He is craving a sense of belonging. He is longing for a chance to prove himself worthy.

Llywelyn doesn’t want power.

He just wants to be loved.