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16

ALMOST MINE

Ryther

I take to the shadows silently, entering through a side door, and not making my presence known as I remain near a column, provided with wine and entertainment, but of course, they find me. I never have to make a spectacle of myself to be sought out.

My circle is small, but powerful. The lord of flies and powrie king, Grimgol, and his lover Beagan, a selkie boy with more blood on his hands than our fourth companion, whose red cap is still wet. They are the most trusted amongst the unseelie lords, as only a fool would place his coin on the guild ruling the mortal court of silver, the solitary fae at the head of the court of night, or worse yet, Junis, lord of winter.

We devise our own entertainment while waiting for my little queenspawn. Beagan gives three names assembled here, and we have to decide who we'd bed, court, or drown. I've never been one for drowning—far too messy for those of us who don't happen to transform into bloodthirsty horses—but Beagan lets us substitute that one for straight murder.

"Loch, Caenan, and the mortal girl they're standing with."

"Rachel," I supply. "And I'd drown that one." I don't hesitate. "I'd bed Loch and wedCaenan."

"You raised the boy; it's a little like wedding yourself." Grimgol snorts. "I'd bed the mortal, kill Loch, and wedCaenan, too."

"Boring," Beagan announces. "That's the logical course. No one hasn't been tempted to murder Loch at one point or another, and mortals are made to be bedded. Caenan is so very dull, he'd make the most suitable bride. I say kill him, marry the human, and bed Loch. There."

He seems proud of that chaos, though the very notion makes me grimace. "If that's my option, be kind and simply murder me instead."

It has been some time since I have played. Decades. Centuries. Usually, I ignore their antics; joining in is out of character.

The more I notice the differences in me, the more uneasy I am. I'm like a child, long denied anything fun and suddenly allowed into the party. The thing inside me still has much influence, though for now, its anger directed at my mate seems sated. My cock twitches in my pants, remembering just what it took for me to stop wanting to strangle Darina.

"I say we've wasted enough time avoiding the subject, my king," Grimgol announces grouchily. "Tell us where we're at with that queenspawn of yours. Will she be problematic?"

"Likely. Aren't all women?"

I am surrounded by men, so we laugh.

"She's very fond of keeping her head on her neck, is all. Claiming the crown is the only way she'll stay safe. Once in power, well… She's open to being guided for now."

What she'll be like in a hundred years, who knows.

"Guided by us?" the redcap pushes.

"I said she wanted to keep her head on her shoulders, Foxwell. Favoring one side is a sure way of guaranteeing it doesn't remain there for long."

He sighs wistfully, likely at the thought of removing heads. "And we wish to let her keep it that way?"

"For my part, yes," I state hesitantly.

I ought to tell them she’s mine. They've likely spotted its mark on my skin, too polite to push, but they'll see soon enough who bears the matching claim. Speaking of it feels awkward. They'll ask questions, and I was honest when I told Darina it doesn't please me that she never had a say in the bond. Just like she never had a say in accepting the All inside her. As her mate, I allowed it, and so it was done, because while she was unconscious, I was the authority allowed to make that choice.

Do I have a mate if she’s never claimed me back? A question for the ages.

Still, it can't be wise to leave my allies in the dark.But saying anything becomes unnecessary. She enters, clad in one of Morrigan's best battle gowns, a mixture of fabric and armor, silver plates upon her bust and high collar, dark leather and velvet panels following the length of her body, but Mor was never shy, so it's open in various slits that reveal glimpses of her legs, or flashes of her arms through the open, flying sleeves. That nixie walks by her side, drawing all eyes, as her kind as well known devour of flesh; I’m grateful it’s here, giving pause to anyone tempted to take a bite out of my queen.

She's regal and beautiful, and despite everything, all mine , as the shifting mark running along her neck and left arm states.

The eyes of my circle fall on me, finding my brand, in the exact same spot.

I can't help it. I smirk as they gawk.

"Well, that's that. Long live the queen," Foxwell grunts under his breath, somewhat bitterly.

He would have quite liked to make war. It's not in the nature of the court of blood to do well in times of peace.

"Don't despair. There might be bloodshed yet," I say, watching Darina's progress through the parting crowds.

That seems to cheer him up.

Very few gazes are friendly. They probe and sneer and frown.

I make myself attempt to scan her mind, and am gratified to hit the strong, many faced shield I’ve been stopped by every time I tried since that day in the heart of the Hollow. She’s protected from me, which likely means she’s safe from every mind here.

Still, I miss her endless mental tattle. Her vulnerability. Her weakness.

When she reaches the queen's dais, Loch calls loud and clear over all the chatter,“Darina of House Harthorn, high queen to the folk.”

“Not yet ,” someone sneers.

The crowd turns to single out Valmort, who has the gall to advance to the steps of the dais.

The nixie growl. Darina’s hand slides through her fur, calming her with a touch.

“Soon enough.” Loch shrugs indifferently. “You’ve all made vows to the crown. You may fulfill them now or be considered a traitor and stripped of your power over your court, which shall be given to loyal subjects.”

“You don’t have that power!” he screams, practically spitting at him.

“Don’t I?” Darina asks him directly, that voice of her sickly sweet and oh so delightful as her shifting eyes settle on the bone king.

She moves to stand right in front of him, reaching his height thanks to the three steps leading up to the dais.

“You’re Valdred’s father, are you not? He favors you in looks, at least."

The lord narrows his eyes, not sure how to address her now that she's talking to him directly.

"One who sends his own child into a fighting pit, leaving him to rot for centuries," she continues, calm and serene in the silence. " Kneel ."

The order is but a whisper, soft and quiet.

Immediately, Valmort is propelled to both of his knees, bones crashing against the stone floor.

"Remove that circlet atop your head. It’s no longer yours. You will consider your son your lord and master from this moment on," the high queen dictates. Then, she turns, bored.

As if nothing happened at all, she smiles and takes the wine Loch hands her after trying a sip. “You’re too kind.”

I watch from my column, several paces away, as we’ve discussed, pleased it was the bone king who challenged her first. He was always a prick.

She’s made an example out of him, and none will attack head on again. They realize she holds her mother’s power now, though none know the price it has cost her. Cost us .

It doesn’t mean they won’t attack. They'll simply find other means.

"You'll pardon me for saying so, my king, but I think I'm hard," Foxwell announces.

I snort.

That display of sheer power was the sexiest thing I've ever seen, and I will take pleasure in bending her over and taking her after this.

"Aren't we all."