by A. K. Koonce
All black attire makes him look like the cruel king I had heard all about. The only bits of color on him are the shining gold cufflinks and the remarkably ironed pocket square, equally as expensive-looking as the cufflinks. His shirt is just unbuttoned enough to show off his chest. At this point I’m not sure if I’ve seen him with his shirt entirely buttoned. Not that I want to complain about it.
Rough stubble-covered cheeks are now smooth and clean shaven. The long strands of his brown hair are neatly brushed underneath the crown that seems to thrum with a life of its own.
He so rarely wears it. But tonight, he seems to want to appear like the perfect package.
I swallow hard as I realize he does.
Dammit.
“So.” I begin looking over the white linen tablecloth covered in only enough dishes for the two of us. A vase with white flowers sits centered between us. “This is . . .” I pause, struggling to find the right word. “Lavish.”
“Can you not tell that I’m wooing you?” His finger ticks against the glass as if my confusion irritates him.
My lips part and then close again.
Part of me views the thought with disdain; however, that part of me does not control the blood that rushes to my face in an apparent blush. I let out a huff of air that sounds more like a laugh.
“I did not think that kings needed to woo their brides. Isn’t that why you have arranged marriages and the fancy title? Is my father’s money not enough for you? You’ve seen that I have little power to persuade him for more.”
His broad shoulders rise and fall in a slow shrug. “You know, I said the very same thing once. But maybe I want a love as rich as my parents had. Kill me.”
A snide smile sneaks over my features, telling him that if given the opportunity, I might consider his untimely death. It isn’t really true, but sometimes it’s more fun to play as if it is.
“Would you like to eat?” Bear offers kindly.
“That is why I’m here. For wooing and food and such.” Touching my palms to the soft table cloth, I lean back in the chair, admiring the beauty of the room. It feels like a dream. It feels like what I thought was going to happen when I wanted to marry him. My gut turns like someone is twisting a knife in it.
Bear lifts his hand before snapping his fingers. Two servers appear promptly with trays. I can hardly look at the food, not when Bear is looking at me like I’m the one he’s about to devour.
“This is lovely,” I manage to say. My fingers find a strand of blue hair to twist as I wait for our plates to be served.
“You’re lovely,” he says.
Oh. Okay.
“I’m glad you like it.” His tone is warm and low and something I want to dive into and never come up for air from.
Tearing away from the heat of his attention, I pick up the fork to play with the food on my plate. It looks great and smells even better, but I just can’t bring myself to eat it yet.
“You know,” he says, lifting his own utensil and pointing it at his plate as he speaks, “we should probably go on a public outing soon. With the engagement party being ruined in such a way, the people need to see us together again. Happily.”
Ohhh. Okay. That’s more like the Bear I know.
“And are we?” I can’t withhold the surprise in my voice. I thought he wanted to woo me, not continue to play make believe and fool the entire kingdom into thinking we are happy as can be.
“Are we?”
“Are we happy?” The repeated question hangs in the air heavily.
Bear’s hand stills, his fork holding a tender piece of meat slathered in butter and herbs. His lips purse together as though he had said the wrong thing, and he has finally realized it.
“We will be happy.” He waves his hand toward the room. “Wooing is happening. Is it not? Do you not feel the wooing?” A crooked smirk pulls at his lips.
“I think you may need to woo a little harder.” I nod my head.
“Oh, I can go harder,” he rasps in such a way that my mind drills to only one thing. But he keeps on going in a more lighthearted tone. “What if I just say the word ‘woo’ more? Is that working for you?” He arches a manicured eyebrow.
“You would have to say it with such conviction, as if the word itself could grant you all the love in the world.” I poke my fork at him before shoving a few green beans in my mouth and chewing hastily.
Bear holds up one finger. It is meant as a joke, but he scoots himself until he is next to me instead of in front of me. I try not to choke on my green beans as he tilts his head down to look at me with full eyes.
Fuck, the wooing is working. He said it one too many times, and my ovaries can’t handle the wooing in such full force, it seems.
My fork clatters against my plate. I turn toward him to give him my full attention. He swoops my hand up and intertwines our fingers. His soft full lips brush against the back of my hand, sending a shooting tingle straight through my body. With the other hand, he runs his fingers through my hair, watching me like I’m his prey who’s offered herself up for sacrifice.
He leans close to me, nuzzling his face into my neck. He draws a sinfully hot line up my throat with his nose, and I feel it everywhere. It’s the slightest brush of his skin against mine, and it’s making me crazy. His hot breath meets my ear. And then he whispers on a dark voice, “Woo.”
My heart continues to pound as my eyes slowly open. A small smile tilts my lips.
He really does say it with so much sincerity. The word effortlessly tumbles from his lips like it already means love and not the act of falling in love. Bear rewrites the meaning with the seductive rasp of his deep voice.
For a heartbeat I can’t move. Not that I’m sure I even want to. His palm finds my neck, and he tilts my head to him. The smile no longer clings to his mouth. His eyes don’t shine with humor. Desire shines there. His lips are so close to mine, I expect him to lean in and press a small kiss to my parted mouth.
Bear blinks slowly, looking me up, then down, in one cool and relaxed move. “You don’t want to be kissed,” he finally says.
Yes. I do. The thought jumps out in my mind quickly, but I don’t say that. Instead, I make a show of leaning away from him in my chair, pressing my palms into the table, and looking up to the ceiling in thought.
“It’s hard to forget yesterday, Bear.” I hate that I just said that, and I hate myself even more for not saying it sooner.
Sparkles of burnt caramel gleam in his eyes. Hurt shines in them, too. But somehow, his face remains relaxed, almost boyish and charming. The corner of his crooked smile grows just enough to show he doesn’t care if I don’t want to kiss him. That any other girl he could ask would happily do so.
Aisha comes to mind. The image of her beautiful face leaves a sour taste on my tongue. Aisha and Bear would be a beautiful couple together. She would do everything he ever asked. They would make gorgeous, spoiled little children.
But he is mine, my soul snarls.
“Kings kill for much smaller things than I do. The guillotine drops more freely and often for acts that cause even the slightest displeasure.” He takes my hand back, running his calloused fingers over my skin in small playful lines.
“But.” He stops his taunting touch. “I do not wish to displease you.”
“Perhaps you will consider showing mercy where it is deserved. Maybe don’t fire and kill so flippantly.” Gently, I pull away from him.
“Perhaps.”
Everything inside of me says he is laying it on thick. His indifference is just an act to butter me up until his next act of cruelty. But that one small piece of me wants to throw myself into his arms and let him kiss me into tomorrow.
I return to my meal, letting him watch me as I take small bites of everything offered. It’s incredibly hard to ignore a powerful king. Especially one as handsome as Bear.
But damn, am I good at it.
Bear makes no moves to reach for his food. Instead, his strong arm is strung over the back of my
seat while he takes slow sips from his wine.
Together, we finish dinner with meaningless conversation. Bear stays near to my side for the entirety of the courses.
He said he’d show mercy.
And I believe him. The word of a king is a powerful thing.
The promise of a mate, that’s soul binding.
Nine
A Calming Storm
Bear
Her curious gaze looks almost devilish today. Everything about her glows when she’s before her people. She plays her part well. The doting, loving queen to be. Every chance she gets, she leans into me, making me drunk on her scent.
Why does she always smell so good? She smells like coconut and ocean breeze among so much ash and decay. I want to bottle it up and bathe in it.
Dainty and slim, her fingers curl around my bicep, and she glances up at me with a smile as a young boy runs to his mother with his hair wet and tousled from a touch of her water magic. He’s pointing at it, wide-eyed and amazed by her small favor of magic.
They all are.
There’s a little crowd in our courtyard today. The public, sick and dying, scared and fretting, needed to see that the two of us are on our way to ending their curse. And it is their curse. Magic keeps me and my grounds safe. Not all fae are born with magic. Many aren’t. As far as I know, I’m the only king who makes deals with witches, too.
Maybe that’s stupidity or maybe it’s just desperation to help a crumbling city.
As the gates opened this morning, anyone who hadn’t yet fled the city had rushed in, eager to lay eyes on their new princess. Many in the crowd bowed low for their king. To many, I am more than just the Cursed King. I am the king that rid them of my tyrant father, whose only want was to be rid of them and all the downfall the cursed kingdom had brought him. I am the king who brought order to the country when we were on the verge of a civil war.
Much to my surprise, though, a few citizens remain standing while their neighbors shout. “King Iri, Son of Doverrett.” Even as I raise my gloved hand in greeting, I can see them mouth “Cursed King” to each other.
I dip my head in greeting, bowing to the people that allow me to stay on my throne, to try to resolve what’s been broken. One reason why Syren Stormson is so important to my kingdom is that she has a way with the public. She easily sways their love.
And I happen to be losing their love.
My heart constricts even as the thought passes through my mind. Syren Stormson is important to the kingdom, but she is more important to me. Her quick lashing tongue equally balances out her smooth political behavior. She may hate her father and have more interests than sewing, but Syren knows how to act like a princess when it’s needed.
Some piece of my worn, calloused heart needs a piece of her unforgiving, tattered love. Even when she won't admit it, I know she feels the calling of our souls. I hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, either. I hadn’t wanted to give the curse and our fated mating that much weight. Not when all my engagements before had failed.
Many children, like the boy who laughs and points back at us, bring small glasses or buckets of water, begging the princess to show them what she can do with her foreign magic. Syren plays along.
She always plays along.
I wish I could make it more real for her. Make it as real for her as it has become for me. All she does is act now. She acts like she loves and wants to marry me for the happiness of the people.
I don’t act thought. Not when I slip my arm around her waist and pull her close to me. Not even when I press a kiss against her cheek. My body heats up just being near her. Because I want to surround her.
A young girl pushes her way through the crowd. Stringy strands of ice-blond hair, muddled with dirt, hang down over her ash-smudged cheeks.
“Princess!” she shrieks, throwing her tiny body through a small crack in the crowd. Water sloshes out of the cracking cup in her grasp.
Behind the girl, a man’s face bobs in and out of view as he tries to keep up with her. His face is strained with worry and something else. Something angry.
The girl flattens herself against Syren in a frantic hug. Water from the glass sloshes over the brim, leaving a large circle of water against the orange dress hugging Syren’s slim frame. Anger spikes through me at the careless act. I feel my smile falter, and my shoulders go stiff.
Syren hugs the child back, laughing at the spot on her dress. With a simple wave of her hand, the water evaporates, leaving the gown spotless once more.
My lips part as I watch her, the annoyance in me draining fast as I see her easy smile. She’s . . . effortlessly perfect.
“Hello, darling, what’s your name?” Syren strokes the child's dirt-covered face.
The girl doesn’t get to respond. Not as her— I assume—father barrels forward. “Vixen. You can’t run away like that.” He turns his attention from the child to Syren with an unashamed scowl. “I apologize. We were not planning on attending this . . . outing. But the neighbor kids told her of it, and she darted out the door and ran here so fast, I barely caught up.”
“Papa,” She tugs at his sleeve. “I want to show her what I can do.”
“You want to show me something?” Syren gasps with a large smile. The skirt of her dress fans out around her as she lowers herself to the child's height. “What can you do?”
The father rolls his eyes, his face pale with the exception of two feverish spots of red on his cheeks. Below his unenthused glare, the girl waves her hand over the glass. A tiny wave lifts up from the water and breaks against the rim of her cup.
“My child,” Syren exclaims proudly. “You have been blessed by Goddess Nature.”
The girl shines with pride, her tiny cheeks burning with a blush instead of the angry flush her father wears. Her smile is short-lived though, as her father roughly snatches up her wrist and yanks her back.
“Let’s go.” He growls through clenched teeth. He turns only slightly away, ignoring the pleading protests of his daughter, and holds eye contact with Syren. He talks loud enough that the words reach the people surrounding him, but they don’t go much farther. “I’m surprised the princess is even here. Word travels around the kingdom. She’s been out galivanting through the city, enjoying the king’s guard and anyone else who will notice her. Bloody, disgrace to this land. Can’t keep her hands off a man in uniform, I hear, and now she wishes you to praise Goddess Nature instead of Goddess Celeste.”
Men, women, and children alike look his way as he talks, their faces in various stages of confusion, shock, and curiosity. His daughter looks back longingly at Syren.
I don’t look at her at all. I can’t look at her when all I see is fiery red. One minute I’m standing with the warmth of Syren’s body next to mine. In the next, my fingers dig into flesh.
The man drops his daughter’s hand as I lift him by his neck up into the air. His nails rake against the back of my hands. His legs kick to gain some sort of purchase against the ground that is no longer underneath him.
“Excuse me? What did you say about my mate? I couldn’t quite hear you.” My jaw is so tight, it hardly allows for the words to escape.
His daughter cries out next us, her cup dropping to the ground and shattering. “Daddy! Daddy!” She shrieks, tugging at his pant leg. Her efforts are pointless, though.
There is little room for sorrow in my mind when all I feel is anger. What is this man suggesting? That these trips Syren takes to see and learn about her new home are something more? That she’s a trollop and fools around with my guard?
Before Syren had ever set foot on Northern Kingdom soil as my soon-to-be wife, I had heard of her reputation. Gossip travels through all four of our kingdoms, and the rumor that the princess in the Southern Kingdom enjoyed men hadn’t missed me. It had ruined me. It had scared me and added to the fear that she would be an uncontrollable entity in my already crumbling kingdom.
Syren isn’t a harlot, though. She may have enjoyed her men there, but she hasn’
t had anyone else here. I would have felt it dirty the bond that connects us. The bond she refuses to acknowledge.
The man tries to say something. A gurgling noise being his only response as I tighten my grip on his throat. I can feel his body lengthen under my hand as gravity drags him down while I lift him higher.
First a hand grips the lapel of my jacket, then Syren’s face comes into view. She steps inside the square of my arms, between me and the dangling man.
“Put him down, Bear,” she says gently, placing both palms against my chest.
I glance down to her, then send a seething glance at the man. “Did you not hear what he said? What he suggested?”
“I heard him.”
How she remains calm when everything inside of me wants to riot is beyond me. Her heart beats frantically inside her chest. I can hear it. Every inch of her is collected, patient to those around her, though.
“I can’t let you be slandered like that. You will be queen, and you will be treated like it.”
Her grip on my jacket tightens, her knuckles turning a ghostly shade of white. The man’s movements slow as a strangled moan parts his lips. His daughter screams below him.
“Bear,” Syren says quickly, her words a rapid tumble of mirrored fear. “Some men deserve kindness and the charity of your blessing. People cannot love you when they fear you.”
Her face isn’t soft or kind or shrouded with fake love. She’s fierce. Her words repeat inside my head. The words of my dying mother to my spiraling father. There is no place for love and loyalty when all the people feel is fear.
Somehow, I’m turning into my father. My stomach clenches like I’ve been hit with a punch. I’m not the ruler of the Northern Kingdom any longer, but the vengeful son of a heinous king. My arm goes slack and the man falls gasping to the ground. His child clinging to him with tear-streaked cheeks.
When I look at my hands, all I see is the memory of blood. Warm and slick red pools in my palms. Before me, my father, his hair clinging to his face from where I had held his head between my hands so he couldn’t look anywhere but at my face, holds his slit throat.