by Rhea Watson
Wolfsbane addict—impossible. She couldn’t be… The woman I’d always imagined, who I had heard stories about all my life, was good. Strong. She wouldn’t succumb to something so petty. Cheeks hollow, I shot up, unable to listen to a second more of this, about to call Thompson back into the room when—
“Sit down, Katja.”
My knees buckled at the weight of his words, at the harsh rasp that would make grown men cry. He didn’t shout. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t curse or threaten. Didn’t level his wand at me. Just—ordered it. Issued a command that sent frost whispering across my skin, made the blood drain from my face. Numb, I slowly slouched back into the chair.
“Good girl,” Lloyd murmured, the threat lingering in his eyes, in the dangerous twist of his lips. “Now, to pay your mother’s arrears, to save her life from addiction and the debt hounds on her heels, I struck a bargain: my assistance for her thirdborn child.”
I blinked back at him, brain struggling to process all of it, never mind that. “W-what? Who are you—Rumpelstiltskin?”
Fae made deals like that, bartering tricks for children, but I’d never heard of a warlock doing it. And I…
I was the thirdborn.
She…
She wouldn’t.
She couldn’t have made that deal.
“Her debt necessitated the ultimate price, I’m afraid,” Lloyd mused, peering down his nose at me and tapping his wand against his palm. “She agreed. I saved her. Paid her debts, got her healthy. Wooed her. And then she ran off with your father… Went west and made a little family of her own.” His cheek twitched, and he glared down at his wand, wringing it like he was throttling someone’s throat instead. “Had two brats, then accidentally fell pregnant with you. And you were an accident, kitten.” His eyes snapped to mine, cruel and cold. “She had always dreamed of a large family, but she swore to me that she planned to sterilize herself when I came calling.”
“You’re a liar,” I hissed, ignoring the burn of unshed tears, unable to get anything out louder than a whisper. Lloyd pursed his thin lips, then tsked, tsked, tsked, like I was that little girl again.
“Oh, darling, no.” He then offered what he must have thought was a kind smile, but it only made the churn of my stomach more violent. I pressed against my belly, swallowing down a rush of bile, and Lloyd’s eyes glittered like he enjoyed the show. “Unfortunately for Mellony, she loved you before you were born. Refused to give you up… Rather a nasty way to perish, in childbirth. So rare for a witch to die of such a human cause, no?”
He settled back in his chair, his throne, and looked down on me like he had just won something. Meanwhile, my mind still couldn’t put two and two together, couldn’t process the information overload—couldn’t accept a damn thing.
But my heart knew.
My heart sensed a cruel honesty from the man before me, and accepting that sent another rush of bile flooding up my throat, my mouth breaking out in the pre-vomit sweats.
This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.
It wasn’t.
Dreams never hurt like this. Dreams were temporary. I always woke up. Always.
No waking from this nightmare.
“Your father refused to give you up,” Lloyd mused with a sneer and a shake of his head. “He wouldn’t honor the deal. So… I had to, uh, collect accordingly.”
I should have taken Dad at his word, but I wrote most of it off. Visceral as a jagged knife, the guilt stabbed into my heart now, twisting so I really knew it was there. I should have believed him. Everything. I should have—
“But that’s a story for another day.” Lloyd set his wand on the desk, then wove his hands together and leaned forward, all business again. “Now, kitten, back to my original question. Do you want to leave this place?”
I sucked in my cheeks, fighting the spike of adrenaline, the pinch of excitement, at the thought of walking out of Xargi Penitentiary. Of course I wanted out. I wasn’t a criminal. I didn’t belong here and I never would.
“Not with you,” I choked, tears battering at me with a vengeance. It hurt to say—hurt to deny freedom. But it wasn’t freedom. What Lloyd Guthrie intended to offer me, even if he hadn’t spelled it out in the exact terms, was still a prison, still a cage.
A gilded cage.
Never.
Xargi’s warden chuckled coolly, that incredulous expression suggesting he couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you sure? Prison is worse than my company? You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” Even if I hadn’t been able to dig up much dirt on a warlock who probably paid people to keep his skeletons buried deep, this little chat was enough to send me sprinting in the opposite direction.
“Your mother and I made a blood deal,” he stated, enunciating each word like he was trying to rein in his temper. “Contractually, you’re mine.” Another surge of sick, this time leaving a vomit-stamp at the back of my throat. Lloyd just sniffed again and fidgeted with his cuffs, the vision of a man unaccustomed to anyone denying him. “So, fine, put up a fight. Play the martyr. Suffer a little longer… You know, for perspective.”
I held up a hand, nausea making me hot, the room oppressive, Lloyd’s presence suffocating. “Stop—”
“We’ll have more of these little meetings,” he sneered, voice overpowering mine. “And I think you’ll find them very enlightening. After all, we’ve got four unspeakable tragedies to cover in your family. Augustus, Mellony, Jackson, and little Ewan… Not a banner couple of decades for the Fox coven, hey? And I’ve got all the gory details. So much to share, kitten. So many opportunities for you to learn what happens when you cross me.”
A storm of emotion cut through me like a riptide, anger and grief and heart-stopping fear threatening to drag me under for good. Couldn’t listen anymore. Couldn’t sit here—
I had anxiety-induced vomiting as a kid, but I thought I’d gotten over it, that dry-heaving in the processing cell on the first day was a one-time thing.
Apparently this hellhole drudged up all your baggage.
“But, come with me now,” Lloyd urged, finally standing, pressing his palms to his desk, searching out my eyes as they darted everywhere but him. “Come with me and I’ll spare you the specifics.”
Oh shit. I shook my head fiercely and gagged. No stopping it. Past the point of no return. Oh gods no, no, no, not now—
“You’re my property, Katja,” he carried on, once again either totally oblivious to the impact this had on me—or not caring in the slightest that I was about to spew half-digested bread all over his pristine hardwood. “I’m giving you the choice as a courtesy, but deep down you know… I’m sure you’ve known all your life, same as your pathetic father, that in your heart of hearts… you’ve always belonged to me.”
The levies broke.
And with a strangled sob, I flopped over the armrest and emptied my guts onto the floor.
11
Fintan
Well then, this was… new.
After centuries of rule-breaking and mischief, I’d finally received my comeuppance—Mother would be thrilled. Father, on the other hand, was very likely furious that a band of insignificant supernatural bounty hunters had kidnapped the last in line to his throne, Prince Fintan of the Midnight Court, Duke of Vega and Earl of the Lyra Constellation.
How they’d done it was beyond me.
Probably while I was out cold, drunk on bourbon and sex with that wily little nymph minx who had been, of course, nowhere to be found in the harsh light of day. Honestly, this hangover was more of a bitch than usual. Obviously they had dosed me when they’d slapped the cuffs on, then the collar. Seated at the center table in the middle of an empty cellblock, all by my lonesome, not a squabbling inmate or faux-macho guard in sight, I rubbed at the leather strap around my aching neck with a wince. It wasn’t the first time a collar had found its way around my throat, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this was different. This wasn’t for a night o
f scandalous kink—this was for real.
I seldom faced anything real these days. Given my lot in life, nothing really mattered—unless you were the heir apparent, aka my pompous older brother Rollo, who was probably shitting himself right now because Father must have sent him into the mortal realm to fetch me. Hundreds of years had crawled by doing as I pleased, when I pleased, and to whomever I pleased.
And now this.
Honestly—found guilty of making fae deals with mortals. If those fuckwits were stupid enough to deal with me, then that was their fault. I mean, surely, they listened to the legends: never hand over your name to one of the fair folk. Ever. It was so very simple. Yet six belligerent idiots at that Manhattan club had done so, brazenly, without a care for their futures, all because I’d asked. I hadn’t even been clever about it; my courtly entourage might have been sniggering over my shoulder the whole time, but acquiring those names hadn’t been my finest work—nowhere close. It had been… simple. Too simple. Boring.
Everything was so boring these days.
Except for that nymph. My, my, could she suck a cock—
The realization hit me like a mace to the temple.
Oh, for the love of all the stars in the galaxy…
That sneaky wench had been the bounty hunter. And I’d just let her into my suite. Shooed the royal guards away, my posse of sniveling courtiers liquored up and dead to the world in the adjoining room.
Well, served me right for being so fucking stupid, I suppose.
But, at the very least, my foolishness had finally—finally—livened things up a little. Sure, the walls were dreary in Xargi Penitentiary, the bed hard and the jumpsuit starchy. No one to serve me here, to wait on me, to cater to my every need, but hadn’t I secretly longed for the chance to stand on my own two feet?
Well. Thought about it, dismissed it, never shared that pathetic, whiny, childish desire with a soul. Not with my bedmates. Not my kin. Certainly not my parents. For my role, my life, had been set in stone from the second I popped out of my mother, and, tedious as that life had become, nothing could ever change it. It was written in the stars, or whatever nonsense they told the lesser fae of our court. We royals were destined for…
For…
Oh, fuck, I hadn’t a clue what I was destined for. Not the throne. Not an arranged marriage like my sisters, their station cementing political unity with allied kingdoms. Nothing.
Just… Prince Fintan, duke of some bullshit star and earl of a constellation no one gave two fucks about.
Huzzah.
I drummed my fingers on the metal tabletop, lips pursed, gaze jumping from one vacant cell to the next. The little rooms circled the common area of the block, smelling faintly of body odor and whatever cleaning chemicals the servants used on the toilets. Some had stronger scents. The dragon stood out, most impressive shifter of the lot, all brimstone and flame, and the demon’s cell smelled vaguely of death and rot and Hell’s ash.
Then that witch. Fiery red hair and sapphire marbles for eyes, so passionate in her defense of me, so valiant as she hurled herself into the fray—
I would bed her tonight. Guards or not, I would have her, bless her with all my sexual prowess. She deserved it, of course, for leaping to the aid of a prince.
And from the way she had studied me upon my arrival, unable to tear those marbles away, blushing whenever our eyes met, she would so thoroughly enjoy herself.
Mind you, this first time she would have to do most of the work. Possibly spend the entire time on top, riding me to her heart’s content. Pain dripped from my every pore, the unstylish collar severely diminishing my healing capacity. I’d never been in a fight before. I had started many in my time, but someone had always stepped in before my rival dealt the first blow: a palace guard, my private security, one of my siblings—even my courtiers were primed to interject, noble fae of prestigious birth getting their asses kicked, savagely in some cases, all for my smart mouth.
Today was one of many firsts. The most I had suffered in the past was a set of bruised knuckles from getting a few licks of my own in before someone dragged me away, like a royal was made of glass rather than stardust. My eldest brother had always been the true warrior. Rollo had legions under his command, thousands of warrior fae relentlessly devoted to him, ready to ascend to the kingdom’s elite fighters once he took my father’s throne. The brothers between us had some garrisons to their names too, but they had other specialties that made them valuable.
I had titles.
Names gifted to me by my father as if I truly were a war hero, when really, they were but a formality. I knew it. He knew it. The entire fucking court knew it; some even giggled when the court crier warbled them out. Father pursed his lips. Mother looked away. Rollo rolled his eyes. I drank.
But now I had real bruises. A busted lip. A bloody nose. A black eye.
Thrilling, really.
Next time, I might actually fight back—remind them of what I was, where we fae ranked in the supernatural order. Today, I’d sat back and let it all play out to get a read on my fellow detainees, to assess the hierarchy, to learn where loyalties lay within Cellblock C. Very telling, that fight.
My stomach roared suddenly, painfully empty and cawing for something greasy after drowning in bourbon last night. The rest of the jumpsuits had been escorted out for supper a good half hour ago; unless someone was coming back for me, my gut would have to go on bleating until breakfast. Apparently, starvation was penance for starting the fight—never mind that the demon had thrown the first punch.
I mean.
I had spurred him on.
Deimos—boring, just like all the others. So predictable. Insult their dick size and they were gone, so desperate to prove to their fallen angel overlord that they were worthy of the darkness he bestowed upon them. So determined to out-alpha the shifters all around them, the only true alpha in this place that dragon who had come to the witch’s aid.
Female demons were a little more difficult. No dick to insult, but I had a bag of tricks for them too.
Hopefully I’d get to use them in here—how fun.
A series of locks clinked and clanged, and seconds later the block’s main door swung open. In marched the guard who had broken up the fight, and I squinted at the patch sewn onto his black uniform: Thompson. Noted. By his side, however, was a far more interesting subject, and I straightened at the sight of the petite redheaded witch, that purple jumpsuit perfect for her creamy complexion.
A familiar giddy tingle stretched from my head right on down to my tippy toes—the same little prickle I felt whenever I was about to have my way. Which was often. So beautiful, even with her slumped shoulders, her steps heavy and dragging. Don’t fret, pet. I’ve just the lap for you to rest your weary bones upon.
Only it wasn’t just exhaustion that tainted her lovely features. Her cheeks had lost their delectable rosy glow, now sickeningly white and hollow. Those glittering sapphires sparkled less than before, dulled by the bloodshot whites surrounding them. Disappointing and annoyingly cliché that a trip to the warden’s office produced this, but never mind. A few choice words from a fae prince could fix everything.
And if that failed, a glorious tumble in the sack really was the finest distraction in all the realms.
“Hello, little witch,” I purred. My attempt to gracefully stand and sweep toward her was sullied by one of the fucking nailed-down stools, which I smacked my knee against in passing. With a wince, I limped toward her, fully aware that being both handsome and wounded really stoked a woman’s fire. She stopped her slow shuffle into the cellblock, the guard now with his back to us as he sealed the door, locks clinking, and I scooped up her hand, ignoring the dazed look on her lovely features. And the—oh, yuck, the frigid sweat on her palms. Well, no matter. Beggars certainly couldn’t be choosers, and for her, I might consider begging.
Might.
I bowed low and pressed a chivalrous kiss to the top of her pale, clammy hand. “Thank you, sweet girl,
for your bravery.”
She just stared down at me, full mouth slightly parted, her other hand limp at her side. Not exactly the reaction I’d expected, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time the attentions of a prince stupefied a commoner into silence. Naturally, I took it as a compliment.
“I have a reward in mind,” I whispered roguishly, smirking as I straightened and pinched her delicate hand between us. “Something I think you’ll most enjoy. Perhaps you could accompany me to my cell so I can ardently express my gratitude—”
Without a word, the witch ripped her hand from mine, scowling, and turned on her heel. The flutter of her red mane unleashed a cloud of her scent—faintly floral, patchouli and jasmine and rose, and my word I needed more. But she stalked away from me—the first of the feminine species to ever do so—outright rejecting my offer and headed instead for the dragon’s empty cell.
“Fox,” the guard called, loitering by the main door, hands on his hips. “No.”
The witch stopped again, seeming to crumble on the spot, and slowly faced him. “Thompson, please, can I just—”
“You’re all on lockdown for the fight,” the warlock insisted, addressing her with a gentler tone than he had anyone else. Clearly he possessed a soft spot for her, but from the way he spoke, the way he looked at her face and not her curves, it wasn’t sexual. Huh. Strange. I crossed my arms with a huff, knowing I had a gorgeous pout, but neither paid me any mind. They looked to each other, the witch—Fox—begging with teary eyes and the guard refusing her with a shake of his head. “Once the rest are back, I’ll bring you dinner, but until tomorrow, you’re all in your own cells.”
Did she make it a habit of visiting cells that were not her own? Excellent for me. Clearing my throat, I sidled into their eyeline, flashing her a handsome smile before shining it on the warlock. Even men fought for my attentions—it seemed cruel to deny him.
“Surely, good sir, you could allow her a visit to my cell…” I fiddled with my nails, then shrugged a shoulder innocently. “Perhaps for a price—”