by Marissa Day
Slowly, slowly, the storm eased. They fell together in slow motion down onto the bed, Brendan’s cock still inside her. She was breathless, boneless. Silken pleasure flowed through her veins. She wanted to lie in his embrace and never move.
“My sweet lover.” He nuzzled her neck. “Beautiful Tamara.”
Something wet and warm touched her shoulder. It felt like . . . but it couldn’t be . . .
It felt like a tear.
“Brendan?” Carefully, Tamara pulled herself away from him. Her pussy closed, soft and contented as his cock slipped clear. She turned so she could look at him. She was right. Tears shone in his green eyes.
She reached up, gently brushing a silver droplet away. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Go to sleep now, Tamara. It’ll be all right.” His fingers grazed her temple. All at once a warm sensation filled her, reminding her she’d just made love for ages, and that she’d just come so hard she’d shaken herself to her core. She was sweetly tired and wrapped safe in her lover’s arms. Tamara nestled against Brendan and slept.
* * *
Brendan climbed out of bed. He pulled the bedcovers over Tamara’s gorgeous breasts. A lock of auburn hair drifted across her flushed cheek. He brushed it back.
He stared at the sleeping woman, and for the first time in centuries hated himself to the bone.
He could not do this. This wasn’t some disregarded spinster or neglected younger sister. He could not tell himself he was saving her from an unhappy marriage or a cruel family. Tamara was free, she was happy. She gave and accepted passion with equal joy. She had a heart full of love, and she would give it freely as soon as she found a spirit worthy of her. The men of this city were all blind, dickless fools. How could anyone have shared her bed and walked away? Just watching made him think about rolling her over into his arms, waking her with his tongue in her mouth, or in her pussy. Or maybe he’d ease the tip of his cock against that eager little clit again . . .
“Is she ready?”
Brendan whirled around. His king stood in the doorway.
Oberon, king of the seelie court, most often appeared as a tall man with silver hair pulled back in a long queue. He was lean and muscular with a handsome face. But not even the king of the fae could fully disguise his eyes, and they gleamed silver as he looked down on Tamara.
Rage burned through Brendan. His hand closed around the air where once upon a time he’d worn his sword.
King Oberon raised his brows. “What’s this?” he said. “Careful, Brendan. I might take offense.”
Brendan froze. Have I lost my mind? Oberon could turn him to stone or flame at a word. “My apologies, Sire,” he whispered. What was he doing? How had he even been able to do it? He was bespelled to the fae king’s service. He had many times felt fear of his master. He had even once or twice felt restless rebellion, but anger? The warrior’s hot, clean rage? That had not been his since he’d made his dreadful bargain six hundred years ago.
Tamara, what have you done to me?
Oberon smiled down on him, bitterly amused. “Perhaps we should leave the lady to sleep.” He turned and glided into the living room.
Torn between fear and wonder, Brendan followed, closing the bedroom door behind him. Outside, the grey glimmer of dawn shone over the park.
In the living room, Oberon picked up the bottle of wine, noting that the cork had not been pulled. He turned the tray of fruit and cheeses, casting a cold eye on how absolutely undisturbed they were.
Tamara’s Irish ancestors would have known the significance. As children, they would have been warned never to eat the fae’s food. If you did, you would never leave their lands again.
“You’re taking your time with this one, Brendan,” King Oberon remarked. The air in the room chilled as if a winter’s breeze had blown through it.
“She’s proving . . . difficult to master.” She’d fought against him with all her strength. He’d held her down, delighting in how aroused the fight made her, so aroused she’d screamed his name and begged him to fuck her harder . . .
“You’ve never had trouble before.”
“No, Sire, but this one . . . I’m not certain she’s suitable for you.”
Oberon folded his arms and arched his fine brows. “You seem to have found her perfectly suitable for you.”
Brendan winced. This apartment stood on the threshold of the fairy realms. Of course the passion set loose here had spilled over into that other world.
Brendan bowed. “For me, she is . . . acceptable.” Forgive me, Tamara. “But I am not the great King Oberon.”
“Huh. Don’t try to flatter me, Brendan.” Anger darkened the fae king’s voice. “You haven’t the touch for it.”
Brendan swallowed. He didn’t know what to do. He was literally spellbound. If the king gave him an order, he must obey it. He would not, could not resist. But to take Tamara to be a pleasure slave in the seelie court . . . No. No. He clenched his finger around his ring.
Against all odds, all sense, Brendan decided to try the truth. “Hear me, my king.” He knelt, head bowed in supplication even though his rage burned within him. “This woman is not like the others. This time is not like the others. She is able to live freely here. She is happy. As a slave in your court, she will only waste away.”
For a few straining heartbeats, Brendan permitted himself to hope. “That is not your concern, Brendan.” Hope shattered like glass. “I have said I want her. You will bring her to me, bound in her heart and ready to enter my service. Or have you forgotten our bargain?”
“How can I forget?”
“Good. I am not in a mood to be kept waiting.”
The fae king strode straight ahead, and vanished through the wall.
Brendan’s fists clenched. He rested them on the table, leaning all his weight against them. He must bring Tamara to Oberon. He must. It was as necessary as breathing. It took all his strength just to stand here. If he plucked a grape, poured some sparkling water and took it into her . . . she would eagerly accept the food of fairy from his hands, and in so doing would fall under their master’s . . . his master’s enchantment. This killing ache in his heart and guts, this squirming revulsion that threatened to override every other instinct, would be gone as soon as he obeyed.
He wanted to smash the bottles, upend the tray and trample the food, grinding it into the carpet. He wanted to scoop Tamara up into his arms and run out of here, far away to . . . to . . . Ah, God, to where? He was trapped, and he had drawn Tamara into the trap with him. He looked toward the door to the hall, and it was like looking across a broad desert. He could not make his mind see how to cross it.
“Hey, lover.”
Brendan whirled around. Tamara stood in the doorway, completely naked, pushing her hair back from her face. She should have slept for hours yet. What happened? Had she been able to resist his spell?
Or had Oberon woken her?
As these thoughts tumbled through him, he also noticed how his cock thickened at the sight of her full breasts and thighs, and the tangled nest that covered her sweet pussy.
“Mmm, that looks like a great idea. I’m starved.” She walked over and wrapped one arm around his waist and reached to pluck a lush purple grape from the tray.
“No!” Brendan caught her hand.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I just . . . I . . .” I am pander and pimp for the fae king. He wants you for his whore, Tamara.
Let her go, let her eat. Your master commands it. You must bring her to him. You MUST. He couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating.
Tamara set the grape down on the tray and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You’re freakin’ me out a little here, Brendan. Talk to me, okay?”
Again his hand sought the hilt of the sword he had not
worn for centuries. He was not sure whether he wanted to plunge it into Oberon’s breast, or his own.
“Brendan?”
He’d closed his eyes. He opened them now. Tamara was looking up at him, anger and concern warring in her wide amber eyes.
In those eyes, he found salvation, at least for a moment. He said bring her, but he didn’t say when. He didn’t say now. I can bring her in a little while. He didn’t say now.
It was a razor-thin thought, but it was just enough to let him gulp air and form his next words. “Tamara . . . will you come out with me? We can get breakfast somewhere. Anywhere. Not here.”
“What is it?”
“Just trust me for a little while, please.” Here at the threshold of fairy. Oberon can hear every single word we speak as soon as he chooses to listen, and here my compulsion is its strongest.
She searched his eyes, a vertical line appearing between her brows as she frowned up at him. Looking at her filled him with a longing he’d thought dead back in the forests of Erin. Not just in his overeager cock, but in his shrunken, captive soul. To look into Tamara’s eyes was for his withered heart to begin beating again.
Be afraid, Tamara. Leave here. Go back to your unhappy roommate and forget me. He couldn’t move. His desperate excuse, which he held in place with all his force of will, did not give him that much freedom.
Tamara drew in a deep breath. It made her breasts swell beautifully. How sweet they’d felt pressed hot against his hands. How wickedly beautiful her face had been as she arched back, the more thoroughly to take her pleasure of him. God, oh God, how was he going to stand it when she turned away from him?
More easily than watching her give her body and soul to Oberon.
She turned now, heading back to the bedroom, doubtlessly to shower and change. He smiled grimly as his cock lifted itself in response to the sight of her full, luscious ass swaying with each step.
Fortunately, he would not have to live with his grief for very long. King Oberon would see to that.
* * *
A half hour later, Tamara sat with Brendan in an all-night diner, coffee cooling in her cup, scrambled eggs and toast half-eaten on her chipped plate. Outside, the May dawn sent down shafts of sunlight to brighten up the pavement while her lover from the night before told her she was in danger from the king of the fairies.
She should have said, “Wow. That’s really scary. Gosh! Look at the time. Gotta go!” and run, screaming.
But she didn’t. She sat there, watching the fear deepen the lines in his face. His hands spasmed continuously, making it impossible for him to pick up a fork or a cup. Now and then he had to stop speaking because he was stuttering so badly.
This was not the confident, seductive man from the club. This was not even the torn and driven lover who had shed his tears on her shoulder. Something was happening to him. Tamara was the youngest member of a family whose people were Irish down to their little toenails. She had grown up with stories of the little folk, the kelpie, the banshee and the merrow. Her great-grandmother had firmly believed all such creatures walked the hills of the old country, so hearing them spoken of as real was not as much of a shock to her as it might be to some.
If nothing else, the dreadful pain in Brendan’s voice and face required her to take this seriously.
At last Brendan fell silent. His fists clenched repeatedly against the tabletop. Tamara took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Can you prove it?”
He stared at her. He was, Tamara realized, expecting her to decide he was crazy, and leave. In fact, he was hoping for it. The fact that she sat stubbornly in her seat was not something he had counted on.
He nodded. “Call the waitress.”
Tamara signaled for the big woman with the New Jersey accent who had served them coffee and eggs.
“More coffee?” she said to Tamara as she came over, full pot in hand.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Excuse me!” Brendan called out. “I’d like to fuck the lady here! Do you think the table will hold both of us?”
The waitress expertly topped off Tamara’s cup and turned away to answer the signal from the pair of cops two booths down.
“She didn’t hear you,” whispered Tamara.
“She doesn’t see me either. I am invisible to the rest of the world, until I choose not to be. The king allows me a few powers so that I can more easily carry out his orders.”
Tamara’s throat had gone dry. It couldn’t be true, but it was true. She could not deny the evidence of her eyes. Great-grandma Donnelly’s voice came back to her, telling her stories that would keep her awake for hours, of ghosts and goblins, of careless children lured away by heartless fairies.
Her heart banged against her ribs and it was Tamara’s turn to knot her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She stared up at Brendan. She remembered how he’d changed overnight, as if something had fallen away. She knew what it was now. It was glamour; the false perfection the fae could cast over themselves to fool the unwary. He’d lost that veil somewhere at night and had not reclaimed it. He had allowed her to see the man behind the dream. It was the man who had made her heart turn over.
It was the man now who was struggling to tell her this impossible, terrifying truth.
“Why do you do it?”
Brendan stretched out his hand. On it was a silver ring with a Celtic knot-work design surmounted by a piece of glittering onyx. Age pitted the silver and tarnish darkened it. He twisted the stone back to reveal a tiny, perfect portrait. Tamara leaned close, marveling at the detail. It was a young man with red-gold hair, dressed in a white linen shirt and a vest of green leather. Over his shoulder she could just see the curve of a miniature harp.
“My oldest son, named Brendan after me.” Tamara’s heart constricted to see the pain and pride creasing Brendan’s face.
“He was still a little boy when it became clear he was not made to be a warrior. Music fascinated him, and the old stories. I’d fathered a bard.” He smiled softly. “In those days in Erin, that was a great thing. When they took him to the college to learn the ancient ways, I was so proud.” He spoke softly, his accent thickening with each word until it rose and fell with a cadence she remembered from listening to Great-grandma Donnelly.
“He came home seven years later to be at his sister’s wedding. He played for the ceremony, and I swear the birds sat still in the trees, listening.
“He’d done well, and looked fair to become one of the great poets of the age. But he was a young man, and like all young men, he liked to brag. He boasted to his friends about how as a bard he’d be able to charm women into his bed with a song, and gold from the pockets of the English with a word. And they drank, and he bragged, and they dared him . . .”
“Oh God.”
Brendan nodded. “There was a hill near us, supposed to be the property of the fair folk. They dared him to spend a night under the oak that grew at its crown. I would have stopped him had I known, but . . .” Anger and burning shame spasmed across his face.
“When he did not come home in the morning, I went in search of him. I found his harp. He was a bard. He never would have abandoned his harp. Never. He had been taken underhill.
“What I should have done was go to the bardic college. Even in those days as their power was waning, they knew how to deal with such things, but I was king, a warrior. How could I run to some other man to protect my own? I searched and I searched until I found my own way underhill, and to their king’s court.
“And there I saw my son, surrounded by the fae, dressed in white linen and cloth of gold. He looked at me . . . He looked at me with witless eyes, and did not know his father. It seemed the queen had taken a fancy to him, you see, for the sweetness of his song and his good looks. The king decided to give my son to her as a gift.
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“I tried to fight, but my sword was knocked from my hand before I could fully draw it. Then I, who had never bent knee to any man, fell at the feet of that dread king and begged for my son’s life.
“He offered me a bargain. If I agreed to serve him as long as I lived, my son and the rest of my family would remain unharmed by the fair folk.” He choked on his own breath.
“And you said yes.”
Brendan nodded. “My son went home never knowing what had happened. I heard him sing the hymn of mourning for me. My wife never married again. She raised our children and died believing I abandoned her.” Tears glittered in his eyes. “If God is merciful at least her soul knows differently.”
“And you’ve been a . . . a . . .”
“The word you’re searching for is slave. Aye. Ever since.” He took a gulp of his cold coffee. “I have fought demons and the dark fae. I have bedded the queen for the entertainment of her king and her court. But mostly, I have acquired the mortal women for the king. It amuses him to let me run about the mortal world seducing his victims for him.”
“How do you stand it?” she whispered.
He gripped the cup so hard his hand shook. “Mostly, the king sent me out to bring the lost and the lonely, young women who were discontent. Remember, for much of these past centuries, women had little or no freedom. They could be bought and sold by their parents or their husbands. They could be beaten and raped, their children taken from them and they could do nothing. In the king’s court, they were at least in an easy service, forever young and beautiful, with nothing but pleasure as their lot.”
Tamara licked her lips. Her hands had gone cold. She wanted to face this squarely, but it was almost too much.
“Where do I come into this?”
Brendan shrugged angrily. “The king took a fancy to you. I was to charm you, and bed you, in order to make sure you were without serious blemish, and were sufficient in your passions. Then I would feed you, and you would be his.”