Fae King's Temptation (Court of Bones and Ash Book 1)

by Layla Harper

  He snorts. “It’s not my eye we need to worry about. The human will need relief from the horse before she breaks a bone with how stiff she sits upon the steed. How do they travel in her world? By foot? Wagon?”

  I have wondered the same. “We will have to account for her comfort. Stop when it is safe to do so.”

  Gauron grunts and then surveys the land unfurling before us.

  I double back to resume my station, and this time when I pass Kyra, the lure is too great to avoid. Our eyes meet. Vivid blue sweeps over my skin, pebbling my flesh before darting away. Her scent sweetens, wrenching my nose to catch the faint tendrils of its honeyed bouquet. Her arousal hits me like a punch to the gut, momentarily robbing me of breath. I grunt, commanding my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe, and cue the horse to gallop past her, as far away as my protective instincts will allow.

  By the moons above, I am a doomed male.

  * * *

  Hours later, we traverse the dark wood’s border. My muscles tense, my ears twitching for any sign of trouble. All appears calm.

  Too calm.

  I release a breath to relieve the tightness in my chest, the air too warm. I long for Drengskador’s cool temperatures. The feel of the wind’s bite against my skin.

  “I guess time works differently here too.” Kyra’s soft voice bridges the distance between us. She is enveloped in my furs, and the thought of my scent covering her body gives me great pleasure.

  Aelinor does not answer. Or perhaps she did not hear. I, on the other hand, have been attuned to the female’s every movement. Every wince. Every sigh. I squeeze the bridge of my nose and edge the horse closer. I have seen no sign of Gray, but I can sense him nearby.

  “I suppose there’s some truth to the statement,” Aelinor finally concedes.

  “It was dawn when I was captured.” Kyra glances at the funny, rectangular bracelet on her left wrist. “My watch is dead, but we’ve been riding for several hours, maybe more. Not enough to bring nightfall. It’s got to be mid- to late afternoon at most. Yet here we are in the dark. Unless you have shorter days compared to home?”

  Aelinor shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “So, I’m guessing all those tales about time, about people trapped in Faerie who then return to Earth hundreds of years later, are true.”

  “We have crossed into the Forest of Night.” I stare ahead, hoping she will glance my way. “Magic creates the gloom.”

  Kyra’s head jerks in my direction, her mouth slightly open. “The sun doesn’t rise here… ever? Because magic keeps it in a perpetual state of night?” She glances about, taking in the starless sky. The headdress sinks, dipping onto her brows. She pushes it back toward her hairline with a forefinger. “You’re telling me this forest is enchanted? Like really, really enchanted?”

  Instead of fear, her expression lights with wonder.

  There are so many marvels I can show her, but I curb the direction my wayward thoughts take. “Much of Alfhemir has been altered by magic. The Forest of Night is but one example.”

  “Holy cow.” Mumbling something I cannot hear, she covers her mouth and turns her attention back to the forest. “Will we…will we be staying here long?”

  Longer than I would like. “Until we complete the crossing to Lithyr.”

  “Oh. Right. That’s the town where you’ll barter for a magical potion to conceal my scent.” She sounds skeptical.

  Will she refuse the potion? The thought had not entered my mind, but I have no qualms about forcing the drink down her throat if I must.

  So why does the prospect leave me cold?

  “Yes,” I bark, my tone gruff. “Camouflaging your scent is imperative. More so than your disguise. Do you require nourishment, female?”

  “Female? Is that how you males address women in your society? Because in my world, we females find the term highly offensive.”

  Aelinor sits quietly, but I do not miss the questions swirling in those viridian depths. My mood. My sudden concern for Kyra’s well-being. We are warriors. When we travel, we ride hard and fast, stopping only when our wargs need water or rest. This leisurely pace is atypical, and I certainly do not interrogate my warriors over their eating habits.

  Ignoring Aelinor’s probing stare, I ask again. “Do you need rest, Kyra?”

  She adjusts her lopsided headdress. “Nope.”

  Liar.

  “Don’t stop on my account.” Stifling a wince, she adjusts herself atop the saddle. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I get home.”

  I swallow a growl.

  “Who knew humans could be so hardy, my king,” Aelinor says with an overabundance of cheer. “Were it not for the battle sounds raging from within her stomach, I would agree with our companion and advise you to continue our march to Lithyr. Alas, my sensitive ears can no longer bear the torment, so although I respect the hu—Kyra’s tenacity, setting up camp for the night is a far superior solution.”

  Kyra’s jaw locks.

  “Very well.” I put two fingers to my mouth and whistle to Gauron. “We make camp.”

  Gauron answers with a stiff nod. Then he rides off to find a suitable location, preferably one we can easily defend. I trust nothing about this place. Not the faintly glowing leaves. Not the balmy breeze. And certainly not the delusive night unfurling its silent wings.

  Chapter Ten

  Kyra

  “What other races coexist with you in your world?”

  Huh?

  Aelinor sweeps leaves and debris from the ground. “Are there no other species on Earth besides humans?”

  The question unnerves me because up until that moment, I never considered the possibility of other creatures cohabiting Earth. Could elves or orcs live quietly among us, camouflaged to blend in? How fucking crazy is that?

  Gauron spares me a glance, then goes back to helping Rogar unhitch the saddles from the horses. The orc king finishes his task, then sets off to collect every twig on the ground.

  “No,” I finally answer. “At least not that I know of.”

  “How interesting.” Aelinor continues to work, clearing another area about ten feet wide. She stoops, picks something up I can barely see, and flicks the wiggling lump into the newly lit fire.

  “Do you have night vision?” Wait. I squint and lift my arm, pointing at the area behind her head. “Are those trees glowing?” I peer from where I’m standing, afraid to get any closer. After all, we’re surrounded by forest and magic and who knows what else.

  “Lovely, aren’t they? The leaf’s silver veins reflect light. It’s why we aren’t in complete darkness. We call them lys trae. Light trees. They are native to the Forest of Night.” She smiles. “But to answer your question, yes, I can. Most fae have enhanced vision, especially predator species.”

  Like you? I want to ask but think better of it.

  I drag my attention from Aelinor to the tree line and scratch my forehead, which is still irritated from wearing the headdress. Except for the silvery veined trees, the forest is like so many others back home. Pine is interspersed with deciduous trees, oak, maybe something else. I’m no tree expert. I smell leaves, dirt, and mold. Puffy, storm-gray clouds hang low in the sky, blocking the appearance of any celestial bodies. I should be completely freaked out, but there’s a sliver of excitement budding inside me. The one thing that’s carried me through so much of the grief I’ve suffered in my short life are my books. Stories. Poems. Epic fantasy worlds I gladly lost myself in when luck dealt me another harsh blow. And now here I stand, battered and sore inside an enchanted forest in Alfhemir, a real-life Rivendell.

  Despite my body’s reaction, I’m not completely blinded by the surreal nature of this place. Walking around all starry-eyed will get me killed. I’ve got a slave mark on my hand, and in a world where humans are outlawed, having a group of hungry paranormal hunters on my tail is a really bad omen.

  Still, I’m in a freaking enchanted forest. How cool is that?

  Appearing satisfi
ed with her work, Aelinor snags a bundle from the ground.

  “Can I help you with that?” My body has moved beyond pain to abject agony, but I can’t stand around and do nothing while everyone around me works. Besides, I could use a distraction from the sexy orc king who’s doing a bang-up job of ignoring me.

  “I have a salve for the soreness.”

  Perspiring buckets of sweat, I unclasp Rogar’s fur cloak and fold it over my arm. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?”

  “Okay. I’m a little sore.” I don’t know why Aelinor’s strange brown eyes wig me out, but they do. I tug at the collar at my neck. A whiff of orc musk stings my nose. I’d kill for a shower. “Are all your horses so large?”

  Aelinor laughs. “Actually, those are a smaller breed than what we consider normal. They’ve been specifically bred as war steeds, although as a race, orcs prefer wargs.” At the shock on my face, she asks, “Your kind doesn’t travel by steed or warg?”

  “No.” I can feel the heat of Rogar’s stare on my back. I clear my throat. “We have machines called cars.” There’s no sign of recognition on her face. “Buses? Trains? Airplanes?” How can these people be magical yet be so far behind us from a technological standpoint? “We do have”—normal-sized—“horses, and some regions of our world probably use them for travel. But most countries rely on modern transportation. Our…” What? Realm? World? Planet? “Our civilization is dependent on technology.”

  “Technology?”

  Now I’m certain Gauron is staring at me too. “Yeah. Um, it’s hard to explain.”

  The shaman snaps her wrists, uncoiling the fabric, then lays it flat on the ground.

  “Are you sure I can’t help you with that?”

  Aelinor shakes her head. “Continue.”

  “Okay.” Where to start? “We learned how to harness energy some time ago, and from there, scientists and inventors figured out electricity, designed power generators, machinery, computers…”

  Aelinor listens raptly, pointy ears tilted forward. She drops another woolen blanket atop the last. “Ah, so a society of nonmagical beings succeeded in contriving magic. How ironic. Our histories do paint your kind as wily creatures. I can see there’s some truth to that belief.”

  I’m not sure if I should be offended or proud. “Wily creatures? What exactly does your history say about us?” I have a feeling it’s all bad.

  She wipes her palms against her pants. “A story for another time, perhaps. Sit. We’ll eat soon. Then I’ll apply the salve to allay your pain.”

  I fold the cloak and drop it on the blanket. Rogar and the horses are gone. Gauron fits a bow across his back, I’m presuming to hunt for dinner, then strides into the forest, opposite of where we are.

  Sniffing the air, Aelinor tilts her head to the left, gesturing to the wilderness behind us. “There’s a stream nearby. Relieve yourself and then rejoin me. Rest will settle your mind.” At my hesitation, she says, “Don’t tarry. There are creatures in these woods, but you’re safe if you hurry.”

  I’m safe if I hurry?

  How the hell am I going to pee now, worrying about little monsters that might bite my ass midstream? Sheesh.

  I turn and head in the direction she indicated, wiping sweat from my forehead. The change in climate is drastic. Drengskador was teeth-chattering cold. The Forest of Night is a humid eighty degrees, maybe less given the number of clothing layers I have on. I’d seriously donate a kidney for a bath or a quick shower. Maybe at the stream, I can wash off some of the skunk smell and feel human again. It’s not like I’m going to be able to relieve my bladder now that I’m paranoid about the creepy crawlies inhabiting this enchanted forest.

  Senses on alert, I quickly maneuver through the trees, careful not to touch bark or the vines resembling poison ivy wrapped around russet trunks. The forest is silent, and like the eerie glow permeating the space around me, the air feels muffled, like when you forget to remove your earbuds after your playlist stops running. Magic is thick around me, the static raising the hair at the back of my neck.

  Squinting, I continue in what I hope is a straight line, heading for the stream I can’t see or hear. And although leaves crush beneath my feet, my footsteps are muted. No wonder the others are on high alert. In the dark, with our auditory senses diminished, we’re vulnerable to an ambush.

  Unfortunately, the magic has no sway over my sense of smell. I stink. Memorizing the path I walk, I quickly debate the pros and cons of removing my hoodie and decide it’s worth the risk. At least until morning. I can don the foul garment before we set off for Lithyr, because there’s no way I’ll get any sleep wrapped in a blanket of orc juice.

  Up ahead, I spot a wide tree, not a light tree by the missing silver veins. I hurry over. It’s huge, at least five feet wide at the base, so not redwood massive but large enough to provide shelter so I can change out of my hoodie. And as an added bonus, the bark is completely devoid of any funky vines.

  I untie the belt around my waist and drop it on my boot. I want this tunic off, but I’m not about to strip naked inside an enchanted forest. I know how that fairy tale ends. Snorting, I tug the shirt’s cuff, sneaking my left arm out of the sleeve, then work on doing the same with my right arm. It’s a talent, being able to remove an article of clothing while still wearing another. A talent born from being forced to change in front of prying eyes seeking bare flesh. Not all foster homes provided the security a young girl deserves, so you quickly learn to adapt to avoid the abuse that too often follows.

  I shove those memories deep into the recesses of my mind, to that dark place where I bury all my scars, stamping them out of existence. Quickly, I yank my arms from the hoodie’s sleeves, then push thread them back into the tunic. Holding my breath, I yank the hoodie over my head and drop it to the forest floor. Pity. This was one of my favorite tops. Name brand. Wind resistant performance fabric. I’d purchased it off a clearance rack at Dick’s, and even at 50 percent off, it had put a sizeable dent in my bartenders salary. What the hell do orcs eat to produce such foul-smelling body waste, anyway?

  I shake my head. Do I really want to know?

  Nope. No I do not.

  Sighing, I take stock of my surroundings again and peer around the tree’s large trunk.

  There it is. The magical stream Aelinor detected. The black water of a small pool, sheathed in vegetation and light trees, glimmers beneath the dreary sky.

  Beautiful.

  I take a moment to appreciate the scene before snapping out of my self-induced trance. Finally, I’ll be able to wash the dried blood off my hand, and maybe some of the stickiness from my back. But before I can take a step, a dark shape emerges from the inky water, treading to the shore.

  My mouth drops.

  Rogar.

  A head-to-toe naked Rogar.

  Oh, my aching lady parts. I don’t have a type, but if I did, this guy would be it. Water sluices beautifully over sculpted shoulders, sliding down smooth pectorals, a flat stomach, and lean muscle honed over countless hours on the battlefield—because I can’t imagine that body being formed beneath fluorescent lighting and flimsy gym equipment. Ropey muscle carves an abdominal V, directing my eyes to narrow hips and skull-crushing thighs. And like a big ole neon sign, the hardest muscle of all stands full and erect between his very manly legs.

  I flatten my back against the tree and cross my legs. What the hell is wrong with fate? Why does she keep throwing that piece of Rogar’s anatomy repeatedly in my face?

  Swallowing, I ease away from the tree, tiptoeing backward, hoping to disappear into the gloom without the king of the orcs discovering I’m his Peeping Tom.

  Once I’m sure I’m out of hearing range, I book it to camp, running as fast as my throbbing muscles allow, racing away from Rogar and the uncomfortable feelings brewing inside me that I can’t begin to explain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rogar

  I scent her the moment my head emerges from the water. Her cool, floral bouquet s
nares me in its seductive net.

  Mine.

  My càirdeil.

  The one being in all the realms created to be my equal.

  Following the trail of her intoxicating fragrance, I ignore the small voice in my head warning caution and wade through the pool’s obsidian depths, searching the darkness for her location. I move beyond the pond’s sandy bank and step over the heap of borrowed clothing I had shed on the ground. My senses sharpen, homing in on the scent’s origin. She is close. I can feel her presence.

  I see her then, peeking around a large tree, her blue eyes wide. My step falters. I am no human male. Will she find me pleasing? Or will she think me grotesque in comparison to the human males she has known before me? The urge to kill any man who has looked upon her rips a snarl from my chest.

  Like claws raking against my flesh, her slow perusal of my body heats my skin. My cock swells, and I forget my anger. All I can think about is that pretty mouth tasting all the parts of my anatomy her hungry gaze devours, and when her arousal perfumes the air, I let loose another growl.

  Mine.

  Kyra snaps her dark head back, tucking her luscious body behind the copper-colored bark.

  Muscles tense in my legs. My pulse pounds in my ears. I itch to run. To give chase. To claim her as my mate.

  What am I doing?

  I shake my head, and the lust-filled haze darkening my vision loosens. Pursuing Kyra is not an option. I have my people to consider. Thousands of families who have sworn allegiance to me in return for my protection. A human queen will only bring destruction to Drengskador. I will my feet to stay, my heart to slow, my lungs to pump.

  Running a shaky hand down my face, I turn around and retrieve my clothes. I cannot hear a cursed thing in this blasted forest, but I detect Kyra’s scent fading. Good. She is returning to camp where she belongs. I swallow my disappointment and shove my arms through the sleeves of the tunic. At least one of us had the good sense to stay away from the other.