by Erin Hayes
Back along, Margaret Wood had only made use of the entire name when Blanche had somehow landed herself into trouble – often by being in the forest at a time when she was supposed to listen to some lecture. At the time, hearing it had made her cringe, too, but she now recalled it with fondness.
When her stepmother said it, it was a different ball game. Ilda Wood always called her thus; she always used her sweetest voice, and smiled at her with all of her white, white teeth. Some day, Blanche hoped she’d get to throw a punch and knock a few of them out.
“There is something of importance I neglected to mention at tea, sweetness,” the Queen told her, without turning from her full length mirror.
Blanche had always found it odd that such a materialist woman never changed it; everything else in the room had been replaced at least twice a year, yet the mirror hadn’t so much as moved an inch.
It had always been there, as far as Blanche could recall; and she recalled it, more than any other object, with good reasons. It was a monster – standing at least eight feet tall, carved with large gold lion-claw feet covered; the sculpture of a man struggling under its weight held it tilted back, at the perfect angle.
Blanche would have sworn that there had been a fragment missing at the bottom, years ago, but it was flawless now – the Queen had probably had it fixed.
The woman stood naked in all her glory, with nothing but her jewels, and although she didn’t swing that way, Blanche should have been tempted to stare, but like it always did when she made it inside that room, her attention was fixed on the mirror.
Although she’d noticed it, she couldn’t rememeber any particular feeling towards it in her youth. Now, though, she loathed it without being able to point her finger on why an inanimate object could cause that kind of passion.
Did she somehow associate it with her step-mother?
Perhaps.
But as she looked on, she doubted it.
Her issue with that mirror was the image it threw back at her. She knew it wasn’t her. She wasn’t quite so tall, quite so luminous; her hair didn’t curl in those perfect loose waves, her eyes didn’t have such depth.
Did they?
Because if they did, she was probably the fairest of them all…
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The tone snapped her out of the funk: Blanche turned to the Queen, confused.
“Admiring you, step mother,” she lied readily, offering her a smile of her own.
Such was their hypocritical relationship, whenever they were face to face.
“That necklace is exquisite,” she added, preventing herself from adding, and paid, no doubt, with the hard-earned cash you collect from our subjects for that purpose.
The Wood fortune had been vast, but there wasn’t much of it left, after fifteen years of the woman’s rule.
“You’re a good girl,” Ilda smiled, more sincerely this time – as her vanity knew no bound, she’d never think to doubt a compliment. “But do not distract me, I’m in a hurry. There’s a man who comes from Alenia – you’ve heard of him, I’d wager.”
Blanche nodded.
“I don’t want him to see so much as a shadow of you. You’re to stay away.”
Too late for that.
She did her best to keep her features inexpressive, but the Queen’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve already met.”
“Briefly, your grace. He asked my name – I didn’t give it.”
Everything occurred quite quickly, as these things generally do. One minute, the insane Queen was too busy contemplating her magnificence to actually do anything but move her lips, the next she was turning away from her reflection, and launching herself at Blanche, yelling a battle cry as she did so, hand outstretched.
And there laid her great shame because Blanche stayed eyes widened, paralyzed in fear.
Or more accurately, quite simply paralyzed because the Queen was a damn good witch and wished her to stay in place.
The hand that wasn’t extended towards her throat drew back, and with all the strength she could muster, Ilda slapped her right in the face.
It lasted three seconds, perhaps five.
At the end of it all, Blanche had to do her very best to prevent herself from laughing.
Really? That was it? In her rage, the woman couldn’t do any more than that?
There was a chance that she might have overestimated her power, then.
There was a chance that, ultimately, she could win against her.
Ilda composed herself, breathing out quite loudly, her eyes still full of hatred.
“You will leave this man alone, you piece of scum, or offending me will be the last thing you do.”
Oh, great. The loopy Queen had a crush. She sincerely wished the gorgeous Alenian all the luck in the world.
He’d need it.
“Of course, my Queen.”
Mirror, Mirror…
Ilda turned to her mirror, staring at it, mouth half opened, but she closed it before uttering a word, thinking better of it. No, she wouldn’t use it – not yet. If she talked now, it would be in anger.
She needed to release her rage, loosen her tense muscles, and she knew just how she could do both.
She wrapped her naked frame under a long silken robe she didn’t even close and walked down to the great hall, without a care about the swarm of useless commoners who crossed her path; let them see. Let them talk. They meant nothing, and their words had no weight in the world, outside of those walls.
The party was well underway by the time she’d made it: the entertaining madams she’d turned into ladies moaned as the peers of the realm pounded them into oblivion; the smell, the noises, the very air around this room fed her soul, soothing it.
Ilda had always been a sensual creature and it had served her well. She’d fucked her way to the crown she now wore, and she’d maintained her position thanks to the crease between her long legs; no Queen could stand a chance without support, and she’d known just how to earn it.
Then, once she was firmly established in the realm, she’d invited her “friends” to join in. Thirteen women, all of them beautiful, soft, and ever so eager to stuff their holes with cocks. This was the way a woman could rule: by identifying the most influential men in their court, and offer them tight, young, pretty cunts to sink into.
Ilda knew better, but she couldn’t help looking around, hoping to find a certain foreigner. Alessandro Primerius might be nothing more than a bastard, but his brother was ruling the most powerful kingdom in Europa; and who knew? A little night potion in the right pot, and he could quite suddenly find himself King.
She wanted him; she wanted him like she hadn’t wanted anything since she’d gotten her claws on the Woodlandian throne.
But he was nowhere to be seen. Idla just couldn’t help thinking that it was her fault, somehow.
Blanche Neige.
He’d met the little trollop, and now he had no interest in her. Ilda wasn’t sure whether she should be impressed or appealed that the royal cunt had finally started to make use of her womanly charms, but either way, Blanche would have to be dealt with – and soon.
She cleansed her mind of thoughts of murder and retaliation, dropping her negligee, and walked in, delighted to see that everyone stopped fucking when they noticed her. The men held their cocks up and wanked them, eyes on her as she rolled her hips, strolling to the table right in center of the hall.
“You,” she said, crocking her finger at Julian Moore, partially because he was adorned with a thick, delightful cock, and because his father owned half of the northern lands. Who said anything against mixing business and pleasure?
He didn’t need to be told twice: by the time she’d sat up on the table, her leg spread, he was in front of her, kneeling down, his head between her thighs.
“Thank you, your highness,” he said reverently, before licking her out until she was coming on his chin.
It was perhaps two or three hours l
ater that she made it back to her room, much calmer now.
She was still worried, though, underneath it all, so she did the one rational thing that could actually ease her mind.
She turned towards the mirror nested next to her vanity, and stared at it for a long moment.
She wasn’t sure what made her hesitate. It had been a while, but she knew she’d see exactly the same thing as she always did.
Wouldn’t she?
“Mirror?”
Okay, calling out to it made her look rather silly, but there was no other way – the mirror didn’t respond to mental prompting; like most of the strongest objects in the world, it had a will of its own.
“Mirror, mirror,” she tried again, coaxing it with a singsong voice, and finally, her own reflection disappeared, to be replaced with the most perfect man out there.
He was so similar to Alexandro Primerius, they might as well be twins; their features were identical, but for the golden hue of the man in the mirror’s hair, and also something about his aura, glowing softly, as though he held a fire underneath his skin. He wore practically nothing, just a sort of sheath at the waist, and every time she gazed upon him, Ilda thanked him for showing off almost every inch of his unnatural beauty.
“Well, if that isn’t a lovely sight,” the man said, appreciatively running his gaze from her feet to the tip of her head.
The gaze was intrusive, penetrating, and despite the fact that her pussy was already on fire, overused, Ilda wanted nothing more than to pull him out of the fucking object and get him to screw her until next year.
Her insides tingled like he’d reached out and teased her with his strong hands, rather than his eyes.
The Queen’s only comfort was in the knowledge that she had a party with plenty of guests ready to attend to her needs downstairs; it wouldn’t stop until dawn, and she knew she’d have to bless them with her presence a second time. Otherwise, she might have grown mad with desire.
“So it should be,” she replied, “I’ve paid enough for it.”
She had the body of a goddess, and such things were not given for free.
The man cocked his head, an amused smile on his lips.
“Is that resentment I hear? Although your mere presence is enough to arouse any man and tarnish the grace of most women of any gathering.”
“Most,” she repeated.
That hadn’t been part of the deal.
Gramhilda Fairwhite had been at the bottom of the jokes for two decades when she decided she had enough.
Every member of her family, her sisters, her mother and father lived up to the name, and she was the ugly duckling, laughed at just because of her form.
So when she’d found the spell, she hadn’t hesitated: the gods of old demanded blood from every single living member of her family in exchange for their gift. A fair price. She’d paid it over a century ago, and still, the beauty she’d earned in exchange hadn’t faded.
The spell had written that she’d be the fairest of them all – and she’d remained so…
When the whispers came to her ear in the night, she’d ignored them, at first – it wasn’t possible. Yet Gramhilda had kept an eye on the Wood family from the moment her dreams told her there was another fairest born in this world.
She’d heard rumors of a child and she was considered pretty, of course, but just over fifteen years ago, she’d caught the sight of the perfect royal family on TV and she’d stopped and stared.
The child wasn’t pretty. She was fair, in the truest sense of the term. There was a difference that no one knew better than her.
What it meant was that everyone she smiled at fell under her spell, forever her slave; Gramhilda just had to catch a glimpse her to want to rip her to shreds. She might have done so, if the girl hadn’t been a freaking Princess. Gramhilda was many things, but certainly not a royal…
After consideration, she decided that she rather liked the idea of a kingdom at her feet, so she did what needed done; disposed of the Queen, first, and the King, too – but the girl was a problem she wasn’t quite certain what to do with. Keeping her under her grasp prevented her from getting to more people’s hearts, but she’d already won her subject’s.
Ilda – as she now liked to be called; it sounded modern and all – knew killing the child was inevitable, of course. But Blanche was just that: a child. She hadn’t reached maturity yet – not in body, at least – which meant that she wasn’t as fair as she would become.
She wasn’t as fair as Ilda.
Right?
“What do you require of me, my Queen,” the exquisite man asked, his smile now almost cruel.
It was then that she knew – but she had to hear it for herself.
“Mirror, mirror, against the wall,” she almost whispered, quite slowly. “Who is the fairest of them all?”
The man stared a long time before parting his lips.
“Well, frankly, I’d do you, given the choice –it’s all a matter of taste and all. But as the child has turned twenty-one since our last chat, she’s now of age. As she’s been blessed with the gift after you, it technically means that the fairest of them all is Blanche Neige.”
Staring at the man, mouth slightly ajar, Ilda found that she was not exactly surprised, not even upset, really. She’d been prepared to hear this, somehow she’d known it would be coming.
“So it’s time, then.”
It looked like the girl had outlived her usefulness.
A Kiss
This time, it was entirely his fault they collided, as he’d been paying attention to just about anything but the direction of his steps.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, although a smile had formed as soon as he caught the dark, smoldering eyes.
The smile was quick to disappear.
There was a mark on her face, clearly showing someone had struck her.
Sandro was surprised by his sudden white hot rage; he looked behind her, hoping to catch the shadow of a suspect. He’d kill for that offense.
“Who?” he heard himself growl darkling.
The damn girl just rolled her eyes.
“Chill, I can take care of myself,” she said, before attempting to yet again walk away.
Not. Happening.
Before he could dictate that his body should do so, he’d approached and captured her between his arms and the wall.
She was well and truly encaged when the notion that she might sincerely not want to be crossed his mind.
Shit. Was he overstepping?
“Am I pestering you?” he asked, thinking of his father, who did just that to maids. And noble women. And whatever commoner he could put his paws on, too.
The girl chuckled again.
“Not yet; but as I said, I can take care of myself. Should you get to the point of pestering, I’m certain my boot will find the way to your balls.”
Okay, scary – but it somehow sounded like some kind of invitation, too.
“My apologies. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, it’s hard to ignore.”
She frowned, her expression rather pensive.
“Eight,” was the confusing comment coming out of her damn red mouth seconds later.
“What?”
“As far as pick-up lines go, that should get an eight out of ten. Not bad – heard better.”
He could bet she had. Dammit. The jealousy was as violent as the rest of the sudden feelings that woman evoked.
“I don’t need pick-up lines,” he replied, deciding that honesty was the best policy here.
He was leaving as soon as he could; he didn’t have enough time to woo her properly and from what he’d seen in any case, she probably wouldn’t let him.
It meant he just had to say it like it was right off the bat.
“I’m Prince of Alenia, second in line to the throne right now; if things go well, I’ll never rule, but I have a position, money, and little dryad, admit it, I’m also easy on the eyes.”
&nb
sp; Her look confused him, because it wasn’t anything he’d expected; she wasn’t impressed at all, nor did she seem to resent it like those who disliked monarchies. No, she seemed to sympathize, as though she knew that what he’d just said meant he had shit loads of responsibilities and very little respect in return.
Like she got it.
But he was projecting; wasn’t he?
“Okay, I’ll admit it – you probably don’t need pick-up lines. Which begs to wonder why you insist on using them. Come on. The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?”
Admittedly, she had a point: it had sounded rather cheesy.
“I was just explaining my point of view, which might make you understand why I’m asking you if you’d like to come with me to Alenia.”
Fuck. He could tell he was messing this up already.
“I will have to stay here and get to know you otherwise.”
And he’d prefer not to; firstly, that damn Queen of theirs gave him the creeps, but he also had a brother to attend to.
“Look, you’re hot – and I’m sure you’re used to getting what you want,” she told him, “but I’m just not that kind of person. And frankly, I can’t afford your attention. It might… give the wrong idea.”
Oh, fuck that. She refused to hear words, so he had to show her what he meant.
It wasn’t only her physical appearance, it was the electric tingling in the air every time they’d exchanged a glance, and the way his heart beat when she was near.
All of that became painfully obvious when he dropped his head and captured her lips against his.
Hell.
The moment was timeless, neither of them moved, nor did they need to. Some kisses are about tongue, teeth and exchanges of salvia; that one started in their bellies, ran through to the tip of their fingers, and crushed their hearts, without either of them moving, at first.
Then, she broke the spell, pulling both hands up, holding them around his shoulders and opening her mouth to give herself to him in a way no one else ever had.
He’d screwed, fucked and pounded. He’d had threesomes, foursomes, orgies, and the occasional party for two. Those were nothing, compared to kissing his little dryad.