Allison and the Torrid Tea Party: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (Harem of Hearts Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  My blood boils, and I step forward, into a shaft of silver moonlight. I can feel that strange tingling in my fingertips again, the power collecting in my hands. Guess beheading would be a real possibility if I accidentally, like, zapped the King, right?

  "You're one to talk," I snap, feeling anger overtake me in a crimson wave. "You killed that poor card for no reason." When I close my eyes, I can still see its silently screaming face. And all that blood …

  The King just smirks at me, a perfect twist of the lips that would have any girl swooning.

  But I'm not just any girl—I'm a cynical asshole. We're a special breed.

  "Good. Just continue to deny your destiny. It'll give me more fodder when I put you on trial and have you deported. Oh, you'll get home for sure—but on my terms. Trust me Alice: getting rid of you is now my number one priority." The King turns to leave, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. I half-expect to have my ass handed to me by the palace guards, but there don't seem to be any around right now.

  We're well and truly alone.

  "Why did you bring me here if you're just planning on sending me home anyway?" I ask, hearing my voice crack with frustration. If I didn’t know better … I’d say I hurt the prick’s feelings? But no, that can’t possibly be it. The King's hair glints in the moonlight, as red as fresh blood from an open wound.

  "I will have you, Alice. You've always been destined to be mine." Why did he say that if he wanted to get rid of me all along anyway? It doesn’t make any sense. No, I smell a bruised ego. I bet he thought I’d stumble into the castle, fall all over him, simper my undying love … Ew.

  "There are still idiots who believe in the prophecy," he says, looking down at me. No, he towers over me, lords over me like he owns the fucking place. I mean, I guess technically he does, but I've always had a problem with authority, so screw him. "Like Tweedledee for example. And if I can't appease the simpletons, I could very well have a riot on my hands. But don't worry, Alice. All I needed was for you to fail, and you're doing an excellent job at that already."

  The King starts moving as my fingers loosen on his arm, his footsteps loud as he heads down the dark hallway in the opposite direction from my room. I wait until he's out of sight and then lean my back against the stone wall, sinking to the floor with my robe and nightgown billowing around me.

  I never asked for any of this.

  So why the hell do I feel so goddamn bad about it all?

  It's not my responsibility. What should I care if the King makes a fool of me before he sends me home? It's what I want anyway. I should be happy about it.

  And yet … I'm not.

  Not at all.

  I feel like crying, like the original Alice from the storybook, shedding so many tears that I flood the entire castle. But I don't cry anymore, remember?

  Brushing a small bit of liquid off my face, I stand up and shake the feelings off before I make a liar out of myself.

  Instead of crying, or running away … I’ll just have to prove the King of Hearts wrong.

  "Rise and shine, Allison-who-isn't-Alice," Dee says, stroking a finger down the length of my nose. "We've got a busy day today. Breakfast with the King, training with the Duke, and your dress fitting for the ball."

  "A ball?" I ask with a groan, pushing Dee's hand away from my face. "How cliché is this place?"

  "Clichés are simply repeated patterns," Dee says, grabbing the pillow I've just chucked over my face and prying it from my sleepy fingers. "They couldn't even be clichés unless we repeated them. A princess arrives at the castle, and we have a ball. It all fits the story, you see."

  "All I want to see are the backs of my own eyelids," I say, but my blankets are being thrown off and onto the floor. Dee is already dressed in his usual outfit: painted on black denim jeans, a button-up shirt, and his blue and black military coat. He's even got his peaked cap nestled onto his blue-streaked black hair.

  "Breakfast is always served in the garden," he says, setting a stack of clothes on the bed next to me. I recognize Edith's dress right away and my heart catches in my chest. When I'm home, I hate her. Now that I'm here, I miss her terribly. "And lunch today will be served in the solarium. Training with the Duke will take place in the athletic facility between meals, and your fitting will be later this afternoon."

  "Where's Tee?" I ask groggily, rubbing at my face as Dee brings over a cup of tea and carefully places it on the intricately carved nightstand next to the bed. The top is made out of a piece of red quartz in the shape of a heart. Back home, I'd have flipped my lid to own furniture even half this nice—or this cool. No boring oak shit here. No, everything I look at is a piece of art, something different. Sometimes it's kooky, sometimes it's ugly, but it's always interesting.

  Can't say that about home.

  "He's with the King; they all are," Dee says, nodding his head at the paintings on the wall. "But he shouldn't be long. We're yours now. We'll be spending all our time with you." Dee lifts his chin in the direction of my tea. "Drink up. It has a light energy boost in it, that's it. It won't fuck you up." He winks at me, claps his heavy steel-toed boots together, and offers up a salute. "Soldier’s honor, miss."

  "Can I wear something else?" I ask, rubbing the white apron of the dress between my fingers. This dress represents the conundrum inside my head and heart; I don't want to wear it right now.

  "You can wear whatever you like," Dee says, opening the closet door and moving over to a row with dozens … maybe hundreds of outfits in glittering high-def.

  Jesus.

  Edith would shit her pants for this. Maybe she should've been the Alice? We were at the same party after all. In fact, she had to beg me to go. What if this is all some sort of mistake, and I'm stealing my little sister's destiny? I watch Dee walk back toward me, thinking that maybe he should’ve been hers.

  That thought infuriates me.

  I push the stack of clothes aside and stand up suddenly, throwing my arms around Dee's neck and pressing my lips to his. As soon as I do, I feel it, that power exchange between us. The air smells fresh and crisp, a mountain high that swirls around us. Dee's jacket explodes outward to make room for his wings, the fabric billowing in the rush of magic.

  We have a bright citrus-y kiss, like spring and lemonade. I smell flowers and an easy breeze, my tongue tangling with Dee's as he wraps his arms around me and lifts me off my feet. Only my toes are touching now, and just barely. The fingers of my right hand tangle in his hair, while I use my left to shove the chains from his wings.

  They hit the floor in a clanging heap, echoing around the circular bedroom.

  "The King will be furious," Dee whispers against my mouth after a moment. But I don't care. If the twins are supposed to belong to me, then I'll damn well do with them what I want. And what I want are their wings, free and clear. Not that I mind kissing them every day, but I want to find the witch that cursed them and get rid of this spell. Whoever she is, she's going to be sorry when I get my hands on her.

  Dee wraps his wings around us like a cocoon, cutting us off from the outside world. I love that, feeling safe inside his feathers. His breath stirs my hair as I look up into his sapphire eyes, sliding my hands over his shoulders to tickle his feathers.

  You just met this dude, my brain continues, ever the persistent optimist. And yet, I can't bring myself to care. I like being around Dee, more than I ever liked being around Brandon or … Liam. Especially Liam. And the sex is better, too. If Liam weren't already dead, I'd go back home with the Vorpal Blade and the Queenmaker, and I'd kill him myself.

  "You let me worry about the King," I say, stepping back and enjoying the soft brush of Dee's feathers against my bare arms and shoulders. After last night, I'm more determined than ever to piss the asshole monarch off. After all, who was the focus of the prophecy? Not him. I am the one who’s supposed to save Underland, so who the fuck does he think he is? You know, besides the ruler of an entire country.

  It's virtually impossible for me to leave an
asshole that smug, that arrogant alone. Nah, it's my job in life to bring him down a notch or two.

  "By the way," I start, making my way over to the row of clothes and putting my hands on my hips. "What's the King's name?"

  "It's Brennin," Dee says, pausing next to me and reaching out to finger an outfit that's eerily similar to his own that’s hanging on the rack next to the one with all the dresses. "Brennin Red."

  "Red, huh?" I ask, grabbing the outfit Dee’s touching off the rack and taking it from the hanger. The jacket and button-up are basically identical to his, save the color which, of course, is red. There are no jeans though, just a pleated red skirt. I like it though. Boots and pleated skirts are sort of my thing. Drives Edith nuts. “You people like to keep things themed, huh?” I move over to one of the stands in the center of the room, the top encased in glass with a black velvet cushion beneath, laden with jewels. There are drawers down the side of it where undergarments are kept. Shocker: all the panties are white with red hearts on them. Bras, too.

  I drop my nightgown to the ground and glance over my shoulder to find Dee watching me, his eyes half-lidded and burning. When he flicks his gaze up from my ass to my face, a slow smile takes over his mouth.

  “The King likes to keep things branded,” he says, his voice husky as I turn away with a chuckle and get dressed, slipping into the skirt which hits at mid-thigh, my new bra, and the button-up shirt. I leave the panties for last and then decide to tuck them into the front pocket of Dee’s jacket instead. The look he gives me is freaking priceless. He cups his palm over the pocket and smiles lasciviously. “He’s a very controlling individual, as if you couldn’t tell.”

  “Well then.” I shrug into the red and black military coat, sweep my hair out from under the collar, and step into a pair of boots before turning around to throw a feisty smirk Dee’s way. "Let's go get breakfast with Brennin Red then. If that piece of shit thinks I'm going to call him Your Majesty, then he's got another thing coming."

  As soon as we step into the back garden, I start to hear voices.

  Panic surges through me and for the briefest of moments, I wonder if I really am crazy, if I've dreamt this whole thing up. They say schizophrenia sets in during puberty, right? I mean, I’m way past puberty—I started my period at age twelve—but there’s still a chance, isn’t there?

  "I can see right up your skirt, and you're not wearing any skivvies," a matronly voice says from near my right ankle. With a squeak, I jump and slap my hands over my ass, glancing back to glare at Dee. I'm expecting a servant—maybe a human one this time—but instead, I don't see anything but the handsome man with the azure eyes looking at me curiously. "And if you're not going to wear skivvies, could you at least have manicured down there?" the voice continues from somewhere in the cluster of daffodils.

  On closer inspection … I realize that the voice isn't coming from inside the cluster. No, the daffodils are fucking talking.

  I did not see any of this shit when I was mini and creeping through the small garden door. Think I would've noticed if the local flora had nasty, judgmental attitudes.

  "What the fuck …?" I start as the flower scoffs at me. "You can talk?!"

  "We can talk—provided there's anyone worth talking to," replies a tiger-lily from the next garden bed. They're laid out in color coordinated rows, creating a beautiful waving rainbow effect from where we stand, all the way out to the exterior walls where the roses drip with blood. I can smell it from here, the metallic copper bite mixed with the sweet cloying smell of rot.

  "Soon as I saw you," the daffodil continues, tugging at the lace of my boot with one of her leaves, "I said to the others, 'Her face has got some sense in it, though it's not a clever one!'"

  The flowers chortle in unison, waving in the breeze.

  "If you don't hold your tongues, I'll pick you," Dee says, putting his boot dreadfully close to the face of the bitchy daffodil. When I bend down and squint, I can just make out her tiny eyes. She's most definitely glaring at me. And then, as we stand there, she lifts her leaves up and makes a gesture that I'm pretty sure is meant to convey a staunch fuck off message.

  "Talking flowers," I say to Dee as I stand up. "I never thought of that before."

  "It's my opinion that you never think at all," the red rose says.

  "I never saw anybody that looked stupider," a violet chimes in, just before Dee bends down and plucks several of the flowers up by their stems. My mouth hangs open in shock as he lifts up the bouquet—now containing a daffodil, tiger-lily, rose, and violet—and hands it over to me. Blood drips from the stems, and I feel bile rise in my throat.

  "What have you done?" I choke out as I feel leaves pummeling my calves.

  "He's just plucked my prettiest blossom," the matronly voice says, coming from a different daffodil. "What a foul, lazy, useless beast. It's no wonder that his people went extinct!"

  Dee plucks another daffodil and adds it to the bunch.

  "The flowers are inhabited by pixie spirits," Dee says, pushing the bouquet closer to me. The blood has mostly stopped dripping, though there are spatters of it all across the white gravel. "If you pick one flower, they just move onto another."

  "Eat shit," one of the roses says, ruffling up its petals. I carefully extract the bouquet from Dee's hand, feeling our fingers brush together in the process. Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I try to pretend that I don't see the majority of the men sitting at a table under a gazebo, watching us.

  Dee lifts his wings for a moment, shading my face from the sun before he leans in and puts his lips close to my ear.

  "I'm afraid," he says, but I just turn my face and kiss him again, lifting up my right hand to push his wing out of the way so that everyone can see. Fuck you, Brennin Red. You might be a king, but you're not my king. I'm an American, goddamn it. We don't respond well to authority.

  "Don't be; I've got you."

  I turn and follow the winding path through the garden over to the table where the King sits front and center, his arms crossed over his chest, his ebon eyes sliding over my shoulder to glare at Dee.

  But … he doesn't say anything.

  Lucky him.

  When Brennin looks back at me, I can see the smallest hint of a smile on his face. It's not a pleasant expression though, not even close.

  "Good morning, Alice," he says, putting such a strong emphasis on my name that I know it's on purpose. He gestures for me to take a seat opposite him, opposite all the men really. On the opposite side of this table, there are nine seats.

  And just me on this side.

  Dee makes his way around me and sits on the far end, opposite his brother. I can feel Tee watching him, watching me, taking in the situation. His wings are next, preferably if I can kiss him in front of both the King and the Hatter.

  Just taking in the row of male specimens, I can sense it: two supreme alpha assholes.

  "Well, well, aren't we looking lovely this morning?" Raiden Walker oozes, his purple velvet top hat sliding forward on his head, the brim casting the most perfect of shadows across his marmalade colored eyes.

  "Eat shit, asshole," I say, turning to the King. "This man tried to kill your Duke, tried to sell me to the King of Clubs, and blackmailed his way into the castle. And you're going to sit here and have breakfast with this piece of crap?"

  The Mad Hatter throws his head back and laughs at me, flashing fang.

  "You're one very brave woman," Raiden says as the King's mouth lifts up at the edge again. He's wearing the same suit from last night. Would not have surprised me if he wore it all night and never slept. Do villains really need to sleep? Or do they just run off evil batteries? He probably charges them by kicking puppies and burning books.

  "Not really," I say with a sneer, sitting down and popping my bloody bouquet into a glass of ice water. "I just don't like you." I tap my nails on the table and let my gaze drift to North, sitting on the King's left. Chesh is next, then Lar, with Dee on the end. On the opposite side, the Hatter sits ne
xt to March, Rab, and Tee. Behind Raiden and March, there's a host of palace guards … and Dor.

  I really, really, really don't like Dor.

  The way he's looking at the back of North's head is scaring the skirt off me. The dragon … err, jabberwock … seems to know he's being hunted though. His tail is thrashing violently against the white and red stone patio, and he keeps looking over his shoulder. I wonder how Dor caught him off guard in the first place? He's not a man easily taken advantage of.

  "You don't like me?" the Hatter asks, taking off his purple hat and revealing a marmalade colored one underneath that matches his eyes. Instead of In the Style of 10/6 on the tag, this one reads In The Spirit of 10. It's probably a reference to the nine men in the prophecy, plus me. See, I'm not stupid. What I am is frustrated. "But we had such a lovely trip together?"

  "You are not part of my nine," I say with a snarl. Maybe I'm getting too involved in this prophecy shit, but I can't help it. "None of you are unless I say it." I pause and wet my lower lip. I've always been a fan of the underdog … "And Tee and Dee most certainly are."

  One of Rab's white ears swivels in my direction and he smiles. It's almost pleasant. Almost. If his smile wasn't as icy as his voice, I might think he was enjoying the moment.

  "And …" I feel like I might regret this later. "North." My voice catches in my throat, and I stuff a scone in my mouth to cut off the sound. Pretty sure I got lucky with my choice of food though. As I chew, I notice that the breakfast assortment this morning is, how should I say, eclectic. Some of the boys have colored drinks with crickets for garnishes. I'm pretty sure Tee is drinking out of a large blue flower—a real one.

  "Quite bloody right," North says, giving me a look across the table. His gold eyes meet mine just before he snakes his tail underneath and wraps my ankle. I even let it go this time.