The Fae Lord's Fated Mate: Gay Mpreg Fantasy Romance

by J B Black

  The Fae Lord’s Fated Mate

  Gay Mpreg Fantasy Romance

  J.B. Black

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  The Fae Lord’s Fated Mate by JB Black

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  FAE LORD’S FATED MATE

  Copyright © 2020 J.B. Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Love doesn't always show up when it's convenient.

  Oliver never fit the warlock mold. Unable to use magic without music, he was the black sheep of the Duval family, so when he ran away, no one came looking.

  Five years later, he has a new life. He's the drummer of London Frost — a band on the edge of making it big.

  If only he hadn't picked up that fae he found on the street.

  Taron had it all. In line to become a lord of Faerie, he never expected his childhood friend and first love to be destined for his brother. Heartbroken, the fae flees to Earth. Crossing worlds is the first mar on an otherwise perfect record, but it might just be the best choice he's ever made.

  For fae, a life without magic is unthinkable, but each day with Oliver makes Taron think maybe that's the life he wanted all along.

  The drummer makes him want to be better. They raise each other up, but where Taron clings to this new beginning, Oliver isn't so sure.

  Falling in love and expecting to be left aren't mutually exclusive. The harder Oliver falls, the more certain he becomes that he's racing against the clock. Every bit of wonderful he worked hard to get in his new non-magic life crumbles when he imagines the what-ifs Taron has waiting for him.

  No amount of mortal fame and fortune can compare to magic.

  Can Taron convince Oliver to trust him and give love a chance?

  Other Works By J.B. Black

  Fated Mate Novellas

  The Forest God’s Fertile Hunter

  The Fae Prince’s Fated Mate

  The Crown Prince’s Fated Mate

  The Wandering Warlock’s Fated Mate

  The Fae King’s Fated Mate

  From Forest God’s Head Scribe to Fertile Bride

  From Warlock’s Familiar to His Alpha Husband

  Pining Rival to Virile Mate

  Becoming the Incubus’s Fertile Mate

  Proud Dragon’s Fated Mate

  The Island God’s Fated Mate

  The Rebel Warlock’s Wizard Mate

  M/F Fertile Fantasies

  Fertile Fairytale Horde

  Fertile Fairytale Horde 2

  Major Explicit Short Bundle

  Pleasured by the Demon Lord

  Chapter One

  Louder and louder, their music soared. The sound twirled around the studio, bouncing off the walls. Oliver lived for this. His drumsticks pounded out the beat as Ben riffed on his bass. Calvin propelled them with his voice, driving them faster and faster with every note between his deep timbre and the sharp clarity of his guitar. Just the three of them together. Nobody else in the world existed in these moments when they chased the height of perfection in their studio. No pressure to record. None of the expectations of some unknown audience from the clubs or the dive bars they played calling out for covers when they just wanted to play something new.

  Nothing existed like this in the world. All the energy building in the room remained when the last note sounded, reverberating around their panting breaths in the dimming light of their rented room in the huge warehouse which served as a block for all sorts of artists.

  “That was perfect!” Calvin cheered, spinning around with a grin.

  Ben smirked, but his dark eyes remained on his base as his fingers bounced between chords silently. “I don’t know. You guys think it’s catchy? Love songs are so lame if they aren’t crowd grabbers.”

  Behind his drums, Oliver snorted. “Don’t bullshit, Benny.”

  “Yeah, we all know this is for Carol, and if it just sets the stage for you finally proposing, we’re all on board,” Calvin added as he ran a hand through his bleached blond hair.

  Flushing darkly, the bassist glared at his bandmates. “I can’t propose! We don’t even have a record done yet!”

  “We’re close,” Oliver replied, setting his sticks in his bag as he cleaned off his drums. “A couple more gigs, and we can pay for studio space.”

  With a shrug, Calvin stuck his guitar in its case. “We could just throw stuff up online. Isn’t there that new video sharing site? I heard it was starting to take off.”

  “That’s like asking someone to steal our stuff if we don’t have a place for them to buy it linked in,” Ben grumbled.

  Seated behind his drums, Oliver sighed. The two often argued, and while the possibility of growing their audience outside the city offered a near irresistible temptation, they had heard enough horror stories of what could come or not come from that kind of exposure. If they put up their music and the response remained contained to their current fans, Ben’s pessimism would spiral, and Carol could only encourage him so much. They almost had the funds. If only they hadn’t had to pay for the practice space, they would have been able to save faster, but Calvin had the only house, but his parents had needed the finished basement when his grandmother moved in to live with them.

  But none of that mattered. Soon the world would know London Frost. Professionally recorded music up on websites and available to buy in CDs. They’d be able to raise money to go on tour again, and the shit hostels and sleeping in Ben’s van could be replaced by a half-way decent tour bus or even just motels where Ben didn’t sleep curled around his bass.

  “Fuck, it’s pretty late,” Calvin said, glancing down at his cell. “I’ve got to run.”

  “I can give you a ride if you miss your train,” Ben suggested, but Calvin had already run off with his guitar on his back. With a chuckle, the bassist glanced back at Oliver. “You good?”

  Oliver shrugged. “My flat’s the closest. It takes me like ten minutes to walk home.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the pretty boy,” Ben teased. When Oliver glared, he laughed. “See you, Ollie.”

  “Night, Benny.”

  Tying his long brown hair back, Oliver stood, stretching as he glanced around their studio to make sure everything was in its rightful place. Unlike his friends, he couldn’t take his drums back and forth with him. The area was safe enough, and once he was sure Ben was gone, there was a little bit more he could do. Seconds ticked by. Only silence remained, and humming a small tune, the brown-haired man stretched out his arms with his palms facing the walls.

  His magic never worked on will alone. Not the way a warlock’s magic shoulder. His younger brother could imagine anything into being, teleporting here and there with ease, but Oliver never managed. Too sensitive to the magic of others and too out of sync with his own, he always needed something to carry him along, but for a strong warding spell, a simple humming tune was enough. He wandered through a few songs, strengthening the walls and shielding the room from those who might attack the building. Another song hid his drums from view. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he slid the door shut and clicked the lock into place. One last song to make the lock impervious to cutting
or picking, and the drummer headed off on his way, letting the soft humming notes slowly fade with each step.

  Nowadays, Oliver rarely used his magic. Most warlocks and witches flung spells around all day, but the drummer called upon his inheritance only when locking up their practice space or to ease tensions if someone tried to start a fight during one of their performances. For all that Ben and Calvin thought his looks kept tempers down, his magic did the work. If men flirted with him just as much as women, he didn’t mind. He swung both ways. Well, he did when he bothered to swing at all. People exhausted him. Good music, good food, and good friends were all he needed. A beard kept back those who had been flirting with him due to the androgyny of his natural features, and Calvin happily fielded the few women who still tried to flirt with the band’s drummer. The men proved harder to deter.

  But late at night, no matter what Ben thought, none of that mattered. Long hair didn’t change the broadness of his shoulders or narrowness of his hips. If anything, in the dark, fewer people saw him as a target of interest because whatever symmetry might have attracted them to his face blended into the dark. Or, perhaps, a few of his warding spells spilled over from their studio space onto him. He never could control his magic perfectly.

  In the cold winter air, Oliver strolled down the streets, heading from the warehouse district toward his one-bedroom flat. He’d had the same place since he ran away from home at just sixteen. Nobody expected much of him, so they didn’t bother chasing after. His parents knew where he went. Oliver might not have told them, but his mother could always scry for his location. As he hadn’t moved in the last five years, he had no reason to believe he had completely disappeared from their radius even if the money he used came from his own hard work and not the trust fund his grandfather left him. For all Oliver cared, his brother could take that too. That money depended upon living up to the family’s standards, and nobody in that line of magic-obsessed mortal-hating bunch would ever believe being the drummer of London Frost stood up to them. Even if they managed to take off, fame held power only if he intended to use it that way, and he just wanted to live his life doing what made him happy. Even when he lived under his parents’ roof, they hadn’t understood, so he had no expectation of that changing. Five years without a word. People like the Duvals never really changed. They’d only reach out to complain if they were upset he hadn’t bothered to change his name.

  Shaking his head in hopes of clearing it, Oliver caught a glimpse of something silver and glittering in a nearby alleyway. Curiosity — or perhaps fate — pulled him like a magnet into the dark corridor. Surrounded by black garbage bags, a man slumped in the trash. His silver hair fell about his face in disarray, but even the dirt and grunge couldn’t hide his natural allure. Full lips, a straight note, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass looked like a better fit for the cover of some fancy magazine or an ad on Piccadilly rather than the garbage on the poorer end of London. Dressed all in black, the man blended well enough in color, but his clothes were fine fabrics, and the leather gloves covering his long-fingered hands told a story of gentility which further cemented Oliver’s certainty that this man did not belong here.

  One by one, Oliver tugged the trash bags from the man’s form. Up close, the beauty of the unconscious man’s features only intensified, and dread sank like a stone in the drummer’s stomach. This was no ordinary man. Reaching out, the brown-haired man pressed two fingers to the other man’s throat, and a sharp shock of powerful magic tingled across his fingers in time with the steady heartbeat.

  “Fuck,” Oliver whispered.

  This wasn’t just a man. The slight point to the ears and the way his magic oozed out of him as if accustomed to a world entirely made of the chaotic stuff served to clearly show that the unconscious male was a fae. With Faerie having locked its doors to most back in the sixteenth century, no modern magic user had ever seen a fae. At least, that was how it had been five years ago. Running away hadn’t just cut off contact with the drummer’s family. The warlocks and wizards of the council did their best to keep track of anyone with magic, but they expected the family to do so, and while Oliver believed his parents could find him if they were inclined, the lack of messages from the local council suggested they had either not shared his leaving with them or that they had gone through the motions to officially outcast him. Either one meant he had no idea if the fae laying in the garbage before him was the first fae on Earth in several centuries or if Faerie had reopened in the last five years.

  A memory — foggy and faded — arose in the drummer’s mind. That wasn’t entirely correct. While Faerie stood closed, there was one time in which the royal court came with some escorts to meet with the highest members of the magical community. Once every century, they came, but the last time had only been eight years ago. Oliver attended with his brother and parents. That was where his brother met his fated mate. Where Oliver recognized how hopelessly sensitive his body was to magic.

  Pushing his panic down, Oliver jostled the man. “Hey! Wake up!” The fae remained unresponsive. “Shit.”

  If Faerie had opened beyond that, Oliver had no idea what sort of responsibilities he had to help a fae. Magic users owed each other protection when they saw one another if mortals threatened either party without provocation, but that held no legal backing by the council whereas the deference that warlocks and witches often gave fae had some expectation of guest laws activating the moment a fae stepped onto Earth and came across a magic user. Worse still, Oliver had no way of knowing if the fae was nobility or not.

  For his life to continue as it had been going, the drummer ought to have left the fae, but when Oliver’s hand rested on the man’s shoulder, the silver-haired fae released a pitious groan, and Oliver’s shoulders sagged.

  “I guess you can come home with me,” the brown-haired man murmured, and wrapping an arm around the man, he hefted him to his feet.

  Even slumped against Oliver, the fae stood a good few inches taller, and the drummer beat out the rest of his bandmates at a solid six foot. Worse still, the fae collapsed the majority of his weight upon Oliver. Years of hard work meant the drummer’s muscles were strong despite their lean appearance, so he gritted his teeth and carried the man the rest of the way to his flat. At the bottom of the stairs, Oliver sighed, shifting his grip and heaving the man onto his back. The fae’s face pressed into his neck; full lips parted, and hot breath sent a shiver down his spine as it puffed against his neck.

  With every step, a strange frustration brewed inside the drummer. It wasn’t longing. That, he had felt before. Instead, it blended between a sense of unease and an exhausted impatience that buzzed along his nerves like anxiety. Both of which made sense. He didn’t know the fae. Had never known any fae. Nobody had. If he wasn’t nervous about what would happen when the other man awoke, then he would be the fool his family had thought him to be when he needed music to guide his magic.

  Balancing the fae carefully, Oliver unlocked his door, and with a huff, he deposited him upon the couch before stretching out his back with a groan as he flicked on the lights. Still, the fae breathed peacefully as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Oliver kicked his door shut, snapping the lock into place as he studied the fae. “Tell me you aren’t cursed.”

  No response came. He hadn’t expected one, but alcohol would have been significantly easier to handle than a curse. Oliver took a seat opposite to the fae, drumming his fingers on the side table as he hummed the tune to his alarm. Bit by bit, his magic gathered in the air, and his stomach churned as it swirled about his previously magic-free apartment. It would take weeks to get the itch out.

  As his magic spiraled higher and higher, the fae shifted. His eyes moved rapidly behind the thin skin of his eyelids, and his pale lashes fluttered against his cheeks before they opened slowly. With his pale skin and violet-silver hair, the brilliant honeycomb gold of his eyes was all the more shocking. His gaze pierced Oliver to his core.

  “Have I died
?” the fae asked. His voice came deeper still than Calvin. It rumbled, low and rolling as the sound traveled like touch across Oliver’s body. “Is this Heaven?”

  Shaking his head, the drummer said, “You’re alive and on Earth.”

  A small smile formed on the fae’s lips. “I feel as if I am floating. I suppose breaking through the Queen’s locks to escape Faerie drained me more than I expected, but if it brought me to this place with you, I would do it thousand times and a thousand times again.” Slowly and with strain upon his face, the fae sat up. His eyes glistened. “I am Taron, dear angel, and by what wondrous name are you called?”

  “Oliver.”

  Obviously, the fae had to be under some sort of spell. While isolation might have explained his mannerisms, the other’s eyes held an intensity which sent strange shivers down the drummer’s spine. Taron looked to him as if he were a dying man and Oliver a promise of salvation. Those eyes were much more dangerous than the men and women who came seeking a feast like starving men. Starving men could be redirected toward other feasts, but such succor as eternity had difficulty being refocused.

  Smiling with a sleepy contentedness, Taron ran his fingers over the fabric of the couch on which he sat. “Oliver. Hmm, that’s a lovely name.”

  “Thanks? Anyway, what are you doing on Earth? I thought Faerie was still closed off,” Oliver said as he stood. The weight of Taron’s eyes followed him as he went into the kitchen to fetch two glasses of water.

  “It is, sadly. However, I couldn’t remain there any longer,” Taron said with a sigh. “You see, dear angel, I was in love with a beautiful lady. A fae renowned for her intelligence and fairness. I had loved her since we were children. We were all but betrothed,” the fae drawled, and though his tone forewarned of heartbreak, the distraction from the sheer weight of his sudden and unnatural attention upon Oliver put the drummer somewhat more at ease. “Alas, it was not to be. She found her fated mate in my younger brother.”