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

by J B Black

  Frowning, Oliver held out the glass of water. “You were all but betrothed, and your brother kissed her?”

  “Oh, thank you,” Taron said, taking the water. His brows furrowed as he considered the drummer’s words. “I forgot that is how you often discover your mates as mortal conduits of magic. No, my darling heart, fae are more cautious in our pursuits. When we are of an age to marry, we either go to a string master or create glasses of our own to see and pursue the string. For some, the string guides them quickly while others are forced into perilous journeys to become who they must be to be what their mate needs when they meet them. My first love — the fae lady of whom I speak — is my elder in some years, and while that did not separate us as children, it meant she would have gone on her quest for love first.”

  “Would have?”

  Taron sipped his water before nodding. “My brother never adhered to customs. I knew he studied string magic as he left every other lesson to me. I alone learned Faerie law and how to maintain our land with my magic while he spent his days in the library. Then on Lady Vivianna’s birthday, he came with string glasses already made, proclaiming before the whole court that they were destined.”

  “Despite knowing how you felt about her?” Oliver asked, and he whistled lowly when the fae nodded. “That’s brutal.”

  “I do not believe he thought it was. It was fate. They belonged to one another, and the string master confirmed, leaving me heartbroken and caught at court with the lady I loved so quickly abandoning me for my brother,” Taron explained as he set down the glass. Tears gathered in his eyes. “I have respected the strings all my life. Every fae has a mate, and it is unheard of for a fae to marry anyone else. I knew if she was not mine that I could not have her, but I believed — I truly believed she was mine.”

  Oliver’s heart ached for Taron. Moving to sit beside the fae, he patted the other’s back as the silver-haired man covered his face with his hands. Obviously, the affection which Taron aimed at him earlier had only been a front to try to bury his shattered love, and the story struck a familiar chord. Though Oliver’s younger brother, James, hadn’t purposefully hurt him, the weight of another sibling’s luck — whether it be an incredible talent for magic or a string between fated mates which stole a first love — held a similar hurt.

  James had met his mate younger than most. He had kissed the daughter of the Head Witch for all of the United Kingdom on a whim during a winter festival, and the two had been together ever since with a promise to marry after university. With only a year between him and his brother, James likely would be married soon if they hadn’t decided to move up the date out of impatience, but perfect James likely wouldn’t dare to veer from the plan their parents set for him. He would wed the summer after his graduation which would theoretically be a year and a half from now. From there, James would rise in the ranks, likely becoming Head Warlock as his wife inherited her mother’s title of Head Witch. It wasn’t supposed to be passed along family lines, but that often happened, and wouldn’t that make the Duvals the most powerful family in the community? A perfect rise to power.

  “You can stay here as long as you like,” Oliver invited as his heart thrummed in pain for himself and for the familiar helpless grief he saw in Taron. “This couch is pretty comfortable, and I’m usually out at work or with my band, so you’d have space to yourself most days.”

  Shifting, Taron wrapped his arms about Oliver, pulling the brown-haired man into a sudden hug. “I impose upon your kindness as long as you would have me, but being alone would be unbearable.”

  Warmth surrounded Oliver, and the strange conflicted emotions returned. He had invited a stranger into his home, so the drummer did his best to push aside his unease as fae law dictated that guests not attack their hosts. Of any being in the world, a fae was the best to invite inside in this way, and the binding of duty between them — between guest and host — set a particular line of laws in motion which dated back thousands of years, yet how long had it been since someone had hugged him? Calvin got handsy now and again, but his embraces came with the spell of alcohol or on the high of a great performance. Otherwise, one-armed hugs and quick pats made up the bulk of the touches Oliver received. His coworkers at the bar weren’t handsy, and he hadn’t been on a date in over a year. Even when he had, the touch of another person always startled the brown-haired man, leaving him feeling awkward in his own skin, but in Taron’s arms, that strange unease and nervousness brewed together into an unfamiliar calm. It was as if his body recognized the other as another magical being — the first he had been around to his knowledge in five years — and finally relaxed, which was ridiculous. Magic never put him at ease before.

  Of course, the way his body relaxed into Taron’s embrace curled strangely in his stomach, and Oliver pulled back. “I’ll show you how to work the bathroom and get the couch set-up for you.”

  The fae nodded, smiling with stars in his tawny honeycomb eyes. Adoration and fondness which hadn’t been earned swirled in that gaze, and it held firmly to his heart, leaving him unmoored and tethered at the same time. Conflict curled about him. It slithered into places he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge existed within himself. Needs and wants he pushed down resurfaced and then withered, dying as he showed the fae how to turn on the shower and the basics to a modern apartment. Every bit of it inspired wonder.

  By the time everything settled with the fae tucked into the couch made up as a bed, Oliver found the weight of the other’s presence settled in an entirely new way. Inside the wards of his flat, a stranger slept. Though he couldn’t hear him from his bedroom, Oliver felt the gravity of the other’s magic, itching against the wards no matter how the fae never put any of that power to use. However long Taron remained, he would eat away at the normalcy Oliver ran away to find, but hospitality laws prevented the drummer from tossing the fae back out onto the street almost as solidly as his empathy for the other’s circumstances.

  Curled up beneath the blankets, Oliver hummed a small tune, luring himself into sleep and reinforcing the wards around his bedroom as he prayed he wasn’t making a mistake.

  Chapter Two

  Taron never expected hospitality. Earth held an allure for how quickly things changed. All of Faerie reminded him of her, and seeing her dressed in white and happy to walk down the aisle to his brother when she had proclaimed affection for him not even a week prior left his mind spiraling. His younger brother, Levon, hadn’t smiled. He never smiled. For all that Levon rebelled against Faerie law, he had the deadest face of any courtier. None of the other lords and ladies wanted much to do with him, and by marrying him, Marguerite would be similarly outcast. After all the effort she put into her education to better her family’s circumstances, she wedded a man who wanted nothing to do with the people who she would need to achieve any substantial change in the world.

  Watching the whole affair, Taron stood at his brother’s side though his heart broke. Not that Levon acknowledged anything. Everything was so simple for him. Fate dictated Marguerite belonged to him, so he informed her and wed her without consideration to what those around them thought or wanted, and for some unknown reason, Marguerite moved smoothly from one brother to the other as if she had never loved Taron at all. Perhaps she hadn’t. He never found the courage to ask.

  “We will head out on a tour of Faerie as our honeymoon,” Marguerite told him after he had done his best to politely avoid her.

  Keeping his polite smile in place, Taron wished her well, but Levon interrupted, “We’re not going on a honeymoon.”

  Marguerite’s brow furrowed. “We discussed this, darling. The man was for a honeymoon around the whole of Faerie.”

  “No, you said you wanted to travel, and I stated I had no intention of leaving. Fluttering from court to court,” Levon scoffed, wrinkling his nose in the first display of emotion Taron had seen all day. “I have no desire to make nice with the blue-bloods.”

  “You are a noble,” Taron reminded him.

  But Le
von just rolled his eyes. “A second son. As you inherit, no one cares what I do.”

  Exhaustion swept up where rage normally would have come to Marguerite’s defense, but there was nothing righteous in his heart. Fate placed her with Levon. They were wed. Mated and married. Bound together for the rest of eternity. If they failed to see eye to eye on such simple matters, they would tear each other apart. Both were stubborn. Perhaps fate saw that and set them together. Taron found his determined nature easily enough set aside for love, but the same streak of selfish self-gratification lay in his heart, and it thrilled to see his brother irritating the woman he had loved so soon into their marriage. He would not play their mediator. Not anymore.

  “Excuse me. I must speak with Lord Kettenhaul,” Taron stated, retreating with a nod to the bride and groom.

  She turned upon him, hissing as Levon rolled his eyes, obviously not interested in whatever she had to say. None of that mattered. Not now. Mates found their way to each other, and even if Levon rushed the strings of fate, they still would find their way to each other. Anyone who tried to get between would only serve as a stepping stone, and Taron refused to find his heart breaking again.

  “Theodus,” Taron greeted as Kettenhaul sipped on some fine brandy. “It’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

  Theodus Kettenhaul snorted. “Your brother and his new wife haven’t greeted any of their guests. She’s tried to soften his edges, but I think even Marguerite won’t be able to temper his roughness.” When Taron’s smile cracked at the edges, Theodus shook his head. “I mean no disrespect. This is a lovely wedding, but we’ve all taken bets on how long your brother will remain before returning to his books and experiments. Thank the gods you were born first. Can you imagine him as a lord?”

  While his fellow lord shivered, Taron quickly contained his magic which had been tearing at the edges of Faerie all day. He wanted out. Longed to get as far away as the other end of the universe, but Faerie held too many memories. A world all its own, it wasn’t nearly large enough to escape from Marguerite or his brother. His duty would always bring him back, and even when he inherited, he would be expected to permit his brother and his brother’s wife to maintain their rooms in the castle. Marguerite’s family wasn’t wealthy enough to support them, and Levon would never put the effort into what would be necessary to get them a home of their own. He would be stuck with them for the rest of his life.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Taron managed to say though he almost choked upon the words. Retreating, he fled through the gardens.

  No one would have placed money on him breaking first. Etiquette and decorum came so easily to him. He loved dancing. Enjoyed talking and playing the game of politics. But he hated the pressure of those eyes seeing just what he saw. Every glance saw his brother and Marguerite without an idea about how they could fit together. None of it made sense, but Levon wasn’t the sort to manipulate. Impatience might have inspired the studying and ignoring the protocols and procedures which dictated how a fae approach the search for their fated mate; however, the string master confirmed what Levon proclaimed, and they were both of age to marry. Honestly, string masters usually only became involved if affairs were tangled and later in life. It wasn’t a coming of age but a coming to the end of an age that brought them around. Otherwise, faes generally recognized one another and only went to confirm what they knew to be true.

  Standing in the grove of weeping willows, Taron wept as the branches flowed around him in the breeze. His heart ached. The dimming glow of Faerie’s setting light signaled night, but he saw no rest before him. On the day his brother announced their mate bond, Taron had been prepared to propose. Everyone else in their family knew. Surely, Levon had heard. Taron repeatedly mentioned it, but it was so difficult to know what his brother actually heard when he spent so much time focused on his books. Had Levon loved her the whole time? Had this been a desperate attempt to stop the love of Levon’s life from being married to his brother?

  If that had been the case, it wouldn’t have gone through. If Marguerite accepted Taron’s proposal, they would have affirmed their bond with the string master. It would have been simple. A dissolution of the proposal as was understood, yet Levon came in and swept her from his arms when there was no need to fear an erroneous binding. No matter how the silver-haired fae turned the events since that moment over and over in his mind, he could not figure out what his brother had been thinking. He yearned to wish Levon all the happiness in the world, but the words would not form. Grief and confusion and hurt remained in their stead.

  Which is why he tore through the spells which kept Faerie locked away. Through royal protocols which he had always respected and ancient magics which kept anyone from accidentally wandering between worlds as they had once done. Falling through into a darker world, he had barely understood up from down when the drain on his magic — caught stitching up the gate behind him to hide his escape — finally hit him. If he never woke, all the better.

  But then he had. His heart leapt, racing as his eyes landed on the most beautiful man he had ever seen. With chestnut brown hair pulled back in a low binding and warm dark eyes, the man stole Taron’s breath away. Surely, this was an angel. Dressed all in black with tan skin and multi-hued eyes which danced green and gold and warm browns, this man before him — with lips begging to be kissed and a soft voice which spoke to Taron’s weary soul — this man had to be his destiny. He was everything the fae had ever wanted without knowing, and the world he left behind weighed differently with the visage of beauty before him.

  Learning the other was not — in fact — an angel proved strange, and as Oliver showed him about the small home wherein he would host the fae lord, the lack of magic made Taron’s skin feel too tight. Washed and in borrowed clothes that were a bit too short, Taron settled into bed, intending to use his magic to adjust the size and make his own clothes when it returned to him after a good night’s rest, but the lack of magic remained, leaving him unsure where he ended and the world around him began.

  Then, in the dark, a soft hum of magic flowed from Oliver’s bedroom. Like a lullaby, it spread through the apartment, reinforcing the wards and filling the air with a peace and calm Taron had never known. The gentle magic rocked him to sleep, assuring the ache in his heart that everything would be better soon. That he was right where he belonged.

  When light cascaded through the windows, Taron snapped awake. His gold eyes sought the source, and shoving off the blankets, he slowly approached the glass. Large buildings stood all around the small single level place which Oliver called his home, but the sky turned orange and pink. This was the sun. His jaw dropped as his lips curled into a smile at the way a star could light up the world. Its light traveled — distant and bright — to give life, and physics and science drove it forward. An impossibility in Faerie where everything drew itself from the chaos of magic, relying upon the royalty and nobles to keep sense and form.

  Delighting in the rising sun, Taron stretched. His magic danced across his skin, fully replenished. In the light of day, Oliver’s home only seemed all the cozier. Small with minimal furniture, the brown-haired man made the most of the space he had. A comfortable couch in right brown and soft chairs which matched. In the area beside the kitchen, there was a table with four chairs. Oliver had warned him about the stove and taught him about the fridge the night before, but as he opened up the electronic ice box, he frowned at how little food was inside. Well, it was no matter. He could magic up a feast without supplies.

  Taron’s magic stretched across the apartment, straightening the small bits out of place and dusting as he set about making a feast fit to express his gratitude. Of course, guest law required the host to feed the guest, but he had come without forewarning and without a gift, so this had to be more than fair exchange.

  Little did he know that his magic spilled across the whole flat and into the warlock’s bedroom. Curled in sleep, Oliver didn’t notice the warmth which pooled over him at first. His body shifted
, responding to the magic like a preening cat. In his boxers, his cock twitched. Magic caressed his body, and where most people inspired pain and allergy-like responses from him, the fae’s powers inspired something altogether different. Sensations wandered over his body. Warming caresses had him grinding his hips into his mattress as his hole clenched, aching to be filled. Every now and then, his libido had him driving fingers inside himself, and it had been some time since, so in the space between sleeping and waking, he reached behind to press a finger inside. Slick and loose, his hole trembled about his finger, and desperation urged him to add a second sooner than he normally would. His body ached, shivering with want as he released a pitiful keen.

  Fumbling for the dildo he kept in a box beneath his bed, Oliver nearly fell out of bed, and the jostle woke him out of his stupor. Immediately, he removed his fingers from himself, and he jumped out of bed glaring down at his hard cock in frustration.

  “You bastard,” Oliver grumbled.

  There was no moment he could sneak into the bathroom with a hundred percent certainty he wouldn’t come face to face with the fae. Obviously, Taron had no idea. Most people didn’t react so physically to magic. If he wanted to come out of this with even half of his dignity, he could either quickly take care of it or try to will it away. Taron’s magic made the latter almost impossible.

  With a huff of frustration, the drummer ripped the box from under his bed and glared at the door as he shoved his boxers off. Kneeling, he reached behind to slide two fingers back into the warm slickness of his body. The air stood thick with magic. Intoxicating. Heat coiled in his belly, and his own fingers hardly mattered. No matter how he spread them, stretching and pumping them into his body again and again. None of that compared to the intensity of Taron’s magic invading every inch of Oliver’s apartment and blanketing him in heat and pleasure. Two wasn’t enough. Adding a third finger didn’t scratch the itch. It was incredible how easily he went from feeling nothing at all to wanting to present himself like a bitch in heat to a stranger. He hated the way he gushed at the thought, barely managing to bite back a moan.