The Nymph King

by Gena Showalter

  His hands fisted at his sides. Defeat was not something he allowed. Ever. No, he would rather die. A warrior won. Always. No exceptions.

  Broderick sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face, his expression grim. "We need sex, Valerian, and we need it now."

  "I know." Unfortunately, the three exhausted humans sleeping in his bed would never be able to handle all of these lust-hungry nymphs at once.

  He could send a handful of soldiers into the Outer City to capture sirens--a race of women who reveled in sex just as the nymphs did. Dangerous women, yes. Women who lured, seduced and killed. Well, tried to kill. But they were wonderfully satisfying to tumble, completely worth the risk.

  However, the few times his men had entered the city in these past weeks, females of every race had remained well hidden, avoiding the nymphs as if they were hideous, foul-smelling demons. None wanted to find themselves enslaved to a nymph's dark, sexual hunger, losing their very identity, wishing only to please their lover. An inevitable outcome. Even for mates. Those females, whomever they happened to be, wherever they happened to be found, were treasured, but they were still enslaved.

  "I can smell the humans on you, and it's making my own need all the more intense," Dorian said. With his obsidian hair, godlike features and mischievous sense of humor, women of every race usually flocked to him. There was nothing mischievous about him now, though. He radiated jealousy and resentment. "I'd kill you if I had the strength."

  More guilt swept through Valerian. He had to make this right. As much as he hated to admit it, there was only one true solution to this predicament.

  "Do you still wish to travel through the portal?" he asked, bracing his hands behind his back. Since discovering the strange, upright pool in the caves beneath this palace--the very pool the women had used to travel from the surface world to Atlantis--his men had begged to enter it so many times he'd lost count. Each time his answer had been the same: Gods, no. His friend Layel, King of the Vampires, had told him that Atlanteans could not survive on the surface for long periods of time.

  Besides, he needed his men here, ready to fight and defend. But weak as they were now, these warriors would not obtain a victory over a tail-chasing griffin, much less a brutally savage fire-breather.

  If there was a chance they could find more human women, traveling to the surface would be worth the risk, he realized.

  "Well?" he said.

  Nearly all of his men smiled and closed around him. A chorus of "Yes" burst from their mouths. Only Theophilus remained quiet, but then, he had no need to visit the surface. He was mated to the fourth human female in residence.

  Mated. Valerian tried not to cringe. When a nymph mated, he mated for life. No matter his age, no matter his circumstances, when he found the woman destined to live at his side, his body would crave no other; his heart would beat only for one. The one. He'd been told a nymph would know this "one" the moment he scented her, and she would, in turn, recognize him, choosing him above all others.

  Valerian, as well as many of his men, lived in fear of finding his mate, for too well did he enjoy his freedom. He couldn't imagine desiring only one woman. He couldn't imagine one woman being able to hold his interest and sate all of his passions for longer than a single night.

  Perhaps he was not destined to take a mate. A man could hope, anyway.

  "Will we travel through the portal?" someone asked, cutting into his thoughts.

  "Yes," he said. He splayed his arms wide in surrender. "At last, my friends, I relent."

  "How soon can we leave?" Broderick.

  "Thank you, great king." Shivawn.

  "Gods, my cock needs some female attention." Dorian.

  Relief dripped from their voices. Already lust burned white-hot in their eyes, strengthening them. He didn't blame them for their eagerness to leave the palace. He would have been reduced to a snarling beast had he been forced to go without a woman's sweetness for as long as they had. But that was something he, as king, had never had to endure. And would never have to endure, he was sure.

  His carnal appeal was greater than any other's, and quite simply, no woman could resist him. A fact his men had long since accepted--and he himself enjoyed. "Most of you will have to remain here, guarding the palace," he informed them. "And those who go cannot stay long. No more than an hour, mayhap two. We'll bring back as many as we can, then decide who gets whom."

  "We should have gone days ago," Joachim grumbled.

  Valerian chose to ignore him. He knew frustration spoke for his cousin.

  "Why do we need to return so quickly?" Dorian asked, frown returning. "I want to enjoy a lover or two before coming home."

  "We know nothing of the surface, their people or their weapons, but more than that we do not know when the dragons will attack us. We must go in, grab the women we want and hurry back."

  Broderick's sandy brows arched. "We?"

  "I will lead you, of course." He wouldn't send his men into uncharted territory without him. "But do not worry. I won't be taking a woman for myself. The three happily sated and sleeping females in my room provide enough stimulation for me." For now. "I'll leave the claiming to you."

  CHAPTER TWO

  A FLORIDA WEDDING. Complete with wide expanse of glistening beach, crashing cerulean waves, magical pink-gold sunset and warm, sultry breezes. White rose petals were scattered along the fine-grained sand, dancing and twirling with every gentle wind. The couple even now pledging their undying love stared deeply into each other's eyes, their hands clutched together, their lips softly parted in expectation of the coming kiss.

  Was there anything sweeter? Anything more romantic?

  Was there anything more gagworthy?

  Shaye Holling expelled a frustrated breath and gazed down at her seashell bikini top and grass skirt. Who picked this kind of crap for bridesmaids? Someone who wanted them to look like hideous beast monsters, that's who. The uglier the bridesmaids, the prettier the bride.

  God, she was afraid to ponder what the richly dressed crowd of onlookers thought of her let-me-give-you-a-lap-dance hula outfit. I probably resemble one of the slutty undead.

  Pale, that was Shaye. Pale skin, pale hair. More than one person had teased her throughout the years, calling her Casper, Snow Queen, Vampire, Albino. The esteem-crushing list went on and on. The only color she possessed came from her eyes; they were a deep, rich brown and were, in her opinion, her one redeeming feature.

  She could have used the self-tanner her mom had sent her for this event, but the consequences from the last time she'd tried that type of product were still too fresh in her mind: frighteningly orange skin; diseased-looking, spotty hands and horrified stares. Maybe she should have spent a few hours in a tanning bed. They might blister her from head to toe, but at least she'd have some color. Fire-truck red, of course, but it was a color.

  As she stood there, a new idea for her business, Anti-Cards, popped into her mind. I must admit you brought religion into my life, she thought, gazing at the bride, who also happened to be her mother. I finally believe in hell.

  She sighed. The long length of her silvery-white hair dusted her shoulder, a perfect mimic of the creamy satin slip dress billowing at her mom's ankles. Was there anyone more beautiful than Tamara soon-to-be Waddell? Anyone more surgically enhanced? Anyone else who went through men like sexual Kleenex?

  This was what? Her mom's sixth marriage?

  At that moment, her mom looked over at her and frowned. "Back straight," she mouthed. "Smile."

  As always, Shaye pretended not to notice the helpful commands. She focused her attention on the minister.

  "To love, honor and cherish..." he was saying, his smooth baritone drifting through the waning sunlight. Mostly, Shaye heard blah, blah, blah before she blocked his voice altogether.

  Love. How she despised the word. People used love as an excuse to do ridiculous things. He cheated on me, but I'm going to stay with him because I love him. He hit me, but I'm going to stay with him because I
love him. He stole every penny from my savings, but I'm not going to press charges because I love him. How many times had her mother uttered those very words?

  How many times had her mother's boyfriends groped Shaye herself, claiming they'd only done it because they had fallen out of love with her mom and into love with her? Her, a mere child at the time. Perverts.

  Shaye's father was another prime example of such "love is all that matters" idiocy. I have to leave your mom because I've fallen in love with someone else. Apparently he'd fallen in love with several someone elses.

  After his last wife had cheated on him and then divorced him, Shaye had sent him an "I'm so sorry" card. What she had really wanted to send was a "Finally getting what you deserve sucks big-time, doesn't it" card. Of course, none had been available--which was the reason she'd started making her own. Anti-Card business was booming. Seemed there were a lot of people out there who wanted to tell someone to fuck off--in a roundabout way.

  She worked eighty hours a week, but it was worth it. Thanks to popular cards like "I'm so miserable without you, it's almost like you're here" and "You can do more with a kind word and a gun than with just a kind word," she provided jobs for twenty-three likeminded women and made more money than she'd ever dreamed possible.

  Life, for the weird-looking little girl who'd never met her parents' expectations, was finally good.

  "You may now kiss the bride," the pastor said.

  Thank God. Shaye expelled a relieved rush of breath, her shoulders slumping as her tension melted away. Soon she'd be on a plane, flying home to Cincinnati and her quiet little apartment. No signs of romance to irritate her there. Not even a cat to bother her.

  Amid joyous applause, the brow-lifted, cheek-implanted groom laid a sloppy wet one on Shaye's mom. The glowing couple turned and strolled down the aisle, the lyrical thrums of a harp echoing behind them. Shaye inched closer to the water, away from the masses, escape within her grasp now that everyone was filing toward the reception tent.

  She'd done her daughterly duty (again), and there was no more reason to stay. Besides, she wanted out of the chafing shell bra and itchy grass skirt ASAP.

  "Where are you going, silly?" one of the other bridesmaids said, latching on to her arm with a surprisingly iron grip. "We're supposed to take pictures and serve the guests."

  So, the torture wasn't over yet. She groaned.

  After an hour of posing for a photographer who finally gave up trying to make her smile, she found herself serving cake to a line of champagne-guzzling guests. Most of them ignored her, merely swiping up their cake and ambling away. Some tried to talk to her, but (she was guessing) found her too abrupt and quickly retreated.

  When will this end? I just want to go home. But the line had stopped moving, prolonging her torment. Grrr. She glanced up. A man had claimed his dessert, but hadn't stepped out of the way. Instead he watched her, studied her.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "I'll take a little slice of you if you're serving it," he replied, balancing the plate in one hand and swirling his champagne with the other. His green eyes twinkled with merriment.

  He wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a loosened black bow tie, and formfitting black slacks. His sandy hair was perfectly cut, not a strand out of place. A groomsman, she recalled.

  "Sir, you're holding up the line." She forced a hard tone and severe expression as she returned to slicing cake and scooping it onto plates. She'd learned at an early age that it was best to keep people at a distance from the very first. And if she had to make them hate her to do so, so be it, because she could not allow herself the slightest inkling of softer emotion, the very thing that led to disappointment, rejection and heartbreak. "Move. Now."

  The man didn't walk away as she'd hoped. "I think perhaps I need to--"

  "Shaye, darling," her mother called airily. The expensive scent of her perfume wafted from her, blending with the aroma of sugar and spice as she floated to Shaye's side. "I'm so glad you've met your new stepbrother, Preston."

  Stepbrother? Not another one. Showed exactly how much contact Shaye had had with her mom these past few years. She hadn't known that groom number six had children. Actually, she hadn't even met her newest daddy until an hour before the wedding.

  Shaye glanced at Preston. "I've never played well with others," she said to smooth the edge of her earlier rudeness. But that was it, nothing more.

  "So I hear," he said, chuckling.

  He was even more handsome when he laughed like that. Looking away, she gathered two plates and passed them to the people behind him. "It was nice meeting you, Preston, but I really need to finish serving the guests."

  The band chose that moment to break into a soft, romantic ballad. Preston still didn't take the hint and move away. "I never thought I'd say this, but would you like to dance with me, little sister? After you're finished here, of course."

  She opened her mouth to say no, but no sound emerged. She wanted to say yes, Shaye realized. Even though her stepbrothers and sisters changed more frequently than her clothing and she'd most likely never see this man again, she wanted to say yes. Not because she was attracted to Preston or anything like that, but because he represented everything she'd always denied herself. And need to keep denying yourself. Safer that way.

  "No," she said. "Just...no." Once again she turned her attention to the cake.

  Her mother uttered a strained laugh. "There's no reason to be rude, Shaye. One dance won't kill you."

  "I said no, Mother."

  There was a heavy pause, then, "You," her mom said, voice suddenly hard. She pointed to one of the other horrendously clad bridesmaids. "Take over the cake. Shaye, come with me."

  Strong fingers curled around Shaye's wrist. A second later she was being dragged out of the reception tent to the edge of the beach. Here we go again.... She sighed. This always happened. Whenever she and her mom were forced to share the same space, Tamara always erupted, and Shaye always left reminded of what a disappointment she was.

  God, I don't need this. Sand squished between her sandaled toes as a warm, salty breeze wrapped itself around her, swishing her grass skirt over her knees. Slivers of ethereal moonlight illuminated their path. Waves sang a gentle, soothing song.

  Her mom's velvety brown eyes--eyes exactly like her own--narrowed slightly. She dropped Shaye's hand as if touching it could cause premature wrinkles. "You're treating my guests as if they're diseased."

  Shaye wrapped her arms around her middle. "If you knew me at all," she said softly, "you'd know I treat everyone like that."

  "I don't care how you treat everyone else! You will treat everyone here, including Preston--no, especially Preston--with respect. Do you understand me? Just--" she shoved a wisp of hair from her face "--pretend you have a heart for a few hours."

  That stung. Badly. But Shaye forced herself to smile. "Why don't you go find your new husband and let him calm you down? This kind of upset will only cause you to shrivel up like a raisin."

  Gasping in horror, her mom patted the skin around her eyes, feeling for crow's feet. "I just had Botox. I shouldn't have a single line or crease. Do you see a wrinkle? Do you see a goddamn wrinkle? I can't lift my brows to find out--the muscles won't work."

  Shaye rolled her eyes. "Are we done here?"

  Her mom stomped her foot and ground out, "I've finally found the love of my life. Why can't you understand that and be happy for me?"

  "Uh, hello. This is the sixth love of your life."

  "So the hell what? I've made mistakes in the past. That's better than cutting myself off from relationships like you've done, just to avoid getting hurt." She paused, raised her chin. "You spurn everything male, Shaye. You never date."

  No, she didn't. Not anymore. She'd always been leery of the roads she would have to travel to obtain the fabled happily-ever-after. At one point, however, she had tried the dating thing. She'd quickly discovered that men never called when they said they were going to call. They we
ren't interested in her as a person; they were interested in getting her out of her clothing. They admired other women when they were supposed to woo her.

  They lied, they used, they cheated. And they weren't worth the trouble.

  Shaye twirled a strand of grass around her finger. "I wish you all the best with your new husband, Mother." No reason to rehash everything. Again. "Now, I'm going home."

  "You're not going anywhere until you've apologized to Preston." A finger was shoved in her face. "You treated him shabbily, and I won't have it. I won't have it, do you hear me?"

  She had treated him shabbily, and she felt bad for it. But she wouldn't apologize. That would invite conversation. Conversation would invite friendship, and friendship would invite emotion. Emotion, ultimately, would invite everything she'd worked so hard to avoid. "Do you truly expect me to obey a parental command from you? Now? After a childhood of being raised by nannies?"

  "Well, yes" was the hesitant response.

  "You're forgetting something. I'm the Ice Princess of Bitterslovakia, the Grand Duchess of Bitterstonia and the Queen of Bitterland. Isn't that what you've called me over the years?"

  A gentle roll of waves splashed in the distance.

  "I should have known you'd act this way," her mom snapped. With an angry flip of her wrist, she tossed a dark tress over her shoulder and glared out at the water. "All I've ever wanted was a nice, normal daughter. Instead I'm stuck with you. You won't be happy until you've ruined my wedding."

  "Which one?" Shaye asked dryly, pushing aside her hurt. She much preferred the icy numbness she usually surrounded herself with. That numbness had saved her during childhood, sweeping her away from depression and desolation and into a life of satisfaction, if not contentment.

  "All of them, damn it." Tamara didn't face her, but continued to stare out at the pristine water. Another splash sounded, this one closer. "You're jealous of me, and because of that you've never wanted me to be happy. Every time I'm close, you do something to hurt me."

  Of all the things her mother had said, that cut the most. After all, Shaye was here because she wanted her mom to be happy. She'd never shoved the woman from her life, because, despite everything, she did care. It was something she'd fought against and hated, but there it was. The girl who wouldn't let herself care for anything or anyone else still wanted her mommy's approval. Ugh. "Don't blame me for your misery. You alone are responsible."