Bride of the Traitor: A Prophecy of Sisters Novel

by Faiman, Hayley

  Slowly, I stand to my shaky legs just as the door flies open behind me. Spinning around, I come face-to-face with the man himself. Not only the King of Bunafi, but the king of dickheads. My eyes widen at the sight of him.

  He’s wearing the same thing he wore yesterday when he came galloping toward me. He has dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair in complete disarray, and the scar over his eye looks redder than normal.

  I don’t comment on his appearance at all. Instead, I stare wordlessly at him and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t speak and we stay still, continuing our stare down.

  Arching a brow, I cross my arms beneath my breasts. His gaze flicks down to my cleavage and his lips twitch, probably finding my ill-fitting dress comical, as only he would.

  “Am I allowed to eat or will I be locked away in here until I starve to death?” I grind out.

  His eyes widen and lift to meet mine. His lips are unmoving and stay in a small smile. “What good would you be to me dead, Sybilla?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  Taking a step toward him, I tilt my head to the side and keep my gaze on his. “I’m not sure what good to you I am alive, Elias,” I say, keeping my voice even and calm.

  Elias’ jaw clenches as his eyes slightly narrow. All humor has disappeared from his face and I find that I miss it the moment it’s gone. Unfortunately, the smirky, smartass Elias is one that I find supremely more attractive than the pissed off and annoyed one.

  “Do not, Sybilla,” he barks. “I’ll send your maids up to fix your dress then you may meet me in the dining room to break your fast,” he announces.

  Deciding that I don’t want the girls to fix my dress, for some asinine reason, I want my husband to help me, I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist to stop him from leaving. He looks down at my hand, then lifts his steel-blue gaze to meet my own.

  My breath hitches at the beauty of his eyes, the tenderness that they show for just a moment before they return to their hardness. I wish that he could lose that anger, that guard that he keeps up, but I have a feeling that Merek was right, the gates that guard him are ironclad.

  “Will you tighten my ribbons? It seems silly to send the girls up here when you’re more than capable,” I suggest, keeping my voice soft.

  He frowns for a moment, obviously wrestling with something inside of himself, then nods once. “Turn ‘round,” he murmurs.

  Dropping my hand from his wrist, I do as he orders and turn my back to him. My dress wasn’t even buttoned, because even as flexible as the few yoga moves that I’ve done the past six weeks have made me, there is no way that I could do up a million tiny buttons along my back by myself.

  Elias’ calloused fingers trail down my back slowly, from the base of my neck to the dip right before my crack. Then without warning, his fingers disappear and he reaches for the top of my ribbons and tugs on them so hard that the breath is forced from my lungs in a whoosh.

  He doesn’t stop there, he continues to pull on them, too hard, making them too tight causing me to gasp with each tug. In just a few seconds, my ribbons are tied and my buttons are done all the way up my back.

  Elias wraps his fingers around my shoulders and spins me around, his dark blue gaze focused on mine.

  “You will not bewitch me with your body, Sybilla,” he growls.

  “Elias,” I wheeze.

  He shakes his head once. “You will not bewitch me,” he breathes, dipping his head. His lips are so close to mine, it would take almost no effort to touch my mouth to his, but I don’t.

  “Elias.”

  “The witches put a binding spell on you and your true love,” he rasps. “Both you and your true love will be physically ill if you do not accept the love and touch from one another. How do you feel?”

  I gasp, remembering how I passed out after Godiva’s freaky swirling eyes and hand touched my chest a few days ago, then yesterday how she stopped me in my tracks, cemented my feet to the floor while her eyes did that shit again.

  “My stomach,” I breathe.

  He nods. “Aye, mine as well.”

  “We’re one another’s true love?” I ask.

  He shakes his head once. “Witchcraft isn’t real. What you’re feeling is not genuine. What I’m feeling is not, either.”

  His words are said in a sexy whisper, but they hurt. I take a step back from him, not wanting him to be so damn close to me. He doesn’t allow that, he reaches forward, wrapping his arm around my waist before he tugs me against his chest.

  “What are you doing? Just let me go if you don’t give a shit about me,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, dipping his chin, his lips touching mine this time. “I’ll never let you go. You are my queen,” he growls. “I should not care if you warm my bed or another does.”

  Tears prick my eyes, I can’t help it. Just the thought of him screwing some other woman makes my heart squeeze and my stomach clench in pain. His fingers flex around my waist, his breathing turns into a heavy pant.

  “I bloody well care, Sybilla. You are the only woman that I want, and I hate it because I know my desire is a falsity planted by some gods damned witch.”

  He doesn’t allow me to respond to his words, instead he slants his head to the side and slams his mouth against mine. I let out a short gasp as his tongue fills my mouth. I tangle my own tongue with his, moaning as the taste of him flows throughout my entire body.

  Pressing my chest against his, I curse this long dress and the fact that I can’t hop up and wrap my legs around his waist. Reaching between us, I’m unable to stop myself from shoving my hands beneath his tunic and unlacing the ties of his tights.

  When my fingers wrap around the hard length of his cock, he rips his mouth from mine, resting his forehead against mine as I begin to stroke him. His entire body trembles as he lets out a hiss.

  “I do not have time to do this properly,” he grunts before he leans down and picks me up with one arm.

  I’m forced to release my firm hold of his dick, but I don’t mind because after six weeks I’m going to have him again, even if I’m pissed off at him at the moment. All of that anger and heartache disappears with the promise of physical pleasure.

  Silently, he turns us around and marches over to the closed door, pressing my back against the warm wood. Reaching for my skirt, I gather it in my hands, pulling it up my legs as quickly as I can.

  Elias shoves his hand between my legs and grunts when he comes into contact with my panties. “By gods bones, what is this?” he growls.

  “Panties,” I breathe.

  He shakes his head, wrenching the fabric to the side. “Never again, sweeting,” he breathes against my lips. “This body should always remain open to your king.”

  God, this man is such an asshole, and yet, when his fingers fill me, I let out a long groan at the sensation. He curls his fingers inside of me, his lips touching mine.

  He kisses me, his tongue sweeping through my mouth at the same time his fingers pump in and out of me, his thumb rubbing firm circles against my clit—expertly.

  I feel myself rising, climbing, and my body heats as I stand at the edge of the cliff, ready to topple over. My breath comes out in short pants, my ribbons are too tight, I feel light-headed, but I’m too close to stop.

  “Yes,” I hiss.

  He hums against my throat, then without warning his hand disappears and his cock slams home, deep, in one swift move.

  My nails dig into his shoulders, my eyes lifting to look into his. Elias’ gaze is black and it glitters before my eyes.

  He’s beautiful.

  My lips part slightly as he pulls out, then drives back inside of me, his hands gripping the sides of my thighs as his hips press my back into the door.

  “Fuck me, My King,” I beg.

  He grins, tilting his head to the side slightly. He pulls almost completely out, then slams back inside of me to the hilt, grinding his pelvis against my clit. I can’t help but cry out at the delightful sensation.

 
Elias repeats the motion, over and over until I topple over the edge, my cries of pleasure no doubt filling the castle all around us, though in this moment, I don’t care.

  My king is home, he is where he is meant to be, and right now all is right in this world. Until our bodies separate, then I have no doubt we’ll be at one another’s throats yet again.

  “Yes, sweeting, your king is indeed, fucking you,” he rasps, just loud enough for only me to hear. His hips pump, his cock moving in and out of me until he stills and I feel his release fill my body. “And your king will fill you with his heir,” he grunts before his lips touch mine.

  The exhilaration I felt just seconds ago disappears as the truth crumbles down around me, again. His heir. His vessel. His fucking queen.

  Turning my head, I refuse to allow him to take my mouth again. He doesn’t say a word in protest, instead his lips touch just below my earlobe before he shifts from between my legs and helps me down to my feet.

  “Are you ready to eat?” he asks.

  Smoothing down my dress, I narrow my eyes at him and the bastard only smiles. I would say something smartass, but I’m starving, especially since I didn’t have dinner last night.

  Turning my back to him, I reach for the door, only to feel his front press against my, forcing my chest against the door.

  “Tonight, I’ll strip you of this foolish material and I will fuck my naked wife,” he whispers.

  I shouldn’t have taught him what fuck meant. The way he says it makes my thighs shake.

  “We’ll see about that,” I snap my lie.

  He laughs, his breath washing over my skin. “Yes, my queen, we assuredly will,” he murmurs before he takes a step back.

  Pulling the door open, I stomp away from him and toward the dining room where I know everyone is without a doubt waiting for us, since meals are a gigantic affair around here. All the while I hear Elias laughing behind me, as if I’m trying to be funny and I’m not irritated as shit.

  Chapter Twenty

  ELIAS

  After an uncomfortable meal, I head toward my chancery to discuss with Merek and Cornwall everything that’s happened the past six weeks here in my absence. I don’t miss the way that Sybilla watches me, the obvious questions that she has. I know not what to tell her, how to answer them.

  All I do know is that our bodies need one another, the witch made sure of that, past that I’m not sure what to expect.

  Merek and Cornwall are silent until the doors to the chancery close. Sinking down in my chair, I’m glad to see that Jarin has cleaned up the whiskey and evidence of last night’s drunken gathering.

  “Cornwall, tell me, how is the Queen adjusting? Are there any correspondences that needs my attention since I’ve been away?” I demand.

  Cornwall clears his throat and I notice how his gaze flicks to Merek before shifting back to meet my own.

  “Queen Sybilla, though a stranger here, has come around to the people. She has made it her mission to visit children in the orphanage and has recently moved to include homebound individuals. Every path she crosses she leaves a bit brighter, Your Highness.”

  Cornwall shifts from foot to foot, and I arch a brow as I wait for him to gather his strength and say whatever is on his mind. The calm from my earlier release is starting to fade and irritation is beginning to rear its ugly head as he forces me to wait for whatever it is, he is about to say.

  “Forgive me for being forward, Your Highness,” he murmurs.

  Lifting my hand, I wave my fingers. “Please, Cornwall, be blunt if you wish.”

  He dips his chin, his eyes wide as he begins to be completely blunt and frank with me about my wife. “The people struggle, Your Highness. They do not know you well enough to know if you will be gracious, or like your father. They also struggle to accept a stranger, as… unique as your bride. They are not daft, they know that she is different in many ways,” he continues.

  “What is it that they say about Sybilla?” I demand, ignoring the mention of my father and myself, as those are not topics which I wish to discuss further, ever.

  Cornwall lets out a sigh, he looks to the side, then shifts his gaze back to meet mine. “There is talk that she is indeed a witch. That you keep her under strict guard because she is powerful and a danger to the people of this country. They are wary that her beauty is false, that she is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  I shake my head. “She is not,” I rasp.

  Cornwall chuckles. “I know, Your Highness, but your people do not. Your quick marriage and even quicker disappearance combined with the fact that Queen Sybilla stayed abed—”

  “Enough,” Merek barks.

  My head turns to him, but he is focused on Cornwall. “He must know,” Cornwall hisses to Merek.

  “If you two do not tell me what this is about, I will have both of you whipped,” I state.

  Merek’s head turns slowly, his brows lifted and a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ll do no such thing,” he says so cocksure of what I am, and am not, capable of.

  “You, I won’t whip. I’ll just best you with my sword,” I snarl, still angry at him for daring to be too friendly with my wife.

  Obviously, he is not frightened by my ire, Merek only laughs at my words. “Then it is a challenge I will gladly accept. You do not need to know what Her Highness does not wish to tell you with her own mouth.”

  “Cease thinking of my wife’s mouth,” I growl.

  Merek shakes his head. “You are in love with the woman, admit it.”

  “I hardly know her,” I snap.

  He snorts. “You do not need to know her deepest darkest secrets to know how you feel about the woman. She was thrust upon you, but you could have done a dozen different things with her. The fact that you chose to marry her and so obviously do not wish to have the marriage be in name only tells a lot about how you feel for her, even if you do not want to admit it.”

  “The witch has cast a spell on her,” I grind out.

  Merek’s smirk finally dies as he watches me. Cornwall’s face pales, probably assuming that his mother has cast this spell and that he will ultimately suffer for her wrongdoings. He doesn’t know that I am not a man who would punish a son for his parent’s indiscretions, even if she were the witch who had cast this spell.

  “You need to tell us, Elias,” Merek demands, his happiness and jovial mood completely disappeared.

  “The prophecy states that Sybilla must fall in love with her heart’s true love. Godiva thought that she would bind Sybilla with her true love, that they would both become ill if they were not with one another. I was sick the whole way home, the men had to take me to a healer, they thought I may not make it. Was Sybilla sick at all?”

  Merek’s gaze shifts to Cornwall and he nods his head once. “The Queen collapsed a few days ago in her chamber. Her maids were with her, they put her to bed for a day and she seemed to feel better. Jasmine assured me it was only women’s troubles that caused her collapse, I thought perhaps her ribbons were just pulled too tightly. Yesterday was her first time outside in three days.”

  “Gods,” I hiss. “You did not think to tell me any of this?” I demand, my gaze focusing on Merek.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “She was in high spirits when I visited her. Yesterday, she demanded to see the children and to visit some homebound souls. I did not deny her, she was very adamant.”

  “You did not deny her,” I mumble. Sard.

  Merek adores her, it’s obvious and I hate everything about it. Though, I’m more angry at myself for leaving and allowing them to bond, even if it is innocent, which I doubt it truly is. No man can innocently adore Sybilla, it just isn’t possible.

  “There is more,” Cornwall meekly rasps.

  “Go ahead, I’m already good and mad, finish me off, Cornwall,” I grunt.

  He clears his throat, then tells me about the first week of my absence, how they all thought that she was going to expire in her bed. How she refused to eat or drink, that she wasn’t sleepi
ng and it appeared as though I had broken her.

  My entire body locks up tight at the mention of my queen losing herself because of me, because I was a right ass to her. All I can do is picture my mother in her deathbed. The way my father treated her, the way he kept mistresses and flaunted them without care or concern over my mother or her tender feelings. The way he ignored her existence.

  “You are not him,” Merek mutters.

  Lifting my gaze to him, I notice that Cornwall has left us alone. “Am I not, cousin?”

  He shakes his head. “You are not. You do not have a mistress that you allow to conspire against you and your country, protecting her so that she will continue to spread her legs for you. All the while agreeing to sell off your people and your lands to the neighboring country just to stay in her favor. You do not bleed your people dry just to stay in her favor. Forsaking your gods, your crown, your throne, and your people just to have a taste of her rotting from the inside out, anchovy.”

  I chuckle at the description of my father’s paramour. Merek isn’t wrong, the woman smelled rotten. “Am I putting my people in danger by keeping Sybilla? If the prophecy is true, she does have power. If she gives her heart to the wrong man it will cause hells like no one could fathom in our world.”

  “Godiva already cast a spell that would render that impossible. You were both sick right after that spell, her body needing her true heart’s love and her true love needing her in return. How did you feel after you bedded her this morning?” he asks.

  I’m unsure of how he knows, though it should not surprise me. Merek is not only astute, but this castle talks, if Duraina’s knowledge of Sybilla’s courses are an indication.

  “Do not answer, but do not close yourself off, Elias. You are not the former King of Bunafi. You are King Elias Cassius Arthur Wainwright of Bunafi. You are fair and just, almost to a fault. Your people will never suffer and the fact that no matter how much land your father willingly gave to other countries, you conquered it all and gave it back to your people, to your kingdom, plus some.”

  Shaking my head, I lift my gaze to meet my cousin’s. “I do not deserve you or your kind words, cousin,” I rasp. “I’ve been unbearable.”