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I groan. "Which one?"
"The handsome one," she teases. "So ask away."
I'm sure there are a thousand more useful, more profound questions I could ask, but the only one I can speak aloud is, "Why did you kiss my hand? Is that a traditional Fae greeting?"
Mischief lights up her face. "No, sweet girl. I just wanted to see how Kairon would react."
"Oh." The layers of enchanted cosmetics on my face are certainly the only thing hiding how red my face is.
"Listen," she tells me quietly, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "There's more you must know. But not here and not now. The king is not the only one with ears in this castle. The two of you need to meet me tonight in the caves where he speaks with the Syren Queen."
"He knows the-"
Loud footfalls stop my sentence before I can finish it, alerting me to the frightening king storming our way.
"There you are," he calls, his tone seeming cavalier but the tension in his body decidedly not. "The witch queens have arrived."
My jaw drops. Fear and excitement fill me in equal measure, a feeling that is becoming increasingly familiar.
Maren creates space between us, dramatizing the motion. Even through his helm, I know his eyes are glued to her, fury roiling beneath it. She sweeps past him, looking at me over her shoulder to wink once again.
Once she's disappeared around the corner, Kairon sighs. "You have no sense of self-preservation, do you, my Elva?"
I blink several times, frozen. "Excuse me?" I finally choke out.
"You run face first into danger without a second thought," he stalks closer, "as if you want the pain and torture all of us would inflict on you if given a chance."
With a scoff, I step toward him, refusing to back down. "I thought the whole point of this is to create comradery with our neighbors, Your Fucking Majesty."
"Comradery, yes." His enraged voice is slightly muffled by the helm, giving it an echo that fills my blood with heat. "But that does not mean sneaking off into dark corners with every pretty face that beckons you to follow."
"You seemed quite fond of Maren yourself just this morning," I remind him. "But now she's dangerous?"
I would bet every cent I own that his teeth are grinding together as he takes another giant step forward, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. Through the small slits in the helm, I see those haunting, silver eyes full of emotion that he would never admit to.
Desperation fills his voice, twisting the rage into something far scarier. "She is dangerous, Elva. Don't you see? All of us are."
"And I'm not." I laugh. "That's the point you're making, right? I am some naive little girl in a world full of monsters, and you're the hero who's come to protect me?"
His chest brushes mine, the heat through his clothes seeping into me, sending waves of desire through every inch of my body. Desire, anger, fear, and this aching need between my legs I've never felt before. Not during any of my escapades with others or myself have I felt so empty and needy.
He reaches up with a gloved hand, wrapping it around my throat and forcing me to hold eye contact. "I am no hero, my Elva. In fact, I am the most villainous, and do you want to know why?"
I can barely breathe, his fingers applying the perfect pressure to make my head spin and my pussy utterly soaked. Oh my god, who am I? I've never even thought of using that term.
"Why, Your Majesty?" I put emphasis on the honorific, drawing it out.
"Because the only thing you fear more than me is yourself. And I crave," he squeezes harder, and I let him, standing utterly boneless in his grip, "the wicked, depraved parts of you that you want to hide from. I want to spend hours meticulously pulling you apart until you lay bare and utterly exposed just for me. I could spend days exploring you, inside and out, making you just as filthy and vile as I am. And you would beg me to do it over and over again, wouldn't you, my Elva?"
"No," I whimper. But even as I say it, I find my hands grabbing at his cloak as if I could pull him closer.
He groans, the sound reverberating within his helm. "Liar." He releases my throat but makes no move to put any space between us.
"I'm not-" I choke out, unable to continue that thought as he drops to his knees, the wicked mask now looking up at me.
"Tell me something, my sweet liar." His voice comes out gritty and laced with need. "Are you wet for me?"
"What?" The whimpered word leaves my throat unbidden.
