The Cruel Fae King: A Sexy Fantasy Romance Series (The Cursed Kingdoms Series Book 1)

by A. K. Koonce

Placing her hands on my shoulders, she squares my stance in the mirror and begins adjusting pins. “I make clothes for him since he was little boy. As he grew older, his smile became less and less. The weight of a kingdom’s problems make him weak.” She looks up into the mirror. Her golden eyes hold tight to my gaze. “This is why he needs a strong wife like you. You become like his backbone.” The palm of her hand rests against my lower back, she applies a small amount of pressure there.

  “He doesn’t want a wife. He wants someone who can sit pretty and hold their tongue,” I reply sourly.

  “He does not know what he wants. You, you will show him what he needs.” The seamstress begins humming to herself until she feels satisfied with the final placements and stands back to admire her work.

  I try to digest her words. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s suggesting his anger is a form of self-defense. I often keep people at arms-length, too. But I’m supposed to be his fiancé. Doesn’t that make me different than everyone else?

  “Go. Get out of this, and slip back into your ugly dress. I see your tense muscles wanting to dash after him.”

  But it isn’t him that I want to go after. It's answers that I want. Bear and his sparky fire fae anger aren’t going to give me anything I want. With determined steps, I glide across the red carpet and into the dressing room.

  Her assistant waits just as before, still as stone with her hands clasped in front of her and her face pointed to the ground. She steps forward, soundlessly slipping me out of the makeshift dress and back into the canary yellow one.

  Hemphway waits patiently outside the door for me. He smiles his tense but charming lopsided grin before starting off toward my room. My body feels weightless and light. The feeling I always get when my sense of adventure blooms.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I hardly notice we’ve made it to my room until Hemphway, with a concerned furrowed brow, opens the door for me. I give him a pat on the arm, enter, and close the door behind me.

  Excitement mixes with worry and fear. And maybe a little of something else. So I steady myself against my dresser. The cloth Donovan gave me is no longer there, likely picked up and taken away by a maid. However, little specks of silver blood still remain in the crevices of the wood grain. It acts as a reminder of why I’m supposed to marry Bear.

  The curse, the plague, it must be stopped. And there are people here who know how to help. Or at least know more than they’re letting on.

  I push down the odd concoction of feelings and undo the large bow that holds the laces of my dress taunt. Ridding myself of the yellow thing, I slip into something plainer. The dress is unfortunately form-fitting. There are no beads or flowers or other stylings that suggest that it is a costly gown. So it suits my needs perfectly.

  I tie my sapphire hair back into a low braid, grab the dark black cloak that hangs next to the door, and pull the hood up over my face.

  “Hemphway. Can you take me to Earl Donovan Gregor?”

  The Chaplain passes me at the weapon’s room door with a frown on his face as he leaves. His gaze shifts over me and he presses a smile to his lips but says nothing.

  Which is good. I have no time for empty pleasantries.

  In his office, Donovan is hunched over his worktable, a rag applying generous love and care to the shine of an old rusted sword. He doesn’t startle when we walk through his armory door unannounced. I’m not sure why I’m so convinced that he should act as if we’ve caught him in the act of something.

  He isn’t stupid enough to be practicing his dark magic in the middle of the day so plainly in the armory. But his reaction is still so muted. Donovan is almost ignoring us as he pulls the rag away to examine the gleaming metal, then goes back to his work without a word.

  And there, on the desk, is the borrowed handkerchief.

  And here I thought he said I could keep it.

  I clear my throat. It’s obviously meant to make him aware of my presence or to the fact that he should be acknowledging me.

  “It’s only polite to say hello.” Each word I say is pointed and laced with my annoyance.

  “You’re the one interrupting. I had a lot of meetings today but I didn’t realize I had plans with you, Princess.” Donovan picks up the sword and walks it over to a shelf with other projects that appear to be unfinished. A bow with splintered wood, two twin daggers with missing or chipped jewels, and a rusted flail with broken spikes are only a few of the undertakings waiting for his expert hands.

  “I want you to sneak me out of the castle.”

  Donovan and Hemphway speak at the same time. Donovan’s, “Now you’re talking.” and Hemphway’s, “Excuse me, Princess?” taking on an odd harmony of chaos.

  I raise a finger to Hemphway. “You said you could keep secrets. So, keep this a secret. I’ll have protection. Donovan is the master of weaponry. I’ll be safe. But none of this, none of it, gets back to King Iri. Got it?”

  Hemphway audible swallows.

  “You’re scaring the poor guy.” Donovan’s walk is confident and overly smooth, like a snake slithering across the floor. He stops just in front of Hemphway. “Now, listen to the Princess or grow a fucking spine, boy.”

  Hemphway manages a nod and excuses himself from the room, leaving me and Donovan alone. Which feels like a mistake. Donovan cocks his head, looking my clothes over from head to toe.

  “Well, let’s get going. Where are you wanting to visit today?” He strolls across the room and tugs at a small statue sitting on a shelf. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice it at first, but I suppose it blends in, since it’s entirely made of rusted metal. When he pulls firmly on the metal horse statue, the wall behind it opens up to reveal a long, dark hallway.

  I look from the passageway to Donovan, unsure if I should enter blindly. In the end though, I follow behind him as his words echo off the dingy stone walls.

  “Wouldn’t be a real castle without a secret passage, eh?” His shoulders shake with his own amused laughter.

  I watch him, wondering if, had I met him under any other circumstances, we would have organically become friends. I’ve always befriended men of war, guards, anyone a little on the gruff side. He has a bitter sort of energy. His aura gives me the feeling that he expects people to please him with little effort on his side.

  The fact that he peddles in dark magic also puts a damper on any friendship we could ever have. It would be nice to have someone on my side in this court. I have no interest in being friends with Aisha, and my other assigned female friends died rather quickly so . . .

  Only a few steps into the damp corridor, the door swings shut behind us, cloaking us in total darkness. My steps slow to a stop even as my eyes adjust to the lack of light. I still see nothing. Wet and heavy, I hear Donovan’s steps against the floor.

  “Where do you want to go?” Light flickers across his skin. Every inch of his skin that peeks out from the dark uniform glows a beautiful sunset orange with swirls of gold.

  It’s odd, but alluring.

  “I, uh, want to go someplace I can interact with people.”

  He turns, walking backwards down the hall like he has walked it a thousand times. He probably has. Even his face is a dazzling vortex of color.

  “Lucky you, I have another meeting in just the sort of place. Hope you don’t mind the lower fae, the common folk. But I found that they’re the ones who know how to have a good time.” Donovan holds his arms out, brushing his fingertips along the walls where they spark from the contact.

  “So how many of these tunnels exist?” I venture, unsure if he’s willing to answer the question.

  “Only three others.” He holds up three fingers, dropping them as he names them off. “One that leads from my quarters, originally for allowing the troops outside of the castle grounds and easy access to weapons or as a way to send off my messenger without them being followed. The second is in the king’s room, should he need an escape.”

  “Does my room have any?” I interrupt.

 
; “No, the king wants you under lock and key. His pretty little prized possession.”

  “I am not his possession.”

  “Better tell him that, then.” Donovan shrugs. “The previous king and his closest confidant designed the tunnels for emergency scenarios. The third tunnel actually runs from the ballroom in case the royal family needs to flee. I’d love to hear your guess as to where the hidden door is during your party tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be sure to find you and offer you a few guesses,” I say plainly as he turns down a fork in the hall.

  Eventually the sloshy muck at our feet turns to uneven cobblestones and the absence of light gives way to the gray promise of the end of the tunnel. As we near, the brilliance of his skin disappears with the darkness and returns to his normal haunting pale tone. I almost miss the color. Though it would cause lots of turned heads once we were out on the streets if he showed off his magic. We don’t need any unwanted attention.

  At the end of the tunnel, we emerge in an alley littered with the telling signs of the Cursebreaker festival. Soggy streamers, candy wrappers, and various half-eaten spun sugar treats sit as evidence of the excitement for our upcoming announcement and ultimately the wedding.

  Donovan watches me intently, though rather smugly, as I kick away the trash and frown at the busy street mere yards away. The large doorway we just walked through does not appear to be the entrance to a tunnel that leads to the castle. Instead, I see a solid brick wall.

  Tentatively, I reach behind me and touch the wall. My fingers pass the barrier and disappear into the hidden hall. Fae glamours do not work on other fae. No matter the strength of their powers or how pure their bloodline runs.

  This is certainly no glamour. This has the feeling of witch magic. Dark magic. Even the atmosphere around it smells like magic; sickeningly sweet and almost too light to catch.

  “The work of his witch?” I ask, pulling my hand back to my side and tugging the black cloak a little closer to my body.

  “Smart girl. Chaplain has the spell strengthened every year to ensure safety.”

  Donovan reaches under the cloak, clasping his hand around my wrist to tug me forward. His hands are oddly cold, even with the powerful magic that runs within him. If I had a clue as to where, who, or what I was about to encounter at the end of this alleyway I would have run from his touch. The uncertainty is powerful enough for me to think better of myself and allow him to take the lead.

  A forgotten alley is the least of many spectacles that linger on the street. I thought the day Bear had taken me out had been the height of the festival. I was clearly wrong.

  Everything I saw before is somehow bigger, better, and brighter. No lingering haze mutes the vibrant colors of performers on unicycles, or the waving banners announcing the arrival of the Cursebreaker, and even the merchants are dressed finer. They don rich tones of reds that vary between their long coat tails and top hats. Fiery swords that remind me of our fire fae king are sold at one booth. Small children wield the magical fire blades and play fight with one another in the streets.

  One merchant near us takes it so far as to shout that he is selling the exact replica of the ring which Cursebreaker will wear when the king announces the wedding. I’ve been so wrapped up in the idea that I’m marrying into this goddessawful kingdom with their rotten king and black magic wielding court, I completely forgot about the fact that there is going to be a ring.

  The diamond ring example painted on the side of the cart features a large square stone accented by much smaller black diamonds with rubies down the band. I shake off Donovan’s grip and stare down at my naked ring finger.

  “Is that what my ring is going to look like?” I try not to gasp in horror, but of all things, it’s not what I dreamt of as a child. It’s silly. It is. But somehow, I had always pictured something . . . large but . . . elegant. Simple, but not plain. I definitely never thought that he would give me a ring that color coordinates with the bricks of his castle instead of the traditional clear gem that claimed every other bride’s finger.

  Donovan waves the vendor off, dismissing it as gossip and hearsay. Though he did propose that a colorful ring for such a colorful relationship might be necessary. What relationship, though? We bicker and fight or indulge in fleeting warm touches. Not exactly what I would call a relationship.

  People spill out of small stores, lining the streets and brushing shoulders as they pass on the cobblestone road, moving like the current of a lazy stream. I follow the current, praying no one recognizes me or sees a glimpse of the blue hair neatly tucked behind my shoulders.

  Donovan doesn’t shy away from attention or even care that someone might see me. He waves at passersby and smiles more warmly than I’ve ever seen him do. Fae clap him on the back in greeting or hum happy hellos. No one questions the lurking figure beside him.

  I expect, as we step inside the doors of a less-than-popular pub, that the friendly greetings will slow or, even better, come to a stop altogether. Instead, a rowdy cheer rises from the bar as we enter. My sandals stick to the floor from the concoction of sloshing alcohol and possible body fluids I don’t even want to attempt to comprehend.

  Various fae mill about the bar with their mugs raised in salute to Donovan. Mostly men, with a few females peppered into the mix. Every one of them looks poorer than poor. A shocking sight in comparison to what I normally see in the warm Southern Kingdom. When Donovan said he was bringing me to the poorest of the poor, he wasn’t joking.

  One man is missing his pointed canines, while the rest of his teeth are rusting and rotten. Another’s shirt is torn at the pocket revealing hair and dirt underneath the tattered cloth. The female next to him has soot streaked across her teeth, and every time she opens her mouth to smile, I can almost see the stench of her breath. Even at a distance I can smell it. Or smell them.

  Trailing behind Donovan, I watch him lean against the bar and snatch up the pretty bartender’s hands. They pass small telling smiles between themselves.

  “Zoey, dear, could you make me something with a little zing?” The sultry purr of his voice deepens as he speaks. Zoey squeals as he brushes his mouth over the back of her hand.

  “Have you brought us your girlfriend finally?” A man stumbles over his words, pointing at me. I fight the urge to grip the fabric with nervous white knuckles.

  “If this was my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be kissing Zoey in front of her.” Donovan gives the man a side hug, unbothered by the unpleasant aroma. “This is . . .” Donovan leaves the statement open for me to fill in the blank.

  “Daphne. Call me Daphne.” My mother’s name. I say the words faster then I comprehend them. It isn’t unusual for me to use her name as an alias. I’ve done it a few times when I was younger, at masked balls or other high fae events when I didn’t feel the need to identify as a princess.

  No one knows my mother’s name. She was a beautiful nobody that my father fancied above all the other nobodies he was presented with. When he she birthed him a girl instead of a boy, he no longer had a use for her.

  I don’t feel sadness for her, because I never knew her. But I do often mourn the thought of the mother I could have had. Instead, I was stuck with a stepmother who spoiled Dymond, my brother, whom I do not miss, despite the miles between us.

  “Lovely name.” The girl’s grin is hollow with many missing teeth.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say too stiffly. Donovan notices my discomfort and smoothly pulls out a rusting metal bar stool and offers the seat.

  Zoey, the long braids of her hair swinging in the hurried momentum of her movements, drops the drink off by Donovan with a flirtatious wink before scurrying off to another waiting patron. Fluffy white foam slides down the chilled glass of his beverage.

  “So,” I clear my throat nervously, “why are you all in here instead of out there for the festival?”

  Donovan smacks the bar top. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Daphne.”

  “Oh, we don’t think that water
fae of King Iri’s is the Cursebreaker. Why celebrate her for something she isn’t?” A murmur of agreement passes through the small crowd.

  I don’t want to be offended because I don’t necessarily disagree, but I’m mildly upset nonetheless. Offense is a fickle feeling.

  “Then what do you think she is? There are no other water fae available to marry. She is the last option. Is she not?”

  Glancing at Donovan, I ignore his knowing, cocky smile. The men and women before me jostle each other and whisper their shared secret. I lean forward with the hopes they will let me in on the joke.

  “Well, Aisha lied to him and was curtly tossed aside. She’s no more water fae than I am!” A big snaggle-toothed troll woman bellows with a laugh, and the men at her side join in her cackling.

  My lips part with a gasp. She lied? That has to be treason. Why would he keep her at his court?

  The laughter dies down and an ominous quiet drifts in.

  Until some else spills more secrets.

  “We don’t think there’s a Cursebreaker at all,” A goblin with a hooked nose finally says, sharing a sprinkle of yellow spit and alcohol as he does.

  Controlling the tick of my emotions is something I’m used to in court or around my father, but now, in the presence of people I don’t know, I don’t bother. My mouth puckers into a thin bitter line.

  “So it’s just an outbreak of illness?” I ask.

  “No. This is no illness,” the man with a tattered pocket mutters. “This is evil, evil black magic. The king is cursed. Sold his soul.”

  My heart thunders inside my chest. I still refuse to let my gaze flicker over to Donovan. Would he know something about this? Or is he just trying to get me to follow the trail of clues he leaves behind?

  “You look skeptical.” Donovan brushes back a small strand of blue hair behind my hood.

  “This is blasphemy. Is it not?”

  “It’s only blasphemy if you believe in the Goddess Celeste.” The woman gives me a polite smile. My questions clearly poking at a sore subject for her.

  I don’t dare mention Goddess Nature. Not once.