The Crowned Fae Queen: A Sexy Fantasy Romance Series (The Cursed Kingdoms Series Book 3)

by A. K. Koonce

  Iri watches me from across the room, his large arms folded over his chest, and a familiar frown curving his perfect lips down. His attention flickers up to my gaze, holding my stare as I take a deep breath.

  I hope you know what you're doing. He raises a single eyebrow, never taking his eyes off me even as I turn my back on him.

  Sure I do. My response is laced with a false air of sweetness. It’ll be fine. I’ve got you and my plain old dumb luck.

  A small huff of laughter erupts behind me. I resist the urge to turn around and instead send the mental image of me giving Iri a pleasantly foul gesture. The laughter only becomes slightly stifled.

  Hovering near the window in his long white gown held onto his lumpy figure by a single red cord, the chaplain blinks, looking from the roaring fire outside and around the room full of men and women of status.

  Jesting Krow strokes the hand of his wife, Everly, the two of them making up the foreign affairs council. Everly gives him a pouting look as she taps the toes of her pointed shoe against the ground. He weaves his hand through his faded blond braids, pushing them over one shoulder.

  “King Iri,” Jesting says loud enough to hush the rest of the room. “Is there a reason you’ve called us all together today? It’s getting late in the evening, and my wife and I would like to retire for the night.”

  Do you want to tell them or shall I? I can feel Iri’s smirk. I’m not sure if I want to slap it right off his face or kiss him until his lips fall off. Maybe both.

  Bartley, Aisha’s father, chews his already nonexistent nails. His leg bounces softly against the stone floor, making an unpleasant rhythm with Countess Everly’s own show of annoyance. I watch him, even as he avoids my attention, and clear my throat.

  This is my court after all.

  “Actually, I brought you here today.”

  Every pair of eyes in the room lands on me. Some of them friendly, some of them lethal. Miranda remains with his back leaning against the wall, his entertained yet curious gaze slowly moving from me to Iri.

  Chaplain’s face turns crimson, the sharp points of his ears blending into the red of his tall cap. His lips purse tight, relax again, then purse once more. Like an asshole. An asshole that can breathe.

  Iri sputters another cough behind me at my less than pleasant thought. His advisor, Marken, narrows his gaze in confusion at the king before turning to face me, his hands firmly planted against his hips.

  “Excuse me, Princess,” Chaplain draws the title out like an insult, “but until you are crowned, you are not privy to private meetings.”

  A small piece of me wants to throw my real title in his face. Really, I’m not sure why I don’t when it will only prove my point even further. But today, I’ll continue to be selfish as I keep my bond with King Iri a secret. As I keep my new title of queen under wraps.

  “Yes, well, until your kingdom is safe from plagues and poison, I suggest you take all the advice you can get, Chaplain.”

  Countess Everly lets out a small gasp. Jesting immediately pats her hand and murmurs something in her ear to comfort her.

  “Poison?” Chaplain says skeptically, clasping his hands neatly in front of him. “What are you even talking about, Princess?”

  I reach into the slim pocket of my dress, the pocket I demand the seamstress to make in all of my gowns, and retrieve the bright yellow flower. This isn’t the rotting, withering flower I held onto for all that time as I nibbled away at its curling petals. This flower is still perfect in appearance and remains on its still-green stem plucked from the pot Aisha grew it in.

  “I’m talking about this.” I toss the flower out onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the sitting area.

  Everly leans forward, her cinnamon-colored curls falling forward over her shoulder. “A dainty little flower?” She cracks an amused smile. “This looks like something that should be in a bouquet in my foyer. You made us leave the comfort of our home to meet about this measly floret?” Her unblemished skin wrinkles slightly as she furrows her brow.

  “This isn’t something you’d want in your floral arrangement, Countess.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the uppity, airheaded woman. “This is called Bloodroot.”

  “Bloodroot,” Marken says, tasting the words on his lips.

  “You take this flower, mix it with a few choice ingredients and bad intentions, and you have poison.” I swallow, trying not to let my memories overwhelm me. “The flower by itself can cause its own damage. Not deadly, but trust me, it’s not ideal.”

  Iri’s ill feelings toward the flower, and his sorrow for the thought of losing me thrum so hard within the bond, I hardly can sort out what feelings are mine and what are his. Maybe it’s all the same.

  “And who do you think is being poisoned?” The chaplain crosses his hands in front of him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  If you don’t mind me asking. Ha. That bullshit is just as bad as someone saying, “I mean no offense,” when everything they are saying is offensive.

  “Nothing that is said in this room is to leave this room.” I channel my fiercest glare and slowly look each person sitting around me in the eye until each of them nods.

  “Nothing,” I repeat.

  “It’s understood, Princess,” Chaplain confirms, his face taut with mild annoyance.

  “I think the entirety of the kingdom is being poisoned.”

  A couple of people take a deep breath in as if the realization of it is too much. However, Chaplain, Sir Bartley, and Mathis smirk or chuckle under their breath.

  “That’s blasphemy.” The chaplain manages, his hand dramatically fluttering to hold his chest. He turns to Iri. “This is why it was so important that you get your latest conquest into the church for every prayer meeting held.”

  Miranda’s hand stops atop his sword. Not that he would do anything with it, but perhaps more for his own comfort than anything. “You will not talk to your King and future Queen that way,” he hisses, his shoulders pulling back until his posture makes him look more like the bear than his friend.

  Short and stiff, Chaplain gives him a small nod but makes no move to apologize. His beady gaze passes by me as he watches the rest of the room for their reaction.

  “So you think the curse is not a curse?” Countess Everly says softly.

  “No, I don’t.” I can feel their eyes burning into my skin. Everyone is watching me, judging me by my words.

  Refusing to let their scrutiny unnerve me, I run my fingers through my hair and stare back. But they seem to be more nervous than I am. The lot of them twitch in their seats as they think about the option. A few clearly already dismissing it.

  “It’s important that this thought doesn’t leave this room.” I have to repeat it. If this got out, we could be facing more than just a small rebellion trying to overrun the castle. We would be facing an entire country gone mad. Enemies would break down our borders at a chance to claim the kingdom who poisoned themselves from the inside out.

  I won't let that happen to this kingdom or to my King.

  I turn my attention toward Bartley, who still stares at the flower. His slender, sunken face is slack with worry twinkling in his ocean-blue eyes.

  “Sir Bartley Joveth.” As I speak, he slowly lifts his gaze to mine, his hand falling away from his mouth. “Who appointed your daughter as the castle healer?”

  Sir Bartley’s worry twists into outrage as he glares right back at me with as much menace as I assume he can muster.

  “Your fiancé. My King,” he hisses. “And he kept her there even after he embarrassed her, because he knew she was a valuable asset to the kingdom.”

  “You mean a liability.” I give him my best, most endearing grin.

  Eat shit, asshat.

  The snark earns me a somehow narrower and more pointed dirty look. Not that I care, because I’m sure he is just as terrible as his nasty daughter.

  “I want her history. Where is her mother? Who are her friends? Where would she go if
she were to leave here?”

  I close the space between us, keeping my chin held high as I look down my nose at him.

  “Wait.” Marken holds up one leather-gloved hand. “You’re asking about Aisha? Your previous lady in waiting?” Confusion wrinkles his forehead, making him look more aged than the grey in his hair.

  “What does Aisha have to do with this flower?” Jesting taps a finger to his clean-shaven chin.

  Miranda sighs heavily, resting his head atop a fist as he waits for our company to put two and two together.

  “You’re suggesting that Aisha is poisoning people?” Marken’s light green eyes light up as he processes the thoughts.

  “She already confessed to poisoning Donovan,” I start.

  Everly brings her hand, heavy in expensive rings, up to her mouth in surprise. I turn away to suppress the urge to punch the dramatic woman in the vagina.

  “And she tried to poison me.”

  This time, Everly leans herself back into her husband, fanning herself like she’s sitting under the sun in a billion-degree desert.

  And you think I’m a drama queen. I say to Iri.

  “You watch yourself with accusations like that!” Sir Bartley wags a boney finger toward me, his entire face red.

  Iri stands up from where he has been quietly watching, letting his presence be known. Bartley snarls and leans back into his chair.

  “How am I supposed to believe any of this?” Bartley throws his hands up in the air. “My daughter is missing. I’m worried sick about her. And now . . . now you want to label her a murderer.”

  Well, because she is, but whatever.

  “She could be dying out there alone,” he continues. “She was raised a proper girl. She doesn’t know how to fend for herself.”

  Chaplain folds his hands and brings them up to his face, whispering a prayer into his hands. “May Goddess Celeste cover her.”

  May Goddess Nature strike her down hard. I counter internally.

  “Oh, I assumed she fled for some foreign love affair,” Everly murmured quietly.

  “She’ll be given a fair trial, if that helps.” There isn’t an ounce of sympathy in my gaze as I look down at this rude little man. “We just need to find her first.”

  The Adam’s apple in Bartley’s throat bobs.

  So I repeat. “I want her history. Tell me more about her and where you think she would go.”

  Together, the group begins to nod reluctantly, watching Bartley as he shrinks further into his seat.

  “I, uh, yes. I don’t know. I'll have to think about it. She didn’t leave the castle often.”

  “Very well.” I wave my hand in dismissal, pointing toward the door.

  Bartley wastes no more time as he jumps up and darts out of the room. The others stand exchanging wary looks.

  Jesting Krow offers a hand to his young wife. She stands, and he trails his thumb down her cheek, whispering in a soothing tone as he watches others shuffle away before he, too, guides her out the door.

  I let loose a long uneven breath when the room clears. Miranda looks between the two of us. “You’re not having a silent conversation now, are you?”

  “No,” Bear says, pushing himself away from the wall. “Is it rude of me to ask why you called everyone in just to grill Sir Bartley?” Thick, soft locks of hair topple over his shoulder as he cocks his head to watch me with humor twinkling inside his eyes.

  I love it when he looks at me like I’ll be his undoing. Though the only thing I plan on undoing is the button on his trousers.

  A knowing grin spreads across my face, easy as butter on a hot day. “Witnesses,” I whisper, hoping all listening ears had made their way far enough down the hallway not to hear the conversation unfolding.

  Miranda huffs a small laugh, rubbing his palms together like a greedy merchant. “You certainly succeeded in making Sir Bartley turn redder than a ripe tomato. That man can’t even think when he is around witnesses.”

  “No, but it certainly got them thinking.”

  Miranda nods. He gives his friend a small smile, tucking his unruly curls back behind his ears, and heads for the door.

  Bear follows his friend, slapping him on the back.

  “And Bear,” I call after him before he can get swept up into trouble with Miranda.

  He swivels on his heels smoothly to pause and look at me. Miranda’s steps stutter behind him.

  “I want a meeting with your witch as well. Tonight.”

  3

  Witches and Mothers

  Syren

  Miranda backpedals into the room, nearly knocking Iri over as he does. Bear rights himself with a sigh as he watches his friend. A nervous smile flitters over Miranda’s features.

  “Why do you want to talk to that witch, again?” His tone wavers as he speaks.

  Ellowin. Daphne.

  Two names both given to me along with the title of mother. I have to know. My whole life, I thought my mother was a nobody. A faceless person without importance to my father or my life.

  Or so he said.

  Aisha is a liar, but what if she isn’t lying about this? And there is so much happening here, so much magic that this witch has her hands in. Is it really my long-lost mother who created this goddessawful rumor that’s tearing apart Nalerpera?

  Maybe having a dead mother is better.

  “Surely a witch who meddles in the affairs of the fae will have some answers to my questions. Dark magic has to come from somewhere.” I give him a kind smile in an attempt to ease his worry. Miranda has never wanted me to meet this witch, though the curiosity as to why is nearly close to overtaking me. I can pretend like I’m not about to quiz this bitch like it’s her final test day before she graduates her apprenticeship.

  “Are you sure you want to see her tonight? She doesn’t live in my backyard, you know.” Bear slips his hands into his pockets, but I can see the tightness in his stance. As if at any moment, he’ll have to jump in between Miranda and me.

  Miranda nods eagerly. “I think it’s best to wait, really.”

  Bear, why does Miranda want to hide this witch from me?

  Iri shifts his weight. I suspect, after all this time, they’ve become close friends. He is protective of those he loves. His statement is pure speculation. The validity of his words is not strong through the bond.

  He wasn’t protective of you when I was hanging you from tree limbs on my island. I try, though not nearly as hard as I should, not to smirk.

  I thought we weren’t talking about what happened on that island anymore?

  Maybe you could use a reminder of how easily I could kick your ass.

  Bear snorts. It’s on.

  “Stop.” Miranda waves his hands in the air. He snaps his fingers in front of our faces a few times for good measure, until Bear swats his friend’s arm away with his signature frown. “Stop with the telepathy thing. I thought we,” Miranda gestures at the three of us, “were having a conversation, not just the two of you having dirty foreplay in front of my innocent face.”

  Innocent, my ass.

  “Miranda can take you to the witch,” Bear offers up.

  “Fucking now?” Miranda’s mouth falls open.

  “Well, I have to put on a different outfit first.” I laugh, pointing toward my glistening gown and elegant shoes. Even if the world still thinks I’m only a princess, I know better, and I’m dressing the part.

  My extravagant, cheerful and all of a sudden tentative and fussy friend murmurs incoherently under his breath. Iri rolls his eyes and motions for us to lead the way out into the hallway. The quiet shuffle of feet behind us tells me Rigs falls into place behind us.

  “I wish I could stay to watch Miranda squirm all evening.” Bear slows, stopping to lean down and press a hot kiss to my forehead. With one hand, he gestures down the hall leading to my room. “Somehow, I still have kingly things to do.”

  “Ah, yes, I always forget about that convenient list of king to-do’s that only appears at times like this
.” Miranda’s brows furrow into an auburn line.

  “You have a kingly to-do list?” I purr, taking up the loose material of his shirt and pulling him closer.

  His lips lift in a playful smirk. The heat radiating off of him makes me feel relaxed and loose. “I do have a list.” His eyebrows wiggle as he peels my hands off his shirt and starts walking backward, his steps smooth.

  “And what’s on this list?” I call. My heart feels heavy, the annoying ache of distance making my chest feel tight.

  “A lot of boring things.”

  I try to tame my grin as he crinkles his nose. I could add something to that list.

  Oh? Bear’s gaze takes its time falling down my body, eating up my image like the last piece of the most-wanted dessert. What’s that?

  Me.

  Through the bond, I can feel his heartbeat quicken, his thoughts rounding back to the feeling of our skin touching and the completeness we feel together. I can also feel him pulling himself together. The righting of his attention.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He muses aloud, avoiding eye contact with his friend.

  Miranda’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh as he watches me wink. Both of his long slender hands tucked into his pockets, his shoulders slump as he walks beside me.

  “Oh, don’t pout.” I expect softness when I nudge his arm, but I forget how strong Miranda really is as I meet the hard muscle of his biceps.

  His dark glare from underneath the twisting curls falling around his face does little to soothe my thrashing heartbeat. A shame when wit and sarcasm usually do the trick. Not this time. Not with so much on the line.

  “Princess, you know I don’t think calling a meeting with the council like that is really making any of them less focused on the big shebang.” Miranda mumbles under his breath, pointing toward the door that leads to my quarters as if I am not aware that this is my room.

  The “princess” comment is more for jabs than anything, because Mr. Cranky Pants has to take me to meet his most coveted and well-kept secret. Even Rigs, my personal guard trailing behind in silence, isn’t aware of our secret wedding.