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

by A. K. Koonce

  Yes, I knew by his charge the Chaplain suggests we only eat fine meals of lean meat and fresh produce. Do the servants just forget to include the delicate desserts and excessive cups of wine?

  “Thank you.” I pat his arm, grateful for their kind manners. Not everyone has been so accepting of their new water fae Princess, and now unbeknownst to them, Queen.

  The trolls tilt their heads in a subtle nod, scurrying into the kitchen without another word. Swinging quietly on the hinges, the open door reveals the continued chaos inside. A blur of red hair and a familiar chuckle. Miranda?

  With little effort, I push against the door. Balanced on the edge of a floured countertop, Miranda holds a batter-covered spoon. He licks it like a child with a sucker.

  “Is this what you do in your free time?” I call through the noise.

  His long eyelashes flutter as he blinks, his gaze drawing to the sound of my voice. “Do you have any better ideas?”

  He could be spending his time proactively searching for Aisha, assisting Iri with his responsibilities, training the guards, or even reading a book. I suppose licking the batter off the stirring stick is plenty pleasurable enough.

  “I’m just terribly envious. I’m off to find the chaplain and search through the food records.”

  “Would you enjoy my company?” Without an answer, he jumps down from the counter, dusting flour from the back of his pants.

  I inhale the smell of confections cooking and fresh citrus being cut. This bubble of work feels hidden from the remainder of the world. A safe escape.

  “Are you going to make me hurtle over a thousand-foot wall?”

  “Not today.” He winks.

  “Well, come on then.”

  He joins me in stride as we make our way down the hall. Passing guards stand a little straighter for Miranda. Guests smile a little brighter.

  “Why do you want to look at the food ledgers? Trying to remember the name of your favorite dish?”

  If only it was that simple.

  “No, I’m going to go back to the day I was sick, and the day that Donovan died. I’m going to search for similarities. I don’t know; I’m just curious to see what I ate that day, I suppose.” I glance toward my friend. “Your witch—”

  “Your mother,” he interjects.

  “Yes, mommy dearest,” I continue with a roll of my eyes, “suggested Aisha was poisoning us through something everyone needs. Like food.”

  “You know what I keep thinking?”

  Holding my breath, I wait for his answer. I hope for some insight or a brilliant revelation that would make this abstract picture of death somewhat clearer.

  “I could be your dad.”

  My feet catch on the carpet. I reach out, steadying myself as I grab his arm. Because . . . what the fuck did he just say?

  “Excuse me?”

  A glow of green dances in his eyes, a mischief that thoroughly thrills him. “If I became an item with my witch, your mother,” he points out unnecessarily, “I would be like your father.”

  I blink, trying to process the words that somehow keep coming out of his mouth. My shoulders draw up, tense.

  “Do you think Bear would let you call me ‘Daddy’?” Miranda keeps walking, pulling me along. His smile grows as my mouth falls agape.

  Pardon me? Time out. Not even with my last dying breath will I ever utter the word Daddy to this ridiculous man.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Miranda. I won't be calling you . . . that.”

  He’s really holding back his laughter now. “No, but I insist that you do. It’s only proper. Give it a try. Just see how it sounds on your tongue.”

  He’s insufferable.

  “Stop.” I glare hard. He smirks harder.

  “Give it a go. Just one little Daddy Miranda and I’ll drop it.”

  “How ’bout I see if Bear wants to say it first? Whisper it real low and growling in your ear. Would that appease you?” I ask with an arch of my eyebrow.

  The smile fades. His eyes get this lost, confused look for a minute, and suddenly the Daddy title doesn’t seem as appealing to him.

  Asshole.

  The door to Chaplain’s office is in sight. Briskly, I make my way to it with a more pleased smile. The brass handle feels cold in my palm, the wood smooth under the rapping of my knuckles on the wood. I don’t wait for Miranda’s response before I bustle through the door, eager to rid myself of this awkward conversation.

  Chaplain sits behind the desk; he hardly glances up as I usher myself in. The tall cap that usually covers his head is resting near him upon a stack of papers. Thin red fringe is combed back away from his face, his scalp nearly visible underneath the fine strands.

  “Can I help you?” he mumbles.

  His room is a collection of cabinets and bookshelves. Brown bound books, weathered leather journals, and papers stuffed in every crook, their corners bent at odd angles, fill every available surface. A jar stuffed with large feathered quill pens sits at the edge of his desk. A small white mug, clearly no longer warm, waits only half full on top of the paper he scribbles on now.

  Behind him, a portrait, the clear depiction of Goddess Celeste with her white-blond hair flowing around her like a veil, hangs as the one and only decor piece. Her book, the rules of prayer and the way of living that makes this court so much different than my own, waits propped on an old pulpit in the corner.

  “You most certainly can. I’m looking to recover the food logs from now back to the day that I was brought here as your princess.” Carefully, I fold my hands in front of me to refrain from gripping the backs of the red sitting chairs between us.

  His pen stills. From his papers to my face, his attention drags at an uneager pace.

  “That’s a lot of paperwork for a Princess to bother herself with.” His cheeks flush a crimson red. “Why would you want these things?”

  “Just doing a little research.”

  “Do you have an issue with the Princess’s request?” Miranda steps forward.

  “Not at all.” The chaplain straightens himself. “The kingdom needs a water fae and a fire fae to marry, Princess. It’s the will of Goddess Celeste. You should still be planning your wedding.”

  It takes all of me not to laugh in his face. Instead, I shake my head with a heavily grim grin. “The kingdom is rioting, Chaplain. They tried to kill their king. Do you really think they want a wedding right now?”

  “Yes. I do.” He bustles from his desk, papers lifting in the breeze he creates as he moves by his desk. With an exaggerated sigh, he pulls open a door that creaks in protest as the weight is pulled forward.

  “If we do not make right of the curse, if we do not complete the prophecy, this kingdom will go to shit,” he hisses. Four massive books are pulled from the open cabinet and stacked on a small wooden table that may not be able to bear the weight.

  “That didn’t seem like a very religious word,” I point out, reaching for a book.

  “Let me, Princess.” Miranda grunts, picking up the four logs.

  “You can mark my words, religious or not.” His red cape flutters behind him like a dramatic exclamation point on his words. “Your world is going to fall apart if you do not head the commands of Goddess Celeste.”

  Pages pulled from books I’d brought back from the Chaplain’s office are spread across my desk. Heavy in my hand, I hold up my magnifying glass to properly see the tiny script written across its leaves. The sun warms my back. It casts its afternoon light across the floor and over my unorganized workspace.

  Thudding in a steady rhythm behind me, Miranda kicks his feet against my footboard and hums a jolly tune. Spread across his lap is another large book. I suspect he hasn’t actually been reading much of it. Though in truth, I’m not sure I have either.

  Each ledge is sloppily filled with food and drink served for every meal and occasion hosted by the castle’s kitchen. All of it was written by the trolls. In. Their. Fucking. Language. Every word looks similar when I don’t k
now what in the living hell they are.

  With a growl, I set down the glass. “I just don’t see how she would have access to harm so many people on such a wide scale.” I bite at my nails, wincing as I hit raw skin, then continue biting away. “She had to be working with someone.”

  “No,” Miranda whines. “You can’t be suggesting the sweet cooks in the kitchen.”

  “A troll revolution.” My eyes widen with playful sarcasm. “No, silly. Maybe a distributor before them, even. Where do we purchase our food from other than what is grown on our grounds?”

  “A few dozen farms and a baker that makes bread better than any troll I’ve ever encountered.”

  “That's a lot of leads to follow.” I chew on my lip, thumbing between a few pages. “If I look closely, I don’t see any exact words in meals on the days I’m focusing on. Maybe I need to look at the meals around those days, too. Have we ever eaten bison?”

  Miranda scoffs, folding his feet underneath him. “The cost of that is so high, even Bear wouldn’t think to cash out the shells for that.”

  Pushing away from the desk, the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. I tilt my head up and glare at the smooth ceiling. “And I don’t believe she hurt all of these people out of jealousy,” I add. “I mean, I love your eyeliner, but I wouldn’t kill all the people you’ve ever associated with just to get it from you.”

  “Are you comparing me to Miranda’s makeup?” Bear asks, appearing in my doorway.

  I pick up a paperweight and throw it across the room at him. Bear catches it easily and tosses it between his two hands with a smirk.

  “Tell me that doesn’t sound like a crock of shit,” I say pointedly.

  “It does.” Bear frowns and shrugs. “But most anything Aisha says sounds an awful lot like shit.”

  “Ain't that the truth.” Miranda nods in agreement. “I’m glad you didn’t befriend her, Syren. She would have made you rotten like her.”

  I thumb my fingers against the arm of my chair. “You have so much faith in my strength of character, I see.”

  “You wanted to be friends with Aisha?” Bear cocks his head at me, clearly puzzled.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Yes, the witch read her thoughts. Which I thought you could do, too?” Miranda purses his lips, his eyes fluttering between us.

  “She is still very guarded,” Bear says hoarsely.

  “I didn’t want to be her friend—” I start.

  “She’s lonely,” Miranda adds.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Apparently, my friendship isn’t fulfilling enough.” Miranda tilts his chin up into the air, looking at me down his nose.

  “Would you shut up,” I huff, standing abruptly from my chair.

  “Sorry,” The two of them mutter, sharing a mutual look of sarcastic pity.

  Disrespectful meatheads.

  “It’s just . . . we are so close. We know Aisha is on this land. We just have to weed out which source she’s been using or pry the words out of her once the guards find her.”

  Balling up my hand, I kick at my chair and avoid their stern gazes. With Iri so close, I can feel my cheeks warm and our mate bond strengthen by the nearness. It feels like the embrace of someone you’ve grown up with or that spike of joy when you smell that sugary perfume of your grandmother. It feels like home.

  With a pout, I shuffle to my mate. He tosses the paperweight to Miranda and opens his arms, allowing me to place my head against his chest. The sound of his heart fills my ears and echoes inside my mind. Iri wraps both arms around my body. My personal cage of safety.

  “We’re gonna fucking fix this,” I growl.

  No one responds. But I dare them to even suggest otherwise.

  8

  Realizing the Truth

  Syren

  Exhaustion burns my eyes. The chill of the evening wind sweeping from under my sheer blush curtains and into my room sends a shiver down my spine that means to chase me under the covers of my bed.

  Bear closes the book propped in his hand. He balances the massive text against his chest. Underneath me, the bed dips beneath his weight, pulling my body against him. Not that I’m fighting the idea.

  “Why did you stop reading?” I whisper, looking to his handsome face from where I’m perched against his shoulder.

  “Syren, you need to rest. Plus, I’m going to fall asleep if I translate anymore of this damn ledger to you. You know I have a lot more interesting books, right? A whole library of them.” Iri sets the book aside. The warm and rough skin of his thumb strokes against my cheek.

  “I’m very entertained.”

  “You nearly fell asleep drooling on my shoulder.” He flashes his white teeth in a quick smile.

  I swat at his arm. “I did no such thing!”

  Sitting up, the white material of my nightgown dips lower on my chest. His honey-dipped eyes dart down then slowly trail back up.

  “You really must sleep.” His mouth remains slightly parted, words he wants to say aloud still waiting on his tongue.

  “Must I?” With one hand, I pull at the string tying the top of my gown tight over my breasts. “You still haven’t finished your daily tasks. I’m only meaning to help.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Syren,” he rasps, sitting up.

  I trail my bare foot over his brown socks and up his smooth pant leg. The hem of my gown rising as I do. My pale skin glows under the light like the reflection of the moon.

  “I can feel your exhaustion. You can’t fool me.” He gathers my hands in his.

  “Then you can feel how much I want you, too.” I settle firmly against him, and the heat between us is undeniable.

  Iri takes a long, deep breath in. His lips lift in a knowing smile. The scent of my apparent want, unfamiliar to my nose, is recognizable only in his mind. Iri chews on his bottom lip before his tongue traces over the same spot.

  “I do want to please you so.” He hums. Goosebumps trail behind his touch as his fingers playfully spin in tiny circles up my exposed calf, then soon, up my thigh.

  Easily, I let my eyes flutter to a close, content to enjoy the slow workings of the tender caress. A tiny gasp manages to be the only sound passed between us as he slips his hand under my panties. He draws more circles there, pulling at the strings that hold me all together.

  Iri pulls away.

  “What’s wrong?” I whisper, blinking.

  Why! Why are we stopping?

  The softness in his gaze flickers to something hard, something savage. His lip curling as he leans closer to me.

  “You were meant to die in those woods.” Embers spark under his hands, catching on the fabric of my blankets. His face becomes a shade of crimson, anger burning in the black that consumes his eyes.

  “Iri?” I choke, panic squeezing my chest. Fire sparks on my bed. Smoke, wicked and black, infects the air, making it foggy. My nose burns with the familiar smell of the pile.

  Long, glowing feathers of fire burst from Bear’s back. The force cracks the tall post of the bed nearest my feet with a blatant snap.

  “I’ll rid myself of you, like every other whore meant to be my wife.” His palms glow with the light of his growing flame.

  My stomach drops sickly.

  Cold wood meets the damp sweat on my back, my shoulders pressing into the headboard without a means for escape. Fire swells beside me, eating slowly at the bed. A charring blaze blackens Iri’s palms as he reaches out and wraps each finger around my neck.

  Pressure keeps the needed air from reaching my lungs, pressure placed by the hands of my husband.

  He leans down to my ear. His words become hard to hear over the screaming need to breath and the sound of my slowing heart in his ears.

  “Syren,” his voice softens. “Wake up.”

  My eyes snap open. The world slamming into place around me. Unmarred sheets, plush pink blankets hastily pulled over my legs. High in the sky, the fires of the pile still burn. The wind carries the scent through my open
window, smoke curling like the touch of a bad dream toward me.

  I sigh, patting my comforter that is unmarked by ember or spark. It was only a dream. Slowly, I pull myself up. Curse that wretched forest and the nightmares it plagues me with. If my mother cared half as much as she pretended to, she would rid me of the lingering fears.

  The orange glow cast across the polished floors darkens, the broken light drawing my attention. A black shadow replaces the familiar shapes. Arms and legs crouch in a tangle that looks almost like a spider, the tilt of its head giving away the pointed tip of its ear.

  Racing over the flooring, my eyes chase after the object that casts these shadows into my room. A fae rises to stand within my open window. The stinging sound of a sharpened blade as it slips from its sheath is more real than my fear.

  I open my mouth to scream, the words already forming on my lip. Cold, sharp steel presses to my neck.

  “If you promise not to scream, I’ll make this painless, Princess,” a woman whispers to me.

  IRI! I scream through the bond, knowing the heaviness of my husband's sleep. Hoping it’s enough to wake him. Iri, please.

  Every small breath makes the blade feel tighter against my neck. The shadow of a man steps down from my windowsill. “That isn’t fair of you. You know I wanted this kill,” he says in a mocking tone to the woman poised behind me.

  “You snooze, you lose.” The girl, her voice the same uppity drawl as Aisha’s, makes me tense.

  Horror, dismay, and outright panic begin to settle in my bones. Rage replaces it.

  “I had a couple of guards that had to be dealt with on the way up.” He shrugs with a little apathy.

  I can feel her body, warm beside me, relaxing as she tsk-tsks at her companion. An opening and a chance as her focus slips. With a small inhale, I grab her wrist and yank her hand and the knife away from my throat.

  Her wrist pops loudly as I twist her hand around with all my strength. She yelps and the knife topples onto my blanket. I don’t wait to see her next move before I snatch the weapon and shove it into the first piece of flesh I can reach. The blade protrudes from her thigh, blood seeping into the fabric.