“Meris,” she screamed, knowing as she did so that it would be too late.
Gault said not a word. He spread his arms wide across the mantelpiece and went to his death, smiling.
Charming’s sword slashed down, cleaving through his shoulder and chest until it became lodged against his hip. Gault remained standing for a moment before falling, firstly to his knees and then collapsing on his side to lie sprawled and bloody upon the tiled floor.
Charming died an instant later. He reached behind him to fumble at the axe between his shoulder blades, then fell face first beside Gault’s body.
“Snow!” Meris, naked and white-faced, knelt beside her. “My princess? Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, pushing him away to crawl towards Gault. Meris took hold of her shoulders, pressing her face against his chest. She was crying, great tearing sobs that shook her entire body.
“Snow?” Kaliko’s voice. She turned blindly in Meris’s grip, holding her hands out towards him. He took her in his arms and held her, murmuring soft words. Stroking her hair.
Ander stood frozen in the doorway. Like someone in a trance, he moved across the room and sank to his knees beside Gault. He made a terrible sound, a sound Snow White would hear forever in her dreams, and gathered Gault’s broken body against his chest, rocking Gault in his arms as he continued to make that dreadful low keening.
Kaliko lifted Snow White in his arms. Small as he was, he was strong. As he carried her from the room, she looked back over her shoulder. Kaffion and Shyla were trying to pull Ander away from Gault’s body. Meris still knelt on the floor, his face a mask of shock and grief. Hiram stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder. Tears tracked down his cheeks.
She buried her face against Kaliko’s shoulder and wept.
Spring was turning into summer when Snow White wed Kaliko. It had taken weeks for the shocked amazement of the court at the events of Dwalen Eve to settle from a raging boil to a low simmer. The salacious details had been discussed with relish in the court and city for days, slowly trickling out into the countryside and beyond to add spice to countless dinner tables and tavern bars. Sex and murder, perfect ingredients for a gossip’s supper. The queen’s lover murdered. The queen dead by her own hands. The apparent insanity of the foreign prince and his attempt on the life of their own Snow White. The brave dwarf who had saved her life and in doing so lost his own.
And just as the gossip began to quieten down, the announcement that Snow White was to wed one of her dwarves.
If the men of the court looked askance at that news, there were ladies enough who had enjoyed a night’s pleasure with one of Snow White’s attendants to nod knowingly at each other. And in truth, they made a delightful couple, she so pale and fair and her companion so dark and comely. There was many a woman who longed to run her fingers through his mop of dark hair.
That they loved each other could not be doubted. It was evident in every touch or glance. Every shared smile.
Her wedding day dawned bright and fair. It would have been perfect if not for one thing. All of her companions were to attend her and Kaliko. Except Gault, whose absence was still a dull ache in her heart, and Ander.
He had come to her a few weeks ago. He had lost flesh. She thought he would carry his grief in his bones forever.
“I have to leave, Snow,” he said. “I want to go home. There is nothing here now except memories of blood and pain. I want to return to the mountains. To where we played as boys. Gault was happy there. I want to remember him that way.”
When he left, he carried a small silver casket with him. Gault’s heart rested within. Ander would take him home and bury him beneath the soil of his homeland.
“Will I ever see you again?” Snow White asked him, tears trembling at the edge of her lashes.
He wiped one away with his thumb. “Perhaps. One day. But if that day never comes, my Snow, you will still be happy?”
She nodded tremulously. “Happy ever after,” she whispered. “Just as in the fairy tales.”
“Happy ever after. I like the sound of that.” Ander smiled. “Promise me, then, that you and Kaliko will live happily ever after, Snow.”
“I promise.”
And so they did.
About the Author
Deborah Brown is an Australian author who shares her house in country Victoria with a miniature dachshund called Mr. Frodo, a blue heeler called Ruby and four chooks. She is a scientist by profession but writing is her passion. Her dreams include having one of her novels published and having her football team win the AFL premiership before she is too old to enjoy it!
An angry fairy queen trapped his body. A woman’s love could imprison his heart.
Awaken
© 2010 Anya Richards
An Enchanted Story
Prince Ryllio once lived so charmed a life, even he began to believe nothing bad could touch him. Then a moment’s indiscretion brought Queen Mab’s wrath raining down, encasing him in stone.
Hundreds of years later, he is losing hope that anyone will find him, much less counter the spell. Until a beautiful young woman wanders into his hidden glade to privately discover the pleasures of her own body. Her sensual innocence reignites his acute longing for freedom.
Lured into the old forest by an irresistible impulse, Myrina finds intimate communion with Ryllio’s imprisoned spirit. His whispered guidance weaves an erotic spell, rousing her to undreamed heights of ecstasy.
The intertwining of their minds comes at a devastating price. As each encounter intensifies, Myrina falls in love with a man she can never touch. And Ryllio realizes he must give up the last vestiges of his humanity—or condemn her to life devoid of a flesh-and-blood lover…
Warning: Bawdy faeries cause mayhem and wicked self-love abounds, as a voyeuristic prince and a shy but willing commoner both get a fine erotic comeuppance (put the emphasis in ‘comeuppance’ where you will)
Enjoy the following excerpt for Awaken:
“I can’t help thinking your friend was only partly right.”
“In what way?” Myrina asked in surprise.
“There are some things you can learn on your own, but others only a lover can teach.”
“What kinds of things?”
Ryllio’s voice grew low, caressing. “The touch of your own hands is unlike the touch of another. What you do to yourself cannot feel the same or give the same sensations as when a lover gives you pleasure.”
Myrina shivered, her skin prickling to life, body growing warm and liquid inside. Words failed her, for she remembered the imagined ecstasy of his mouth on her quim, wondered if it could have been even better in reality.
“And,” he continued in the same low, seductive tone, “each lover is different, is inspired to do different things, or the same loving actions in different ways. It is only in the moment you can know whether these new sensations are pleasurable or not. But Elawen also was right. There can be no harm in learning your body’s desires for yourself.”
Flushed with arousal, yet also embarrassed, Myrina thought it best to leave, but could not bring herself to go. It was not just the desire holding her in place, but a bone-deep reluctance to abandon Ryllio now that she knew of his lonely existence. There could be no harm in staying for a while, in being with him during this moonlit night, in asking him some of the questions burning in her mind.
It took some courage, however, to finally reply, and her voice faltered from her throat. “Are lovers so different, one from the other, then?”
“Yes, and you will be different with each one too. What one man will do to you without hesitation, another would never consider doing. And what you enjoy with one man, you will find repulsive if another tried.”
Considering his words, Myrina realised he must have had many lovers before his punishment began, and a spark of something akin to jealousy came to life deep in her belly. It made her voice stronger, with a bit of a snap, when she spoke. “What kinds of things would a lover such as yourself
never do? Surely there cannot be many?”
But when he replied, his words doused the flame of her anger, even as they ignited a flash-fire of passion.
“For you, with you, I would do everything, give you every liberty over my body, take whichever you would give in return. There is nothing I wouldn’t try in my quest to give you pleasure, to satisfy you, to make your desire burn so hot it incinerates us both with the ecstasy of our joining.”
There was no need to ask what he meant, for in her mind she saw them together, in flickers of images conjured by his imagination. He was bent to her breasts, lips curved to receive her straining nipple—kissing her back, hands stroking her belly—kneeling between her legs, his hair dark against her thighs—curled around her from behind, the head of his cock poised for entry into her hungering body. She was tied, naked, to a bed—then he was likewise held immobilized for her pleasure. He was behind, in front, between—in her quim, her mouth, her hand, her arse. She was over, under, beside him, her hair unbound, trailing over his skin. Gentle here, masterful there—in control and ceding control—kissing, stroking, licking, sucking places Myrina never thought another would touch.
She pressed trembling palms to her cheeks, trying to rise, wanting to flee, but finding her legs too weak. The images were so real they left her gasping, burning—titillated and confused.
“I’ve shocked and frightened you.” His voice was rueful, but filled with such harsh longing the desire rampaging through her body climbed even higher. “I’m sorry. You are more innocent than I realised. Please—” he added, as Myrina once more tried to rise, “—don’t go.”
She subsided, quivering, drawing her cloak closer around her as though it could protect her from the unfamiliar swirl of emotion between them. His words and images were like an iron chain, binding and drawing her further into an unknown world she desperately longed to explore.
But there was also a sense of shame for being so ignorant. Jecil had been her only lover, coaxing until curiosity and the knowledge he would soon be leaving convinced her to accept his attentions. She had been tired of hearing Elawen’s stories and not having any of her own to share. Tired too of not knowing what it felt like to be held, caressed, loved. Now she realised she was still almost as naive as before Jecil breached her maidenhead.
“You think me silly—like the old biddy Elawen accuses me of being.”
“No, Myrina.” Sincerity gave his words a gentle edge. “Your inexperience is not something to be scorned.”
“How can you say that when I could hardly understand what you showed me?” Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she hugged her knees beneath her cloak. “When I can hardly understand what I am feeling?”
“What do you feel?”
How could she describe the heated sensitivity of her body, the need washing through her in rough, tempestuous waves? How to explain to Ryllio just the sound of his voice, the vision of his fantasies, had ignited a passionate conflagration within? In its light all other sensation dimmed, cast into insignificance.
Gently, as mist creeps over the warmth of a slow flowing river, he cast a picture into her mind. Holding her cheeks, he tipped her face up so the deep green eyes with their slumberous lids and amorous gleam looked deep into hers.
“So lovely,” he murmured, fingers tracing the lines of her brows, the curve of her lips. “So beautiful.”
The feathery sensations came from her own hands, but still Myrina allowed the love-dream to pull her deep, gladly sinking into the drowning pleasure, leaving reality behind. Ryllio’s voice, tender and enthralling, guided her to discard constraint along with her cloak, inhibition with her shift.
Loosening her hair to toss the heavy mass behind her shoulders, Myrina combed fingers through it as she raised her face to the star-flung sky. The movement lifted her breasts—an offering made to love’s primacy—and the puckered tips, kissed by moonlight and the warm night air, ached. At Ryllio’s sighing moan, the last of vestiges of reserve fell away, and she felt reborn—a woman desired and desiring, confident of her allure.
Taking her time, Myrina stroked neck and breasts, belly and thighs—making contact with fluttering touches and sure, strong caresses. Ryllio’s whispers entreated her to search out and delight in the softness and sensitivity of her skin, the supple firmness of the muscles beneath.
She felt like a wild thing, unfettered by rules and expectations, open only to the satisfaction of the moment. In the cradle of the night, Ryllio’s voice enfolded her, sheltering and freeing all at once.
Marriage? No, thanks. She’d rather kiss a dragon.
Slayer
© 2010 D.L. Snow
An Enchanted Story
All Prince Cahill needs to assume the throne is one simple thing: a wife. Except every virgin princess in the kingdom has turned up deflowered before the deal can be sealed. The very next maiden to cross this threshold, he vows, will be his bride.
When she appears—injured, half-frozen and reeking of dragon dung—he holds to his promise and puts her to the final test to prove her worthiness. A test that involves a mattress and a pea.
Breanna couldn’t be less interested in marriage, especially to a cocksure royal like Cahill. Since losing her family to a dragon horde, she has become the continent’s finest slayer—a job she doesn’t plan on giving up until the last dragon’s blood drips from her sword.
Yet her sleepless nights are plagued with visions of Cahill doing wicked things to her untutored body. And when she fights at his side to repel a dragon attack, her visions become delicious reality.
But Queen Eleanor, whose reign is about to end, has no intention of giving up her power. Not to Prince Cahill, and certainly not to some young upstart…
Warning: This book contains corruption, seduction, conspiracy and magically-induced erotic dreams. And that’s just the first chapter.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Slayer:
Cahill hung from the tree, like Brea had taught him, trying to regulate his breathing, but finding it difficult with a glob of dragon shit sliding down his left cheek. This was soon forgotten, however, when the thundering hooves of an approaching horse alerted him to action. It was Brea riding Elrond hard, heading straight for him with a fire-breather right on her tail.
“Attack from above,” Brea had said. “Dragons never look up.”
Brea flew by, then Cahill let go of the branch, landing squarely straddling the beast’s neck. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword, lifted it high and drove it to the hilt through the black slit in the dragon’s yellow eye.
“Think of it as a bulls-eye,” Brea had instructed.
Sure enough, death came instantly. The dragon’s wings stretched taut in its final convulsion and the stinking body glided gently to the ground where Cahill was able to easily slide off. He jogged to join Brea and Elrond a safe distance away before the body went up in flames. “I can’t believe it!” he crowed. “It’s so easy.”
Brea narrowed her eyes and scoffed, “Easy?”
“I mean efficient,” Cahill said and grinned. “There’s no hacking at a writhing neck covered in almost impenetrable scales. No fire, no mess.” He raised his hand to Brea to pull her down from the horse and she accepted the help without hesitation. “We make quite a team.”
She nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. “That’s it,” Brea sighed. “We did it. We killed them all.”
In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, “Maybe not all. What the hell is that?”
Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, “Fuck a duck.”
Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.
“That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this.” Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oo
zed blood.
“You fought that thing?” he said with admiration.
Brea nodded grimly. “As you can see, it won.”
Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. “You’re still here,” he said. “I call that a draw.”
The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.
“We’ll save that one for another day,” Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She’d washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that’s all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.
Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill’s valet to remove the washtub and bring in some food. She tucked a fur around her shoulders for decency’s sake, then Brea sat at the table and waited for the food and Cahill to arrive. He came in moments later, smelling clean and masculine. Brea kept her lashes lowered as a sudden shyness descended over her.
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