Allison and the Torrid Tea Party: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (Harem of Hearts Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  Curiouser and Fucking Curiouser

  Allison And The Torrid Tea Party

  Allison And The Torrid Tea Party © C.M. Stunich 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  When the very first copies of "Allison's Adventures in Underland" went out, there was a small mistake with the file and some important scenes were missing. Most readers received the correct file, but I would definitely suggest making sure that when you read book one, you had the full version. If not, you will need to contact Amazon Customer Service and ask for the updated version (it's free to update it), or else book two, which you currently hold in your lovely hands, will not make as much sense.

  Well, as much sense as Underland ever makes.

  How do you know if you have the correct version? The final version had seven chapters, and some key scenes that were missing were: Allison's sex scene with Tee, a very near sex/training scene with the Duke of Northumbria, and a scene wherein the Cheshire Cat presents the Alice with a heap of dead rodents as a generous gift.

  If you have any questions about this, email author@cmstunich.com or find me on Facebook @ www.facebook.com/cmstunich

  Thank you and enjoy!

  Dedication

  Generally, when I write a dedication it will be a sentence or two at most. But this book hit me at a strange time in my life, and it really made me pick apart who I was inside, and try to figure out how to put it all back together.

  I have never received so much love mail or hate mail for any series in my six-year career. Many people seemed to love the book, but others were upset at the wait for book two—understandably so—as well as my promises that it was coming soon. So, I just want to say that I apologize for that. I've been told by one of my PAs, and my best writing friend in the whole world not to promise release days until after I'm done; I just get so excited sometimes and can't seem to contain myself. I always think I can get more done than is humanly possible. LOL

  Some of the hate mail was horrible, some of it made me cry, but you know what? It also made me push harder than I ever have before. I think this book is one of my absolute best, and I couldn't be prouder. And for those who sent inspiring, positive messages, I just want you to know that you literally changed my world when I got to open and read them.

  This book is therefore dedicated to the kind souls who cheered me up with their own words: I hope I can cheer you up with mine!

  Also, huge thanks to:

  Tate James, for being the best co-writer a person could ever ask for.

  Bailey Lynne Hewlett for always being my positivity co-pilot.

  Sara Vermillion for kicking my ass when it's needed most.

  CoraLee June and G. Bailey for being warm, wonderful, and supportive.

  Amanda Rose for loving the croquet scene.

  And all the haters, because without you, I might not have pushed myself to the limit. Rock on, and here's a little love from me to you!

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  Alice of violent wild magic

  And loyal men who follow!

  Though time be fleet, and truly tragic

  The future is not hollow.

  Thy mighty power will soon prevail

  Turn nightmares into fairy-tales.

  Underland soaked in haunting pain,

  Topside goes burning after:

  No other Alice sheds these chains

  Spurred by her carnal rapture—

  Blood shall spill when devils burn bright

  Winning her the fucking fight.

  A tale begun in other days,

  When magic girls were glowing—

  A simple time, that served divine

  Before the Riving went a’sowing—

  Dark echoes live in memory, yes,

  Though greedy bastards say “forget”.

  Come, hearken then, ere voice of dead,

  The Anti-Alice haven,

  Shall summon to unwelcome dread

  A melancholy maiden!

  We are but wily soldiers, friend,

  Who fret to find our homeland’s end.

  Without the magic, blinding power,

  The storm-wind’s moody madness—

  Within Torrid Tea Party’s tower,

  A nest of lust and heat, true madness.

  These magic words shall save us last:

  All must love their warring badass.

  And, through the shadow of a sigh

  Her men push through the story,

  For ‘happy future days’ come high,

  And vanish’d bloody glory—

  They shall not touch, with hands of hate,

  The pleasance of our Heart’d gate.

  He’s going to die, isn’t he?

  I sit in the back of a carriage made of fucking porcelain and stare at North’s comatose form, blood leaking from his head at an alarming rate. In a way, that’s a good sign, I guess, because if he’s bleeding then that means his heart is still pumping, so he’s still alive.

  Dead things don’t bleed.

  “If you don’t give him medical attention, he’ll die before you make it to wherever it is that we’re going,” I say, staring up at the three men sitting in the back of the carriage with me. They’re all situated on the floor in a semi-circle, sipping tea. Like, laced-with-drugs, seriously-going-to-mess-them-up tea. And then what? North will lie there and bleed to death, and I’ll sit here, shackled to the wood floor, forced to watch.

  “Oh, well, wouldn’t that be a shame,” the Mad Hatter says, his hat lilting to one side, this disheveled dishabille that he wears so well. And those eyes, the color of marmalade, this honeyed orange shade that I’ve never seen before. But hell, why should that surprise me? After everything I’ve seen in Underland so far, it’s hardly the weirdest.

  The man holds his teacup in hands dripping with ink, tattoos crawling out from beneath the black jacket he’s wearing, over his knuckles, along his fingers. He’s so dainty about it, too, like he’s actually got some manners in that crazy head of his.

  “You don’t care if he dies then?” I continue as the three of them continue to lounge in the back of the jostling carriage. It’s a big round, white thing that looks like a fucking teapot on the outside. The driver’s sitting on a platform perched on the top of the spout, and the handle was used to open the massive door I was shoved through; there’s not a single window in the whole damn thing, but I can see flashes of lightning through a circle in the roof, where I’m assuming there’s some sort of ‘lid’.

  The screech of a jabberwock echoes outside the carriage, but nobody inside of it seems bothered except for me. Leaning back against the wall, I put my hands over my ears as the three men pass around a pot of tea like it’s a bott
le of whiskey. Only difference here is they pour it into a teacup before they sling it back like a shot.

  “We’re going to drop him off close to a musking female jabberwock nest and see what happens,” the March Hare says, twitching his velveteen ears and crossing his legs at the ankle. The look he gives me is downright lascivious, but I think, rather than checking me out, he’s fantasizing about North being ripped apart by an angry dragon.

  “What the fuck does musking mean?” I ask, adjusting myself slightly and listening to the awful clank of my chains. We’ve been in this carriage for the better part of an hour and frankly, I haven’t been able to brainstorm a way out of this one. Some part of me wonders if the twins’ll come for me, but I’m also not into the whole being-saved-by-a-prince routine. Err, princes in this case, I suppose. But still. I have to just assume that I’m alone here and try to find some way out of this mess.

  “Musking,” the Mad Hatter replies with this awful curve of a smile transforming his face. “That’s just a dirty science word for horny as hell.” He takes another sip of his tea and then tosses the cup aside, letting it shatter against the back wall of the carriage before crawling toward me, his honey-orange eyes bright, his skin as pale as moonlight. When he smiles, doves cry. That’s how scary this motherfucker is. “We’re going to leave him out there, helpless and prone, and see if there’re any takers.”

  “You’re sick in the head,” I snap back at him as he reaches out and curls some of my blonde hair around his fingers, pulling it to his face for a sniff. Seriously? What a pervert. When I jerk back, all I end up doing is yanking my hair painfully; the Mad Hatter does not let go. “What’s the point of all that anyway, taking a hostage only to watch him die? What purpose does that serve?!”

  “Who says it serves a purpose,” the Mad Hatter—Raiden Walker, I guess, is his name—purrs, using the handful of my hair to pull me toward his face. “The Duke of Northumbria is a supporter of the King of Hearts—and a hefty giver of tithes to the crown—so we figured, we came all the way out here to nab you, why not grab him at the same time?”

  “Cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” I retort, but the pale—and admittedly handsome—man in front of me just grins bigger and snaps his fingers. Bingo, I guess, I’ve figured it all out. He lets go of my hair and then sits back, propping one knee and throwing his arm casually across it. The strangely beautiful color of his eyes drifts down to my neck, watching my pulse hum and throb beneath my skin.

  “Cruelty is in the eye of the beholder,” he says, just as vague and weird as everyone else that lives here. They can blame all their strangeness on the Riving if they want, but I blame it on testosterone poisoning. Clearly, with a ratio of ten men to one woman, that must be it. The air is thick with it. My guess? The Duke and this guy, Raiden, they have some sort of pissing war going on. “Tell you what?” he says after a minute, just when my eyes begin to stray over to the March Hare and the Dormouse. I turn my attention back to him and our gazes lock. “Answer me a riddle and I’ll let the Duke go.”

  “Ask me a riddle and if I get it right, you give him medical attention and keep him alive. You don’t even have to let him go; he can stay with me.” The Mad Hatter raises two dark brows, his black hair curling out from under his hat in a defiant sort of way. I figure beggars can’t be choosers and it’d be better if North were alive and being held prisoner than lying half-dead and free in the middle of the forest.

  “You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” Raiden glances over his shoulder at the March Hare, still slowly sipping his tea and watching us with eyes the color of dark chocolate, bitter and sweet at the same time. On his other side, the massive hulk of the Dormouse is sprawled and sleeping, teacup clenched in his huge hand.

  “Smart, too,” I quip, crossing my arms over my chest and hating the feel of the cold chains against my skin. I’m still wearing my dressing gown, and really, it doesn’t provide a lot of coverage. In the darkest depths of my mind, I realize what could so easily happen to a girl like me, dressed in a nightie and kidnapped like this. The awful, awful fate I avoided that night at the hands of Liam and his friends—the salvation that cost my brother his life and my mother her freedom—that could all be revisited on me here.

  But these men, they seem … well, mad. And if I can just keep them talking, maybe I can hold them off from trying anything else, buy myself time to escape. The Vorpal Blade is still there, resting against my thigh. I can practically feel it pulsing against my skin, begging me to spill blood. Or maybe that’s just because I’m pissed off and hating these guys right about now?

  A bit of crimson warmth from North’s head wound soaks into the edge of my nightgown and I glance down, touching my fingertips to it and holding them up in a quick flash of lightning that briefly illuminates the dark interior of the carriage.

  My blue eyes lift up to the Mad Hatter’s orange ones.

  “Ask me the damn riddle,” I growl, dropping my hand into my lap. I’d scoot out of the way of the blood, but there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m chained down; North is chained down. I can’t even put his head in my lap or stroke the side of his face with my fingers. Seeing him like this, I wish I’d gone all the way during training and had sex with him.

  What if he dies? What if I’m sitting here and he takes one, last shuddering breath? The thought makes my insides churn with anxiety, like a swarm of moths pulling apart an old blanket, leaving it riddled with holes. I can feel their tiny mouths nibbling away at me as I sit there and stare my captor down.

  “Okay then,” he starts, his voice this ice-cold lilt that somehow has me leaning forward to listen as he taps a tattooed finger against his lips. In my heart of hearts, I’m hoping that this time, life stays true to the prophecy, to the original book. Because if so, I’ve got an answer for the riddle I so desperately want him to ask. “Why … is a raven like a writing-desk?”

  Fuck. Yes.

  I try not to smile too much when I hear those words, the riddle from the classic novel and the same one used in the Disney adaption with Johnny Depp.

  Oh, come on, this is almost too easy!

  “Assuming you have no real answer in mind,” I begin, because Lewis Carroll was once quoted as saying that it was originally intended that the Hatter’s riddle had no answer. Later on though, about thirty years after the book was published, he made one up. “I’ll give you one: because it can produce a few notes, though they are very flat; and it is nevar”—I spell this part out because the word never is intentionally misspelled to read raven backwards—“put with the wrong end in front.”

  I sit back against the wall of the carriage and wait while the man stares at me for some time and then gives me this slow ass fucking smile that flashes me two sharp white canines in his mouth. Not like a cat, not like Chesh, but like … a vampire. The dude looks like a fucking bloodsucker.

  “You’re a clever little Alice, aren’t you?” he asks and then tosses me a key. “Go ahead,” he continues, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. It’s huge, at least a foot and a half tall, and slightly wider on the top than the bottom. “Free yourself, and him.”

  Even though I’m skeptical as fuck, I unlock the chains, my eyes drifting back to the March Hare as he sits there, stoic and unblinking, bathed in shadows. I have no idea what to make of him, but as long as he doesn’t move, I’m okay with his creepy weirdness.

  “North,” I whisper, unlocking the chains and praying that maybe, just maybe, the man is playing dead. You know, like an exit strategy or something. But he doesn’t move as I unshackle him. How could he? With a hole in the side of his head like that.

  Raiden leans over next to me and grabs North by the horn, yanking him across the carriage and into his lap. My entire body goes stiff as the Mad Hatter flicks his orange gaze up to mine and smirks. He’s fucking terrifying, this guy, and how the hell do I know he’s going to help the Duke and not just slit his throat? I answered a riddle, so what? Bad guys never keep their promises, right?

  “I d
o love riddles. I’ll have to come up with another. Maybe if you answer the next one, I’ll let you go?”

  I snort.

  “And why would you do that?” I ask as he lifts his wrist to his mouth … and bites it. Blood wells around his teeth, staining his tattooed skin before dripping onto North’s pallid face. The poor jabberwock man is completely out, his pulse so light that I can’t make it out, not even in a flash of lightning. He seriously looks like he’s dead, like I’ll never see those golden eyes again, feel that tail wrap around my ankle …

  You just met this guy, so who cares? I try to tell myself, but it doesn’t matter. I just met him, but I like him. A lot. He’s charismatic and interesting, took the time to teach me, gave me the Vorpal Blade. He didn’t have to do any of those things.

  “Because,” Raiden continues, pulling his mouth away from his arm and then placing his wrist at the Duke’s pale lips. “I’m a mercenary. I do whatever I want, whenever I want. The King of Clubs paid me to kidnap you … but, for example, if I decide I like you, I just keep you for myself.”

  He presses his wrist against North’s mouth, but the man is so out of it that blood just puddles on his tongue and spills out the sides. Raiden lowers his gaze to the comatose guy in his lap, removes his wrist, and then places it at his own mouth, sucking out the blood until his mouth is full.

  With his lips pressed tight, he leans down again and places his mouth to North’s, parting the Duke’s lips with his tongue and kissing him, forcing him to drink all of that blood. My cheeks heat, and I can’t decide whether to be pissed off, turned on, or … what.

  “What are you doing?” I manage to choke out, but the Mad Hatter just lifts his orange eyes to mine and locks our gazes. He continues to kiss North until the Duke is shifting and groaning, dressed in a pair of cream silk pajama pants and nothing else. They’re stained with blood, just like his golden hair and sun-kissed chest.