The Crown Prince's Fated Mate: M/M Gay Paranormal Romance

by J B Black

  “Artair,” a voice called, but he couldn’t hear them.

  These were all rivals. Threats who wanted what was his. Wanted to woo Myrddin and steal him away. None of them deserved him. They were little boys playing with swords while hundreds died. Children starved. Magic users kidnapped and enslaved.

  Cold settled over him. “I don’t deserve him either.” A palm slammed into his cheek, reminding him of his broken nose. “Fuck!”

  “And he’s back!” Wallace cheered.

  Hamish knelt before him. His brown brows furrowed in concern. “You took some rather hard blows to the head. Can you tell me how many fingers?”

  “Three.” Artair struggled to stand, but Wallace held him down. “I’m fine. Is Eoin alive?”

  Nose wrinkling, Wallace scoffed, “Of course, he’s alive. You weren’t trying to kill him.”

  Either the man lied to protect some sense of morality, or Artair had utterly failed in making his intentions clear. How pathetic. Rubbing his hands over his face, he felt out his injuries, straightening his nose with a crack.

  Cailean winced. “I hate when you do that.”

  “It works,” Artair retorted, and shoving Wallace back, he stood.

  Slouched with his arm hanging at an odd angle, Eoin leaned against one of their training dummies. Irving fussed over him. Blood and mud covered almost every inch of the other knight, but the fact that his chest continued to rise and fall with his breaths irked the feral monster hiding in Artair’s blood. He wished he had taken after his grandmother. Druids - their call to natural magics seemed easier to ignore than the possessive, irrational predator which nymphs were despite all their sylvan beauty.

  “He needs a healer,” Artair grumbled.

  Glancing to Wallace, Cailean informed the prince, “Angus went to get the High Wizard.”

  “High Wizard to you now, is he?” the prince sneered before he could catch himself. With a groan, he ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry.”

  The young knight’s lips pursed. “I didn’t realize you cared so much for him. I wouldn’t have pursued him if I’d known.”

  Artair shook his head, but he couldn’t convince his tongue to deny it. Struggling, he paled when a flash of black came into view. Myrddin had no right to be so beautiful. Black curls framed his fine features. All the women and men which Artair took to bed, and not a single one had inspired the feral creature hiding in his blood. Perhaps it was the magic. Despite a warlock or two, the few he’d taken to bed paled powerwise compared to Myrddin.

  When the wizard knelt beside Eoin, Artair barely hid the growl that rumbled deep in his chest. He wanted to tear the man back. Eoin didn’t deserve his care. Magic glowed. Myrddin aligned Eoin’s arm, fixing it before tending to the rest of the knight’s injuries. His touch came too gently.

  Bowing his head, Myrddin murmured, “You’ll be sore tomorrow, but you need to be sure to stretch it out.” Eoin merely nodded, keeping his eyes down. “Eoin?”

  “Did my father give you leave to use your magic to heal?” Artair demanded, interrupting.

  Myrddin glared over his shoulder. “I happened to be with your father when Angus found me. I have full permission to heal Sir Eoin and yourself.”

  His hand reached out, and Artair slapped it away. “I don’t need healing.”

  Those pink lips pressed into a straight line. Artair yearned to bite them. To tear his way into the other’s mouth with his teeth and tongue. He wanted to shove him down, tear his robes off him and rut inside him for all to see. Bite his neck and claim him. Balling his fingers into fists, the prince stormed away before he found himself acting on urges he could no longer suppress.

  “Artair,” Myrddin called after him.

  But the blond continued toward his rooms. A small burst of arrogant pride swelling the longer the wizard followed, and when he headed into a narrower corridor, he spun to face the man. “Shouldn’t you be doting on your lover?” Artair taunted.

  Myrddin huffed, reaching forward to place his hands upon Artair as he murmured spells, healing the prince’s broken nose. “Is the idea of the two of us that deplorable to you? Considering your own history, I hadn’t imagined you’d be against affairs between mortals and magic users.”

  “My history?”

  “There are so few magic users who come through the capital. Did you imagine that I didn’t know everything they did while they were here?” the High Wizard asked, and a flush of shame pulsed through Artair though he had never been embarrassed by his free-loving ways. With a sigh, Myrddin stepped back. “My issue with your history comes from your failure to recognize how your position might influence the consent of your partners.”

  “As you’ve said.” Artair leaned against the cold stone wall.

  The wizard sighed, shaking his head. “Logan seems a decent choice.”

  Brows furrowing, Artair frowned. “Who?”

  Violet eyes narrowed. “The stableboy.”

  “Oh…”

  “Did you not know his name?” Myrddin asked, but before Artair could answer, the wizard added, “It doesn’t matter. Your father wanted to see you immediately.”

  Without waiting for Artair to respond, the wizard marched off. The prince bit his lip. He wanted to ignore his father’s summons. Any sign of his magical heritage infuriated his father. Ulric refused to admit to his wife’s heritage or his mother’s magic. Their blood couldn’t be defined as mortal even if neither of them had the capacity to wield magic.

  Running his hands over his face, the blond forced himself to breath in and out slowly, calming down before he followed. Covered in mud, he made his way to the throne room. His father sat in his high back, ornate seat. The crown about his head reinforced his intention to be seen as a king before all else even though no one else was in the room besides the three of them.

  “Father.”

  Ulric’s blue eyes narrowed. They were cold in a way that made it hard for Artair to believe the man in his memories - the one with the warm blue eyes who always spoke so kindly to him - could be the same man. For so long, he could wander into any meeting no matter the importance and find himself seated upon his father’s lap or in a chair beside the throne to listen in. His father used to ask how he would proceed. To guide him through critically considering the advantages and disadvantages of whatever path his father intended to take.

  Now, the man glared at him. Hated the very sight of him since he had gone through puberty. Wakening with a glow and flowers blooming throughout the castle, Artair hadn’t understood at first. His vague memories of his mother came clearer when the High Sorcerer explained, teaching him how to keep calm to prevent his uncontrollable allure. Hearing his father hiss that he was no better than an incubus destroyed the innocent child inside him. Nymphs weren’t demons.

  If people gathered around him, he never intended them to do so, and to hear that immediate dismissal from Myrddin had made him want the more for the refusal to bend before not just his status but the allure he struggled to keep contained. Hated him for the same reason. He couldn’t say anything. His father’s word remained law.

  The scene seemed a strange inversion. Where he had sat on his father’s lap as Myrddin’s blood dripped onto the contract. As if Artair could forget those violet eyes. He had been so excited, but the entire affair bored him despite how beautiful the boy before him had been. It hadn’t seemed fair. He wanted Myrddin to stay with him, but he had trusted his father. Trusted that the boy wasn’t worth keeping around if his father dismissed him. Now, Myrddin stood beside the throne while Artair stood before it.

  “You will be accompanying Myrddin as he secures the northern border,” the king announced.

  Brows furrowing, Artair glanced between the two. “Have we been attacked?”

  “As of this morning, we are at war with Notterheim,” his father announced, showing a parchment which declared just that. He spoke as if they hadn’t been encroaching on Notterheim’s territory for months now. “We can’t spare any users from the f
rontlines, and Myrddin has a talent for shields.” His eyes glinted and something warm almost seemed to spark in them. “I’m temporarily turning his contract over to you.”

  Impossible. His mind blanked. What little calm he managed to find evaporated in the face of his father’s assertion. He would have the power. Even if only temporarily, Myrddin would belong to him. A loan from his father - and that would irk him - but his nonetheless. The possessive, childish monster within him cheered. All his power came from his father anyway. What did it matter if he received his newest obsession in the same manner?

  Yet the idea of it bothered him. Troubled him and dragged something heavy down inside of him. Myrddin wasn’t something to be handed over. He deserved to make that decision, but the contract made him an object to be handed from owner to owner as Ulric willed. Chained and bound and made inhuman, Myrddin held no sway in his own treatment. Even his quick tongue could be all too easily silenced if he said the wrong word before the king.

  Never had the urge to cry struck him so deeply without death settled before him. Swallowing back his tears, Artair bowed his head. “I will ensure he carries out his duties.”

  His father’s eyes suggested he expected nothing less. “You will leave in the morning. Myrddin will prepare your supplies.”

  “As you command, sire.”

  But Artair barely ate or slept for the remainder of the day. For weeks, he would travel the border with only Myrddin at his side. Their already volatile relationship forewarned how badly such could turn. Eoin’s injuries merely underlined it. All alone, the beast within him would rear its ugly head, urging his allure and this dangerous new strength and aggression. While his lovers often approached him first, Artair couldn’t help but wonder if he would prove Myrddin’s words true in his pursuit of the wizard. Would the monster inside him utilize the power of the serving contractor to push against the black-haired man’s resistance?

  “There has to be a way to quiet it,” Artair mumbled as he searched the library by candlelight.

  He had done this once before as a child when his father first rejected him, but the High Sorcerer interceded. This time no one came, but the texts before him failed to provide any answers. Nymphs weren’t incubi. Tempting as their natural forms seemed to men, it wasn’t some plotted allure to drag a man to his death. They weren’t sirens. Druids held no such sway either. Nothing he found offered a solution to silence the beast in his blood, and the scant offerings he did discover required magic he could not perform.

  Exhausted, he kept his expression determined as they rode the next morning, and as a pair, the two rode through Myrddin’s portal, arriving on the border to the north instantly.

  “With portals, couldn’t you finish this in a single day?” Artair suggested.

  The wizard frowned. “There are miles to shield in enemy land. The exact particulars of the situation aren’t predictable enough for your father to give me clear instructions without being beside me.”

  “And it is too dangerous for him to be on the border trotting after his High Wizard,” the prince joked, but as Myrddin wove the beginnings of his shielding spell, he offered no response. “I have to admit, I’m not entirely thrilled to be your overseer.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  Of course, to that, he responded. Artair ground his teeth, holding back the acid of his tongue. Sharp words served no purpose. They were alone, and this presented a rare opportunity. If magic could not solve the boiling in his blood which called his nature to the surface, he had no choice but to settle the matter more directly. Some part of the magical blood within him called to Myrddin. It yearned for him, and even without that - even before the heat flooded his veins into something feral, the man in him wanted Myrddin too.

  “I never did thank you for healing my nose.”

  Violet eyes stayed to the task. “No. You didn’t.”

  “Thank you,” the words tasted odd. Toying with the bridge of his nose, the blond smirked, “ Though I think you left it a bit crooked to be honest.”

  “Weren’t you the one who aligned it?”

  Artair huffed as they slowly guided their horses along, dragging the spell bit by bit. “Blaming the injured party. Tsk - tsk, High Wizard. We expect more from you.”

  With a huff, Myrddin squeezed his horse’s sides and raced on, forcing Artair to guide his horse to follow suit. They rode along the border pulling a web of magic further and further until their horses tired. Allowing the beasts to graze, Myrddin dismounted, putting in another pillar of the spell.

  “We should make camp.”

  Myrddin frowned. “I can spell the horses.”

  “Not if I don’t permit it,” Artair reminded him, and when the wizard’s frown deepened, the blond ran his hand through his golden hair. “You can’t deny that you’d rather be out of the castle than in it.”

  Lifting his chin, the blac-haired man stared. His violet eyes settled cold on the prince. “I’d rather many things. That - your majesty - is the least of them.”

  Despite his words, he didn’t ask permission to spell the horses, and Artair never commanded him to do so. When next they stopped to put a pillar and rest their steads, they made camp. Stars rose. Bright spots of light against a velvet sky. On either sides of the embers of what had been their fire, the pair settled for the night, but Artair’s mind kept spinning.

  Crossing the small distance weighed upon the prince. His blood rushed. Heat pooled in his gut. Every time he willed it down - urged himself to be calm, hot desire built all the faster.

  Unable to keep silent, he spoke - his tongue crueler than he intended when the only words he could find were: “All my knights are betrothed.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Eoin with Malvina. Wallace is to marry Gwendoline though her father had rather hoped she’d marry me. Even Cailean has his hand spoken for. Lady Aisleigh, I believe.” His blue eyes kept to the stars, ignoring the way the dying embers lit the other man’s pale face. “Even if they took you to bed, nothing would come of it. What sane man would leave a noble lady for a wizard?”

  With a sigh, Myrddin propped himself up on one elbow. “You act as if I wanted anything more than a good buggering.”

  “Don’t you? Your eyes practically beg to be loved. Sad and shimmering as you follow them around with that covetous gaze of yours,” Artair teased, pleased with his own lie when the other huffed. If Myrddin grew embarrassed and revealed himself to have been following any of his men with such a gaze, the prince wouldn’t have been able to remain calm. “If you need something thick up your ass, the stableboy told me about how he has a wooden cock varnished to play with.”

  “Logan.”

  Blinking, Artair opened his mouth to ask when his mind caught up. “Ah, yes. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

  Laying back, Myrddin murmured, “If I wanted any old cock, I’d take Logan up on the offer for his.”

  “What.” He stood before he could stop himself. His eyes glowed in the darkness, but he hadn’t asked a question, so Myrddin simply stared at him with those apathetic violet eyes. Clenching his hands to fists, the prince returned to his makeshift bed. “I hadn’t thought him capable of pushing down another man.”

  Myrddin hummed. Not thoughtful. Dismissive. To him, Artair’s limited imagination offered nothing of interest. His apathy clawed at the prince’s resolve. Whether by his royal blood or his handsome face or even his position as the wizard’s contractor, he should have mattered. He ought to have been the focus of Myrddin’s attention, but he was merely another vehicle. No more or less than the horses. A being with purpose which only slowed the wizard down. Another chain given by the king.

  “You can’t say you like my father.”

  Another hum. “Are you trying to get me to commit treason?”

  “Speak freely, wizard. Our secrets shared here will be kept,” Artair encouraged though he had no belief that the other would heed the truth in his words.

  Even with his certainty that Myrddin saw
a trap in his truth, the blond never expected the wizard to ask, “Does this include your secrets?”

  “What secrets? You’ve seen them all,” Artair said, chuckling.

  “Your mother was a nymph. I heard your father met her in a forest,” Myrddin drawled. His words pinned Artair in place like a butterfly. Alive and pained and under the magnifying glass. “It’s strange to imagine that man finding his soulmate and going on to enslave magic users and label magical humanoids as beasts.”

  Artair snorted. “Why? Because by current law, his marriage to my mother was no more legitimate than a man’s to his horse?”

  “By current law, you're not the legitimate heir to the throne,” Myrddin replied.

  That particular truth cut Artair to the quick. His heart pounded, but he forced another laugh. “My mother was queen. The only ones who know her species are my father’s contracted magic users. Even my knights would only think someone saying my mother was a nymph was a malicious rumor.”

  “But it gives your half-sister claim upon the throne,” Myrddin explained, making Artair’s head spin. “Her mother was a mortal.”

  “My...my half-sister?”

  Myrddin sat up. His eyes stared over the dying embers. “You didn’t know.”

  Swallowing, Artair shook his head. “I knew my father betrayed my mother, but he had so many affairs. I never realized…” Bowing his head, the prince struggled to find which way he wished to allow his thoughts to go. “Do you know her name?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you know her mother was a mortal,” Artair pushed back at him. “If you knew who her mother was, then you should know her.”

  Myrddin pressed his lips together. The more Artair’s rage grew, the easier it became to see the wizard even in the darkness. His blood churned, the magic within it rising to the surface.

  “The prior High Sorcerer kept diaries. Apparently, when she was born, your father debated marrying the two of you, but she took after your grandmother, presenting as a druid extremely early, so he intended to kill her, but her mother sent her away and died refusing to tell him where she had sent her.” Myrddin’s words seemed to far away. Like some sort of fairytale and not a story so close to his own life.