Page 72 of The Midnight King
At last she concedes to my request and disrobes, leaving only her underclothes in place. They’re so threadbare they barely conceal anything, and it’s all I can do to center my thoughts on my goal—to craft the perfect gown for her body. I am not here to desire her, to lust for her…fuck, her breasts are perfectly shaped, but alsofuck, she has so many scars. Unmistakable signs of cruelty and abuse mar her skin, old wounds long past the ability of any magic to heal them. I want to kiss each one and promise that nothing will ever harm her again…
“Stop staring at me andlisten,” she snaps.
I obey, trying not to let my expression show the anger and lust that are battling in my heart.
We make the arrangements for the evening, and I explain the limitations of my magic to her. I have often longed for theenergy of a full-blooded Fae, but at least I have my portal ability, which is a distinct and valuable talent. And the girl doesn’t seem to mind the midnight deadline—she is grateful for anything I can do for her, though she tries to conceal her gratitude beneath layers of hardness and anger.
I allow myself one small indulgence—touching her hair—before I transform her. Once her entire outfit is done, I step back, enjoying the amazement on her face. For a moment she is utterly without defense, and I see straight to the soft, wounded heart of a girl who has always longed for love and for beautiful things.
“There now,” I tell her gently. “Some of my best work, I think. Of course I had a lovely subject, which helps.”
She casts me a wary glance. “No sweet talk.”
“Not even one tiny compliment?”
“Not one.”
“Very well.” I’m about to tease her more, but then I realize I’ve omitted something vital. “Shoes! I forgot the shoes.”
I’m not the most skilled with footwear, so even as my thoughts coalesce into physical form, creating a silver slipper around her foot, I drop to one knee and grab her ankle so I can inspect the result and ensure a comfortable fit. But my fingers encounter a metal band that scorches my skin like fire, and I yank my hand back quickly with a startled cry.
The girl draws back, a furtive awareness in her gaze.
“What is this?” I ask.
Anguish shines in her eyes, but her lips compress, sealing off any words. I’ve witnessed something similar before, most notably when I tricked my chatterbox of a sister into eating a silencing spell in the form of a cookie so she couldn’t reveal the plans for our mother’s birthday celebration. Unfortunately the spell prevented Úna from saying anything at all. She was furious, and I was firmly reprimanded by my father, whose eyes sparkled with merriment the entire time he was lecturing me. It took him a while to find the reversal spell and set her tongue free. I’vealways suspected he was slow about it on purpose, so he could enjoy the peace and quiet a bit longer.
In this case, the imposed silence concerns rather than amuses me. “You can’t talk about it?” I ask the girl.
She shakes her head.
“You can’t tell me what it does, or who placed it on you?”
Again she shakes her head, while her eyes sparkle with tears. In a voice barely louder than a breath, she says, “I need my carriage.”
At that wounded whisper, my heart shatters, and anger rises from the rubble, twining red and ruinous through my chest. I stand up, buoyed by a new goal—to find out who hurt this girl and make them pay in blood.
She must recognize the fierce purpose on my face, because she cringes a little, wrapping her hand around the pocket watch at her throat, the talisman that summoned me. It’s an object of comfort for her.
“If you want to keep wearing that, I’ll glamour it to look like a fine necklace,” I offer. When she agrees, I alter the visible appearance of the watch and chain. Unluckily for me, the newly glamoured jewels make her breasts look even more luscious. I think that effect was unintentional… or perhaps my subconscious willed it so. Either way, I have to tear my gaze from the alluring sight and hustle her outside, where I cover her in a furry wrap so I won’t be tempted to stare anymore.
As the cold hits her lungs, she coughs. The sound is ragged, with a rasping wheeze that worries me. I shall have to figure out some way to heal her, and that could get awkward.
I can’t heal humans the same way I can heal animals. For me to be able to heal a human, they must swallow a certain intimate essence of mine. And she seems like the type of woman who would either flee or lop off my head if I suggested she consume my cum in any way.
Fuck, I’m harder than ever at the thought. Thankfully she is distracted by the sparkling carriage I’ve conjured for her and she doesn’t seem to notice the prominent bulge I’m sporting.
“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she says, staring at the coach. As if she assumed magic could only craft dangerous or deadly things. I don’t blame her for the prejudice, especially now that I know she is entrapped by a magical anklet whose purpose I don’t yet understand.
Though I don’t fault her for the assumption, I can’t resist correcting it. “Magic is not inherently good or evil. It can be used to help or to harm, and I wish you were not so familiar with the latter. But for tonight, think of nothing except enjoying yourself. Dance, drink, and flirt with handsome gentlemen.”
That last line is forced, insincere, but I doubt she can tell. The instant she’s in the carriage, I create a portal and step into my cousin’s private parlor. Torin still lives in his suite of rooms at his parents’ palace, where he makes himself useful in various ways—just useful enough so that King Lir and Queen Louisa don’t toss him out on his ass.
Out of deference to my cousin, I never appear directly in his bedroom. I suppose it’s also out of caution, since I never know what I’ll encounter in Prince Torin’s private chamber. The image of a Racer hybrid with its twiglike arm stuffed up my cousin’s ass is still painfully fresh in my mind, though it’s been years since I witnessed that odd coupling.
Standing in the darkened parlor, I rap on Torin’s bedroom door.
“Confound you, Killian,” he groans. “Come the fuck in.”