His Winter King (Folk of Vale #5)

Chapter One

Iver

Iver stood on the narrow windowsill, ignoring the eighty-foot drop down the castle wall. Snowflakes tumbled through the night, harbingers of winter. Heavy velvet curtains hid Iver from the occupants of the lavish bedchamber on the other side of the window.

Glittering chandeliers cast a golden glow onto an enormous bed and the writhing figures atop it.

Iver held onto a gargoyle as he inched across the ice-slick ledge to get a better view.

He would not fall. This wasn’t the first time he’d snuck past the watchtower guards and scaled the walls of Silverlight Castle.

Inside, King William III of Vale rested on a mountain of cushions stacked against the headboard, holding a wine glass in one hand, the other buried in the dark locks of the concubine bobbing her head between his legs.

Iver gritted his teeth. Six courtesans were sharing the bed with the king, four women and two men pleasuring him, kissing him, stroking every inch of his skin.

Iver had done well to run reconnaissance himself. He could’ve sent a spy to collect information on William, but hearing about his excesses was one thing, seeing them for himself another.

Besides, William, his debauchery notwithstanding, was a feast for the eyes.

He was in his late twenties, a man at his peak.

His creamy white skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, his lightly muscled form arching in pleasure.

Dark waves crowned his head, a coiling lock falling onto his brow.

The concubine between his legs took him deep, and as William’s eyes closed, his full, pink lips parted, curving into a dreamy smile.

Iver’s jaw tightened. How was he considering marriage to a man with so many vices?

William drowned himself in alcohol, sex and luxury instead of governing his kingdom.

He threw lavish balls while his people died fighting to hold the front against the orcs in the south.

A year ago, the orcs’ fearsome chief, Farigoth the Ravager, had led them across the Great River, where they raided Vale for men to ravish and breed. William had done nothing to stop it.

Regardless, he was Vale’s most eligible bachelor. After Iver’s betrothal to a prince of the Summer Court had fallen through, William had risen to the top of his list of prospects. He was of royal blood, inhabited an imposing castle and had a cousin who could serve as a surrogate to produce an heir.

It was high time Iver found a spouse and established a line of succession.

If he didn’t, the crown would fall to his sister Silenia upon his death.

Iver was well into his two hundreds and would start aging soon.

He still had decades ahead of him, but it’d take his offspring time to grow into their role.

While Iver remained civil toward his sister, he’d neither forgotten nor forgiven what had happened all those years ago.

He wouldn’t allow Silenia, decades his junior, to inherit the throne.

Not after what she’d done. Iver was going to start a family, and the Winter Court would go to his eldest, not Silenia and her descendants.

Having children with William would be no issue.

Traditionally, when a male couple wanted children, one of the spouses would spill his seed in a small container, which a midwife used to impregnate a female relative of his partner.

It preserved the bloodline, ensuring both parents were related to the child.

Inside the bedchamber, William pulled a lithe brunette close and kissed her, his tongue invading her mouth. The concubine between his legs licked his glans, and he shuddered as he spilled his release.

Iver’s mouth thinned into a hard line. Those harlots were touching what he considered his future husband.

He had half a mind to break through the window, rip them off William and take what was his.

After all, Iver was a dark fae. He reigned in his more sinister instincts, but dark thoughts did cross his mind.

Humans had good reason to fear his kind.

Wicked delight tugged at Iver’s lips. He was going to make William an irresistible offer.

He had done his research, observing William from afar for weeks.

Politically, they were an excellent match.

Each of them had what the other wanted. William was in no position to turn him down—his family’s power had been waning for generations.

An empty bottle of wine rolled across the carpet, and William was halfway through the second one.

Once he was done with his concubines, he’d sleep until midday as Iver had previously observed.

Time for him to go—staying longer would yield no new information.

He’d made his decision. William, with his love for alcohol and changing bed companions, wasn’t Iver’s idea of a love match, but he’d given up on that a long time ago.

It was good that he felt nothing toward William.

He wouldn’t fall for him and risk his own heart.

Iver cast a last glance at him, taking in his flushed skin, his drunk, satisfied smile and the languid stretch of his body.

With difficulty, he tore his gaze away. He pushed off the windowsill and dropped the eighty feet along the castle’s wall.

He landed on his feet, his fur-lined boots leaving imprints in the snow.

Darkness shrouded the castle, the night only pierced by his fae vision.

Iver crossed the outer bailey, slipping unseen between the watchtowers.

He jumped off the battlements and disappeared into the night.

By the time he came back, Silverlight would be his.

William would be his. He might be wrapped up in bad habits and worse company, but Iver knew how to rid a man of those.

Their wedding night alone would teach him his place.

Iver couldn’t wait to get that insufferable brat under him.