Chapter 3
Chapter three
The banquet is finally drawing to a close. The last course has been served. The music has become louder, and the fey guests are calling out things in their strange language.
I don’t speak a word of Fey, but I can tell they are giving rude and gross suggestions about the wedding night.
The fey may look like elegance incarnate, but they clearly are not. They are strange and cruel and savage.
Or perhaps I’m the asshole for judging them by human standards.
I chug down the last of my sweet-tasting drink. Then, one of the officiants nods at me. I glance at Dyfri, and he takes my hand. Together we stand, fluidly finding our feet as if it was something we rehearsed.
The fey guests erupt into a sea of raucous behaviour. More calling out. Whistling. Banging their drinks against the table.
Dyfri looks completely unfazed. Utterly unruffled. His beautiful face is serenely blank.
I guess he is used to the behaviour of the fey nobles, and the thought of that makes me deeply uncomfortable. As if my skin is itchy and too tight.
I push the feeling aside and try to concentrate on looking as composed as my new husband.
Together, we turn and walk hand in hand out of the banquet hall.
A dozen security guards surround us. All of them are human.
As we walk out of the hall and out into the night air, Dyfri is leaving all of his people behind.
It wouldn’t take long to walk from here to the two-bedroom flat we have been given in Downing Street.
A couple of minutes at most. The moon is out and making the frost crunching under our feet all sparkly and silver.
It would be a lovely walk, but for our safety, we have to be bundled into a sleek, black car.
It’s annoying, but I guess it is my life now.
I can no longer stay out of the spotlight.
I am no longer the prime minister’s son.
I am the human who married a fey prince.
A symbol of treaties, and of hope. Or betrayal, depending on your point of view.
The drive takes moments. Nobody says a word. Not me, not Dyfri. Not any of the security team.
The car pulls up outside 10 Downing Street. The door opens on Dyfri’s side. He gets out gracefully, as if he has been getting out of cars his whole life. I flounder after him. He doesn’t take my hand again. Now that there is no one but the security team to see.
We are escorted inside and upstairs to the new, remodelled flat.
Dyfri opens the door and strides inside.
I scurry after him and shut the door behind us, just as two of the security team take up position in the hallway, hands clasped in front of them.
Dark glasses, dark suits and body language that says they are going to be comfortable standing there for hours.
The door clicks. I am alone with Dyfri. My husband.
I swallow and run to the bathroom. Without looking at him. Without saying a word.
In the safety of the bathroom, I stare at my reflection. “You idiot.” I whisper.
I shower quickly. Then I brush my teeth thoroughly, followed by copious sprays of breath freshener. Just in case. Finally, I squirt very expensive cologne all over myself, before pulling on grey, soft-cotton pyjamas.
I take several deep and fortifying breaths, and then I leave the bathroom.
Dyfri has his own bathroom, adjacent to the main bedroom.
It was a non-negotiable addition to the flat being signed off as an appropriate abode.
I’m pretty sure the fey have a thing about cleanliness.
And sharing a bathroom is awfully intimate.
As well as primitive, if you are used to the luxuries of being a prince.
I tiptoe into the bedroom, and freeze.
Dyfri is sitting on the end of the king sized bed. He is wearing a beautiful white nightgown. It falls to his ankles, and the sleeves reach his delicate wrists. The material is gauzy. Not sheer, but it certainly gives hints of a perfect body.
I tear my eyes away. On the white sheets behind him, red rose petals have been scattered.
My eyes snap back to him. A fair few strands of dark hair are not in the plait I wove into his hair, and they are tumbling past his slender shoulders, all the way down his chest and stomach and curling on the white sheets next to the rose petals.
His eyes are dark and utterly unreadable. There is something different about him, though.
“Your horns!” I gasp.
One elegant hand flies up to his head. He brushes over the spot where his horns should be. Then he lowers his hand and shrugs.
“I assume it will make things easier for you.”
I blink. He thinks I don’t like his horns? Why would he think that?
“Are you going to gawp all night?” he snaps.
His words hit me like a slap, and I rouse myself with a shake. “We don’t have to do anything.”
One perfect eyebrow rises. “Yes, we do.”
I stare at him helplessly.
He rolls his eyes. “The marriage has to be consummated to be completed.”
An awkward, horrible laugh bubbles out of me. “Who’s going to know?”
Dark eyes narrow. So sharply that my heart starts racing in fear for its life.
“They will know.”
Well, that’s not at all ominous. I don’t even want to think about who ‘they’ are, let alone how they will know anything about what happens tonight.
Dyfri continues to glower at me. I’m so confused right now. He is pretty much demanding to sleep with me, yet he looks like he will take a hacksaw to my nuts if I so much as take a step towards him.
“You agreed to this marriage,” hisses Dyfri.
“I did!”
“So, let’s get on with it.” He lies back a little, resting on his elbows and shooting me a death glare.
I gulp. “Umm… do you want to top?”
Both of his perfectly shaped eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. Colour races across his cheekbones, and he blinks.
He shakes his head. “Maybe my English still requires work.”
Oh gosh. This is the most embarrassing moment of my life. Nothing will ever seem awkward ever again, compared to this. I can feel my cheeks burning so fiercely I’m probably going to be left with permanent scorch marks.
“Um… topping as in… being the person on top… anatomically…not necessarily position wise…”
Dyfri holds up his hand. My mouth snaps shut.
“No, apparently my English is just fine,” Dyfri says while staring at me as if I’m completely crazy.
Silence settles around us. And stretches. Somewhere, a clock ticks.
“I am Dyfri Wyf Jackogi now,” Dyfri says slowly and carefully.
My hands twist around one another. “I know.”
Did I? Did I know he was taking my name? My first name, which somehow feels a billion times more significant than sharing a surname. Was this a marriage detail I was told, but forgot?
“I am your consort. You are my husband,” Dyfri says in that same careful tone, like he is trying to explain something to someone who isn’t that bright.
Shame coils through me. I hate it. It’s far too familiar. I’m often the dumbest person in the room, just intelligent enough to know I’m not keeping up.
“Oh. Does it have to be that prescriptive?” I say, because it sounds like a reasonable response. But I can’t keep the weary resignation out of my voice, not at the proposed bedroom activities, at the fact yet another person is belittling my intelligence.
“Definitely for the wedding night.”
Something new about Dyfri’s voice makes me look up. His head is tilted to the side, and he is regarding me intently, as if he has never seen me before. His dark eyes are far softer, kinder.
“Oh,” I croak, my mouth suddenly dry.
Maybe I really have lost the plot, but I’m getting the impression that he is not entirely displeased at my suggestion, and that is making me feel rather hot under the collar.
His intense focus lingers. I feel as if I am being examined and dissected. An interesting scientific specimen for his scrutiny.
“Trying to figure me out?” I say softly, mostly to fill the painful silence.
His expression shifts. A flicker of anxiety in his dark eyes. A microscopic wobble of composure. It’s there, and then hidden again before I can blink.
Dyfri blinks and then shakes himself. He draws in a shaky breath and resumes glaring at me.
“Do you need a tea to enable you to perform?”
My cheeks heat again, but this time shame doesn’t coil through my guts. I’m on to him. I’ve figured out my new husband. I don’t know why or how, but suddenly I can see him clearly.
He isn’t cruel or mean. He isn’t mocking me for fun. He’s scared. And like a hurt and trapped black cat, his defence is hissing and claws.
“No,” I say as gently as I can.
He blinks. I step towards him. He flinches and recoils. The movement is subtle and quickly aborted. But I see it.
Dyfri is definitely a hissing black cat. He’s every bit as nervous as I am. Which is understandable. We are strangers. Being married to a stranger is all kinds of awful.
I lower my head towards his. His eyes widen, and he turns sharply away from me.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“Kissing you?”
Dyfri turns back to face me while keeping his body carefully angled too far away for a kiss.
“No, you are not!” he exclaims
I stare at him. I search his alarmed dark eyes. This isn’t merely claws. He really doesn’t want to be kissed. He is absolutely adamant about it.
My shoulders drop. “I don’t think I can do this without kissing.”
Dyfri blinks several times. “That’s adorable, but no. You’ll have to figure it out.”
Slowly, he lies back. Gingerly placing his body on the rose-petal strewn bed. He stares up at the ceiling, and his hands grip the sheets with a white-knuckle hold.
I force a swallow down my throat. I’m no longer confused by the apparent mixed messages.
He has to have sex with me because of the customs of his people, but he doesn’t want to.
And why would he want me? He doesn’t know me.
And while some people go for the big rugby player look, it’s far from everyone’s cup of tea. I’m not beautiful like him.
“By the goddess!” Dyfri declares suddenly as he sits up. “Undress. Lie on your back on the bed.”
With shaking hands, I undress and place my pyjamas on the back of a chair.
I try to ignore how much the bed dips under my weight as I climb onto it.
I roll onto my back and wait for my next instructions.
Hopefully, Dyfri will relax when he sees that despite my size, I’m nothing more than a giant teddy bear.
Dyfri is still in his nightgown, on his knees beside my naked body. His eyes are fixed on my cock. My extremely hard cock.
“You do desire me,” he whispers hoarsely.
My head lifts off the mattress. “What? Of course I do! I presume you’ve seen yourself in a mirror? Who wouldn’t want you?”
His dark eyes narrow. “There is no need for flattery.”
I bite back a yelp as he hitches his nightgown up a little and swings his leg over me. He stares down from his new position straddling me.
Oh fuck. He really is gorgeous.
“Close your eyes,” he commands.
I obey.
His fingers wrap around my cock, holding me in place. A deep groan pours out of me. Then suddenly he is sinking onto me. Enveloping my cock in his tight heat.
Fucking hell.
No foreplay. No preamble. Just straight to business.
I guess he prepped and lubed earlier, because I’m evenly sized all over and he is taking me well.
Sensations and pleasure are exploding through me. Dyfri sinks all the way down. I feel his smooth ass cheeks flush against my groin. He doesn’t pause. He rides. With a brutal, efficient rhythm. He’s silent, while all sorts of depraved noises are pouring out of me.
He squeezes me with his internal muscles, and I see stars. I’ve never cum so fast nor so hard in my life.
He jumps off of me, and I can no longer feel him anywhere. I think it might be safe to open my eyes now. I’m still panting and wheezing, and my head is still spinning.
I open my eyes. He’s turned the light off and he is lying beside me, back to me, still wearing his nightgown.
“I…” I begin but he cuts me off.
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
My mouth snaps shut. Okay, that’s clear enough. I can do the shutting up part. As for sleeping, I’m not sure that is happening. Possibly ever again.