Chapter Seven
Iver
The bond was a wild beast lashing out, driving its claws into Iver as he tried to cage it. With difficulty, he reigned it in. It bucked and snarled, demanding to be set free. Containing it consumed his strength. He had expected it to be difficult; he hadn’t expected it to be this difficult.
The bond sat imprisoned in his chest, and it hurt him. Locked away, it gnawed at his will to restrain it. His heart begged him to set it free, but preventing the bond from fully forming had been what he and William had agreed to. It’d been what Iver wanted. It had to be this way.
Keeping the bond closed had been the right decision. He should be glad it was suppressed. If not, William’s emotions would be overflowing into him and vice versa. Their souls would meld, and that had been the last thing Iver had wanted when he proposed marriage.
He gazed into William’s eyes and wished things were different.
They couldn’t be. When he’d seen William with that concubine, it’d been a painful reminder of why he did well to keep his distance.
Iver tried to banish the image of William pressed against that whore from his mind, but it was burned into his memory, overlapping with another picture of a dark-haired woman and a blue-eyed man.
Iver blinked the memory away, forcing himself to focus on the present, on keeping the bond muted. It could thrash in his chest all it wanted; he wouldn’t let it run free, tie him to William and ruin him.
But he’d loved taking William, mounting and conquering him for all to see. He’d staked his claim, and no fae would dare touch him. He’d kill anyone who tried.
Iver clasped William’s hand, silver wedding mark glinting, and brought it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, the skin there softened by oil.
William’s eyes widened, and more so when Iver helped him off the altar.
Iver’s arms closed around him, and the bond roared.
He basked in the sudden closeness, in the feeling of William’s chest against his.
Iver couldn’t let himself go like that. Sinking a tooth into his tongue to ward off the pleasure, he regained control. William stared at him with wide eyes and pink, parted lips that begged to be kissed.
Iver yanked himself away, putting three feet of much-needed—horrible, painful—distance between them.
William looked as dazed as Iver felt. He needed to occupy himself with something other than the screaming bond or the sight of William flush and kissable and, oh, so beautiful after he’d been fucked.
The ceremony was over. The chant had subsided, the drums faded. Servants came with ermine cloaks, dressing them for the wedding feast.
Decked out in royal splendor, Iver and William entered the great hall side by side, finding their families and high fae guests seated at the tables.
They stood as the two of them strode through the doors.
Festive music set in. Candles flickered on the midwinter trees and on the wreaths dotting the long tables.
Iver and William sat down at the head of the table, and the wedding party followed suit. Charlotte’s children had been sent to bed, and she sat at Ailenor’s side, the two of them amicably chatting, taking little note of anyone around them.
In contrast, Silenia sat straight-backed and disgruntled in her chair, not even speaking with her children, who appeared to be around William’s age but were in truth in their eighties and sixties respectively.
One of the starters consisted of sauteed winter faerie mushrooms, which Iver had a servant immediately remove from William and Charlotte, as they were known to make humans hallucinate.
He trusted Ailenor to take care of Charlotte, but he wouldn’t know what to do with a hallucinating William.
Leaving him in the hands of a fae healer on their wedding night didn’t sit right with him.
The mushrooms were out of the way, but the faerie wine remained on the table.
William didn’t touch it. Even without the bond between them, Iver felt desire come off him in waves.
Charlotte drank several glasses, her eyes never leaving Ailenor, regarding her over the rim of her goblet as she sipped away at it.
She consumed a remarkable quantity. Well, she was a grown woman and not Iver’s responsibility.
If she wanted to drink faerie wine, that was her decision.
When the servants had cleared the tables, the musicians broke out the bagpipes and drums for the traditional faerie dances.
William regarded them skeptically—for good reason.
Once a human danced to the beat of the drums, they couldn’t stop until the music did.
More than one fae had amused themselves by making humans dance themselves to death.
As their king, Iver could silence the musicians with a wave of his hand, but who would trust him? Would William?
He blinked when Charlotte stood, offered Ailenor a hand and asked her for a dance.
They joined the many pairs whirling on the open floor space between the columns to either side of the hall.
Ailenor’s skirt fanned out as Charlotte twirled her, blonde hair flying as she spun.
She looked like a doll next to Charlotte in her more practical ensemble of jacket, shirt and breeches.
“Your cousin is brave,” Iver said, refusing to give in to the demands of the bond and look at William. His father had never mentioned how the invisible connection influenced one’s feelings or how hard it was to keep the bond contained. He’d have to work on that.
William made a non-committal gesture. “She trusts that you or Ailenor will stop the music when she wishes to return to her seat. Is that trust misplaced?”
“No.”
“So there is no issue,” William said with satisfaction.
Iver couldn’t resist. Damn the bond. “May I ask you for a dance?”
“To faerie music?” William asked, horror-struck.
“It’s our wedding. And you said there was no issue.”
“I should’ve known this was a trap.”
“So?”
William snorted. “Fine. I’ll dance with you.”
Iver stood and offered William a hand, suppressing a smile when William’s fingers intertwined with his.
Hand in hand, they headed to the floor. The other pairs made room for them as they joined the dance.
William slid into his arms, beaming at him.
His first steps were tentative, his eyes darting to the other pairs, but soon he moved to the drums and bagpipes like he’d never done anything else.
Iver should’ve known. William might not be familiar with the steps of the faerie dance, but he’d spent his life attending balls. He was an excellent dancer.
Their bodies moving against each other stirred Iver. When the piece ended and the next began, William took the lead, and suddenly he was directing the dance, controlling where and how they moved. He was in his element, and Iver marveled at his skill.
The drum beat crested in a crescendo, but thanks to the winter faerie fruit, William wasn’t even out of breath. He was radiant. His hand lay in the small of Iver’s back, pressing their bodies together as he whirled them across the floor.
Iver couldn’t help surrender to William’s confidence, and he sank against him, inhaling his scent of man mixed with the fading smell of the oil.
Iver, to his surprise, was enjoying William’s company.
He’d happily climb into his bed later and let him have his revenge for what had happened earlier. He had no plans to resist.
At midnight, the servants lit another candle on each wreath, proclaiming the start of the third day of Twelvetide. The festivities wound down soon after. The guests retired, and servants came to clean the great hall.
William showed no signs of fatigue, animatedly bidding goodnight to the final guests as they returned to their chambers. When the last of them had disappeared behind the double doors to the guest wing, William took Iver’s hand and led him to their apartment.
A fierce energy swirled between them, intensifying as they passed through the doors to their rooms. The chamber was sparsely lit by a handful of candles and the moonlight falling through the windows.
“Undress,” William said as he disposed of his ermine cloak, dumping it on a chair.
When Iver didn’t move, he sauntered over, regarding him with an expectantly arched eyebrow.
Iver obeyed, his hands traveling to the clasp holding his cloak in place.
He didn’t take his eyes off William as it slipped free, and the garment fell off his shoulders.
Catching it blindly, Iver threw it onto the dresser.
He worked open the laces of his robe, revealing inches of his chest as he pulled them free one by one.
He was teasing William, testing his patience.
William didn’t take the bait. Unperturbed, he watched him strip.
When Iver had disposed of the last of his clothing, William crossed the final feet between them.
A smile flicked over his lips, and he hauled Iver into his arms, drawing a sound of surprise from him. William was bold tonight.
He caught Iver’s mouth in a possessive kiss. His tongue slipped inside, and something in Iver’s chest responded. He told himself it was the bond. Over the course of the evening, he’d gained control over it. Keeping it contained cost him tremendous effort, but contained it was—for the most part.
Iver’s tongue met William’s, unable to repress a shiver when they slid together.
The silk of William’s robe teased his nipples, which hardened to nubs.
And not just them. Something about William dressed in his fine robe, Iver naked against it, aroused him.
William’s hard cock pressed against his hip.
Iver slid his arms around his waist, moaning into his mouth.
“You’re pliant tonight,” William said against his lips.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve received everything I wanted. I know you want to get even. So get even.”