Alvar
Days bled into weeks, and I—the most feared dark Fae king who’d toppled countless empires—was now at war with an infant.
My son, my magnificent heir, was a milk-drunk tyrant, monopolising Willow’s breasts with a greed that bordered on treason.
Every time I reached for her, his tiny claws lashed out like a barnacle defending its shipwreck.
Mine.
He would say until the word reverberated in my mind.
Unacceptable.
Tonight, I would reclaim what was mine. A whisper of magic, woven into Evander’s dreams—just enough to keep him asleep while I reminded Willow of her true purpose.
One taste of my aphrodisiac seed, and she’d forget his name. Her thighs would part, her womb would ache, and she’d beg me to fill her like a vessel starved for its king.
My dirty little flower was always so reluctant until she wasn’t.
I smirked, watching her rock Evander to sleep, her fingers stroking his hair. They could enjoy their victory for a little longer.
For now, the black veins had vanished from Willow’s belly, but soon, they’d return. Darker. Hungrier. Perfect.
A princess this time.
My princess.
Evander was a terror—a tiny, milk-thieving despot who clung to Willow like a barnacle. But a daughter? She’d be mine.
No claws in my hair. No screeching when I claimed her mother’s lips. Just soft curls and adoring eyes, whispering “Daddy” like a prayer.
I’d spoil her rotten.
Gowns spun from spider silk—a crown of living roses. And my consort—my thorn-collared, sharp-tongued queen—would melt every time our girl giggled.
“You’re planning something,” Willow muttered, eyeing me as she nursed Evander.
I stroked her thigh, my thumb pressing into the spot that made her breath hitch. “Only dreams, little flower.”
Lies.
My dreams would become our reality. A daughter first—doting, perfect, mine—then a dynasty to outlast the stars themselves. Willow was bound to me, thorn and flesh, and she would remain forever swollen with my heirs.
Good luck with that, Father. She is mine. Evander’s voice echoed in my mind, interrupting my grand dream.
I smiled, slow and dangerous, before waving my fingers over his brow. Sleep well, son.
Magic coiled through the air—a gentle lullaby of forced slumber. His eyelids fluttered, his grip on Willow’s hair slackened.
Victory will always be mine.