Chapter Twenty-Nine
Pikquarrys
Princess Loreleivnna takes another long drink of cinnamon-apple mulled wine, her throat bobbing as she swallows.
The din of the crowded festival market fades around us as my mind floods with images of pumping her throat with my slick, filling her belly with it so her body is better prepared to nurse my foals.
“Oh, that’s delicious!” she exclaims, gem-green eyes wide and sparkling.
I sip my horn. The fresh cider tastes like fond memories and new beginnings all at once. I tip the horn toward the vendor. “Delicious.”
The princess watches me with those alluring eyes, green and sparkling like the peridot gems crafted in volcanoes as strong-willed as the woman before me, and I gravitate toward her without conscious thought.
My hand lands on the small of her back, and she lets out a soft noise that I’m sure no one around us heard.
“Loreleivnna!”
The woman’s voice is ice down my back. I snap my hand away and drop into a bow with my left leg extended.
“Your Majesties,” I greet the King and Queen, noting the stiffness in King Vyrion’s stance.
“Rise, Pikquarrys, you silly creature. Friends as close as family need not pretend, regardless of a crowd,” Queen Soreivsanna says with a kindness that her husband does not reflect when I stand to face him.
The Queen pays no mind to the crackling tension. “How are you enjoying your first Lunaplume Festival as a couple?”
King Vyrion grumbles. His wife casts him a disapproving glance and leans into his side.
I can only imagine the conversations they’ve had.
Queen Soreivsanna’s nearness to the roots limits her time spent lucid, but nothing shakes her confidence in their whispers.
I know King Vyrion very well. He may fight her revelations thorn and bramble, but every word from her lips plants seeds that he’ll reap later.
The man is as stubborn as his youngest daughter, and experienced enough not to discard the words of someone so nurtured by the Fallen Stars.
“Yes, Mother.” Princess Loreleivnna doesn’t flinch, her gaze trained solely on her mother. “The Ancients have certainly blessed us. Please relay our deepest gratitude.”
Queen Soreivsanna beams, a stark contrast to the haunted glower her husband sears into my peripheral vision.
I clear my throat and borrow some of Princess Loreleivnna’s confidence to straighten my spine. “Yes, Your Majesty, please relay our gratitude. I have yet to bury my gratitude rite—”
“Why?” King Vyrion interjects. “I’ve asked so very little of you on this visit. What has kept you so busy you couldn’t dirty your hands for the immense blessings the Wise Ones planted in your garden?”
I turn toward him. His molten stare shoots razor whisperbloom thorns that penetrate my soul like tiny daggers enchanted with deadly hatred.
It’s disorienting how difficult it is to hold his eye contact, but I do.
For over a century, this elf has been my dearest friend, my chosen brother, and in dark times, my only reason for living.
I don’t blame him for his hatred. I’ve forged him a betrayal that only the Wise Ones and their fate-roots can understand, and I’ll spend my life groveling for his forgiveness, if he’ll allow me at his feet.
“I deserve your anger,” I say, my voice a low growl. “But be sure to direct every thorn at me, and not Princess Loreleivnna. The Wise Ones coiled me in their roots, and believe me, I tried to deny them.”
King Vyrion scoffs. His right foot steps back, like he cannot bear to breathe my air.
“Truly,” I press. “What else explains my long absence?”
I gesture to my arm, assuming his wife explained the fate-tattoo better than Princess Loreleivnna’s unhelpful attempt at my cottage. His eyes squint when they lock on the ink. When they reconnect with mine, fissures appear in his iron gaze.
“I’ve been part of this family for decades upon decades,” I continue. His jaw clenches, hardens, and the thorns around my heart draw blood. “If you’ve ever had faith in me, know that my intentions with your daughter are pure. Never have I felt this way, and I am a better creature for her presence.”
King Vyrion’s shoulders heave with a loosed breath. He opens his mouth, then shuts it and turns his back on me.
“Come, Dearest,” he states, and offers his arm to his mate. All of the venom withers from his tongue, and he’s left sounding tired. “Let us visit your beloved aevumoon perfume vendor.”
Queen Soreivsanna takes his proffered arm, her excitement palpable. As they depart, she calls to us loudly, “Don’t get too lost in the trunks this frolic!”
The King Vyrion grumbles under his breath, muttering something I don’t need to hear to understand.
I turn toward my betrothed with a newfound pep in my hooves. She grins back with the same hopefulness I feel in my soul.
Some part of me wants to consider the encounter a win. Vyrion has always been soft-hearted, especially in regard to his family. While he may no longer consider me as such, he will always prioritize their happiness. Perhaps he won’t view me as rotting compost for the remainder of our lives.
Princess Loreleivnna glances at the sky, then back at me, and giggles. Her heart rate had spiked at the mention of the frolic, a sweet scent accompanying the enhanced pattern.
“A few hours of daylight remain, Blossom,” I assure her with a deep nicker, my hooves dancing restlessly. “Plenty of time to enjoy the day’s festivities before I chase you through the Spiritgrove.”
All traces of the diplomatic princess of moments ago vanish, replaced with a vision of guileless lust. My ostensibly innocent betrothed hides her blush behind her horn, slurping down the last of the mulled wine.
I groan. Crowding her, I snake an arm around her shoulders and drag her against me, swiftly trading our drinking horns so I can watch her throat bob around another gulp.
“Slow down, else I’ll relieve my aching cock into your next horn and watch you drink my slick like lunar cider,” I whisper into the shell of her ear.
“Pikr!”
She leans against me like she might lose balance, and I laugh. “You dirty petal, you like the sound of that, don’t you?”
Her cheeks darken, skipping past grey-green straight to a rich maroon. She shrugs, turning toward the path. “Try it and find out.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I groan into her floral-scented hair, releasing her waist with a squeeze. “Do you know what a centaur’s slick does when ingested by another species?”
She continues down the path, examining a tray of dried starseeds from the next vendor. She gives a half shrug. “No. What?”
I allow a few strides to pass before responding as we step in line for a self-serve barrel of spiced cider. Pressing my torso against her backside, I whisper, “Drinking from me prepares your body to breastfeed my foals.”