Chapter Six
Ayala
IN ADDITION TO BEING devastatingly handsome and strong, King Cian is obviously bipolar. I didn’t even have a chance to sit on the dirt floor of my cell, having been pacing since my return in order to force some strength into my limbs, when the guards arrived to haul me back out and upstairs.
This time, they’ve chained me with silver chains to his bed—the center of his bed, on top of crimson velvet coverings. There’s some give in the length of loops, so I finger-comb my hair and braid it behind me as best I’m able while I wait.
Obviously, I don’t want to die looking like a half-drowned kitten.
But another part of me says I’m lying to myself. The truth is, I don’t want to see disdain in the king’s eyes when he looks at me. I want to look presentable. Pretty.
I’m such a fool.
Plus, the liquid forming between my thighs is going to ruin the velvet.
Kings don’t chain does to their beds unless they’re planning on using their cocks.
I’d like to call it rape, but the truth is, I’m already biologically prepared.
With our kind, strength puts a doe into heat, and the king is the strongest stag who’s lived amongst our people in recent memory.
Of course I want him inside me. Every part of me wants to spread my legs and welcome him into my empty core.
I shift onto first one buttock and then the next before angling my sore posterior off the bed so the proof of my essential weakness won’t show. Craving the stag who’s going to kill me—probably—is still embarrassing, even if it is biology.
Has he realized I’ve told the truth yet? Though, why would he? Something poisoned him. If I weren’t me, I’d think I’m guilty.
A whiff of his fir and fire scent rises from the bedding as I squirm, and it hollows me out even further. At the very least, maybe I can ask him to fuck me before he stabs me on his points. At least I’ll die happy.
But as time drags, despite my perilous circumstances, my eyes flutter shut. The velvet’s so soft. The king’s scent is so warm. And I’m so tired. I haven’t really slept in a week.
I’m not certain what I dream, but I wake with a suddenness that sends my heart pounding. Beyond the window, a black night lies draped, lit only by stars and a violet moon inching towards the full.
And someone is in the room with me.
I lick my lips with a tongue that’s dry again, the shower water not having been enough to satiate me. “King Cian?” I ask in a soft voice.
I don’t hear a response, but I sense I’ve startled whoever’s with me. A soft shuffle of fabric a moment later confirms I’m not alone and merely possessed of an overactive imagination. Something approaches. Someone. The edge of the bed presses downward, as if the unseen person either sits or kneels.
Kneels, because suddenly, I’m straddled, my hips pinned between two thighs. A hand covers my mouth, pinching my nose and cutting off my scream.
“Sshh, there’s a good doe. I’m going to remove my hand, and if you make any sound at all, I’ll gut you on my points where you lie. Only sixteen of them, but you’re small enough, I’ll only need two to take you.”
I recognize the voice. I can’t believe it.
“Roffey?” I whisper.
Again, the figure startles before relaxing with a chuckle. “Guess it doesn’t matter now. Hey, Ayala. Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a fine pickle.”
I buck my hips to try to detach him, but fail. “Get off me!”
He chuckles again, and his fingers trail like icy sludge down my throat and over my breasts, squeezing. “So soft. So weak. I always wanted you, you know. You make a stag feel powerful, but it wouldn’t do to have people say I took advantage. Plus, you add nothing to my luster. Shame, though.”
I seesaw the chain that’s wrapped through the central stag carved on the headboard and try to dislodge him again, but he doesn’t budge.
A new bulge presses against my stomach. He squeezes again. “Never took you, even though I found you a few times sleeping on the old flour bags in a corner when you were baking through the night. Ooh, creaming for me. I like it.”
His fingers find my wet heat. But he’s wrong.
“I’m drying for you, you creep.”
He chuckles. “I see. Wet, imagining our king. Luck of Cernunnos, that one.” He pauses in his exploration of my body beneath the skimpy under-shift. “Stick with me, Ayala. So long as you keep your lips shut and don’t tattle to Fawn, I can make your last moments fun.”
“Get. Off. Me.” I punctuate each of my words by trying to buck him off.
In response, he grabs my nipples and twists.
Shooting pain flares through my veins. “Ow!”
“Sshh. Quiet. I’ll be gentle, not like what the king’s planning for you.”
I buck, trying to unseat him, but he just chuckles again.
“You’re so weak, it’s...” He hisses as he twists my nipples again. This time, I don’t utter a sound. “That’s your power, you know, making stags feel strong.” He leans forward and sniffs along my neck, earning a sob from me before he bites into my skin.
But not hard. Not hard enough to mark me, because then he’ll be caught, too.
“Fuck, I want to tear you in two. Cry pretty tears for me, okay? Give me that.” His lips gentle against my skin, but they feel like slugs leaving a trail of slime.
“The king will know you touched what’s his. I’m in his bed, Roffey. You think he won’t kill you for taking his privilege? You think he won’t know if you leave your thin slime in my cunt?”
Above me, Roffey stills. For a moment, I think he’s seeing sense, until he chuckles again. “Good point. We’ll employ that sharp tongue of yours instead. He won’t care if I come down your throat.”
I feel him shifting, moving forward, adjusting his clothing. I close my lips tight against him, turning my head to the side, when suddenly the door flings wide and bright light flares. I shut my eyes against the sudden sun.
The weight of the stag on me disappears. Magick explodes, sending shockwaves along my flesh.
The confrontation is over before I can fully open my eyes.
Roffey’s body brushes the ceiling, impaled on a stag’s points.
The beast is so large and so wide that his antlers spread halfway across the enormous room.
The dark stag with the golden-white antlers dripping red looks at me and screams before tossing the bleeding corpse to the edge of the room.
The king shifts. Blood runs down his hair and face. Roffey’s blood. “The king’s privilege, eh? We’ll see.”
Trailing in from the door, the Earl of MacAvern shakes his head. “How are we supposed to question him now, Cian?”
The king’s attention doesn’t move from me. “We’re not, Hunter. We’re going to question her.”
+++++++
By the time the two stags return to sip mead by the fire in the adjoining room, freshly bathed and dressed in clean robes, the king in crimson, the earl in emerald, I’m so full of conflicting emotions, I can’t feel anything at all.
Even though I’m still chained, the king’s given me a chalice of the same brew. I sip it sitting up, not caring anymore if I stain the velvet cover. The warmth it puts into my blood is welcome, even though I should better choose to keep a sane head on my shoulders.
I’ve never seen an antler death in person. The brutality of it caught me off guard. It tore me down to my spirit.
“You mustn’t worry this, Cian, not until you know more.” The earl’s voice carries, bouncing due to the acoustics of the room.
Likely a protectionary measure. I heard Roffey moving quietly in the dark. The king, abed, might hear an assassin approach.
A sudden clenching in my chest at the thought of someone trying to injure the magnificent stag robs me of my breath. I’ve never thought about the man behind the crown except to daydream about serving wonderful pastries to him that earn me accolades and a grander position within the kitchens.
But what must life be like for him, knowing some people want him dead for the position he holds?
The graceful king who sprawls in his chair as if he hasn’t a care in the world suddenly appears different to me.
Vulnerable, even. Careless and assured on the outside, but he can’t possibly rest peacefully.
I may be low, but I’ve never been attacked in my bed. Only in his.
Which, actually, I have him to thank for my safety, since it’s his iron laws that have kept me safe.
Great. I’ve added pity and respect to the roil of terror, anticipation, desire, disgust for Roffey, and horror at his death that are swamping through me.
“No time but the present to find answers.” King Cian tosses back the rest of his cup and jumps to his feet. Graceful, always graceful, even in a dance of death, he’s beautiful to watch. He approaches too quickly, not giving me a chance to harness my unruly thoughts or my fast-beating heart.
The earl follows, slower, his steps more weighted.
And I understand. Of course, the king won’t bother killing me himself. I won’t get to feel any part of him stab into me. He’ll let his friend do the honors.
And isn’t it just the stupidest thing to feel sorry that I won’t die on his royal points?
He stops when his thighs brush the bed. Even through the crimson velvet robe he wears, I sense the hard contours of his muscled length. He crushes velvet, and I feel... crushed against his hard thighs.
Obviously, I’ve had too much to drink on an empty stomach. Or, maybe, it’s all a part of his magick. He can put feelings into my body.
I lick my lips, sticky from the mead, and force myself to meet his gaze, but all of me begins to tremble. From fear or desire, I don’t know which. Maybe it’s wiser not to find out.
“Ayala Treadborn.” He holds forth a wooden box chased in gold with the kingdom’s insignia. “Freshly picked juniper berries. You will eat them all. Now.”
Slowly, I nod. He plucks the cup from my hold and places it on the bedside table before dropping the box into my cuffed hands. Under his implacable stare, I slide the top back to find about a dozen green-purple berries.
“These aren’t ripe.” The words escape me before I can draw them back.