Chapter Eleven #2
He sighs again.
“Please. Let me help you clean and tend your back. I kind of owe you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, then shakes his head with a resigned smile. He steps aside and opens the door wider. I duck under the arm holding it and take in his suite as he closes it with a quiet click of finality.
The layout mirrors my own, but where mine is light and airy—pastels and whites—his is brooding.
Dark wood furniture, blacks and greys and creams. It’s neat and tidy, surprisingly personal.
Black and white paintings of landscapes and buildings scatter the walls.
Daggers, swords and other weapons rest on stands throughout. It feels lived in. Cozy, even.
He sits on the sofa and I stand there awkwardly.
“Do you have anything I can use to clean and dress your back?” I ask eventually, breaking the tension.
“Yes. In the bathroom.”
I walk through to his bedroom. Where the lounge is neat, this room looks ravaged.
The bed is unmade and ruffled, clothes strewn across the floor, the musty smell of sweat lingering.
I search the bathroom for supplies—clean cloths, ointment, a bowl I fill with water.
When I return to the lounge, I nearly drop everything at the sight of him, at the reality of his father’s beating.
Kiernan has stripped to just his trousers, facing away from me. Purple bruises mottle his skin. Large welts crisscross his entire back. In places the skin is torn, blood dripping down.
I set the supplies on the coffee table and sit on the sofa behind him, careful not to catch him.
“This may hurt. Sorry.” I say, soothing.
I dip a cloth into the water and bring it to his back. He hisses and jolts slightly as I touch him, cleaning away the blood—some already drying. I grab a dry cloth and press it to the worst cuts.
“Have you done this before? Healing, I mean?” His question startles me from my focus.
“At home, I helped the Healing Fae treat villagers.” My voice catches, and I have to swallow hard before I can continue. “I used to hope that if I ever got a Gift, I’d be a Healer.” The words come out softer than I intend, thick with all the years of waiting for something that never came.
“You’d make an excellent Healing Fae.”
I laugh softly at his compliment, noting the cuts have stopped bleeding. I swap the saturated cloth for a fresh one and clean off the last of the blood.
“Okay, this part really is going to hurt.” I open the jar of ointment.
“I’m sure I’ve felt worse pain. Ouch!”
The ointment is cool and soothing. I apply it liberally over his back.
“Does this happen often? The beatings?” I’m not sure he’ll reply. When he does, his voice is hard and cold.
“Usually when I’ve defied or displeased him. Which doesn’t happen often, thankfully. I don’t typically have reason to defy him. Until now.”
“And you tend the damage yourself?”
“I’m not usually lucky enough to have such a pretty nurse attend to me.”
Another compliment. That made two now. I blink at him, unsure what to make of this sudden shift. My chest tightens with confusion, uncertain whether to feel flattered or wary.
“You really should visit a Healing Fae.”
“No. No one can ever know. No one would know if someone hadn’t been creeping after me down the halls.” He looks over his shoulder and winks as I finish applying the ointment.
“All done. Keep your shirt off while it dries. And you should change your trousers—they’re saturated with blood around the waistband.”
He rises, so I do too.
“Don’t go yet. Wait here … please? Unless you want to come help me change?” He raises his eyebrows.
“I’m okay here,” I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks.
He leaves but pops his head back in a moment later.
“Oh, and thanks, Alaya.” He grins and disappears again.
While he’s gone, I gather the supplies, placing them in the middle of the coffee table.
When he returns, heat floods through me and I can’t stop the sharp intake of breath that escapes my lips.
He’s cleaned up—his hair damp and tousled, water still glistening at his temples, his face clean and he’s changed into loose black trousers that hang sinfully low on his hips, revealing the defined V-shaped muscle that disappears beneath the waistband.
My mouth goes dry. I can’t tear my eyes away from the lean planes of his bare chest, the way shadows play across his skin with each breath.
I’m staring.
I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to stop.
He sits beside me on the sofa. Awkward silence stretches between us.
“About last night,” he starts, twisting towards me. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“Scared me? Why would you think that?”
“Running away and slamming the door in my face was a clue.”
It wasn’t fear. Not of him. When he looked at me like that, his feelings so raw and honest, a tiny part of me remembered who he is, who his father is, where I am and why I’m here. It made me want to run from those feelings, from that reality of what he’s becoming to me.
“I’m not scared of you, Kiernan.”
He sighs with relief. Perhaps it’s that, or this shared secret, but something makes me feel bold.
I bring my hand up and stroke his cheek, down to his jaw, rough where he hasn’t shaved.
He leans into my touch, eyes fluttering shut as he sighs.
This is the Fae beneath all the scars he bares—not the Prince with his cold authority, not the dutiful son bearing his father’s cruelty, not any of the carefully constructed masks he shows the kingdom.
This version of him, unguarded and at ease, stripped of pretence—he’s breathtaking.
In this quiet, unmasked moment, he’s beautiful in a way that makes something in my chest ache.
I move my hand up his neck and behind his head, burying my fingers in his damp hair. I gently pull him down to me. He doesn’t resist. As his lips reach mine, I brush mine against his.
This isn’t the first kiss—the crushing passion and lust. This is the soft caress of a second kiss, the kiss to explore and discover.
I kiss gently along his lips, down the corner of his mouth to his jaw, the stubble rough and chafing.
I bring my hands to his strong shoulders, then lower, my palms feeling his smooth, hard chest, my fingers dancing over his skin.
As I kiss back to his mouth, he leans into me and deepens it. When I reach his mouth, it opens for me and our tongues search for each other. He tastes like lightning and storms, like spring rain and sparks of static. He groans as we explore each other, his tongue insistent.
“I need to feel you closer,” he whispers, pulling away slightly. I nip his bottom lip in protest, and a low rumble rises from his throat.
He grabs me by the waist and pulls me onto his lap, his hands sliding down to clasp my rear.
We kiss again, deep and savage this time.
Fire ignites in my belly as I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
His hands come up to bury into my curls, his fingers knotting in my hair.
He pulls my head gently back so he can take more of me.
His hips raise slightly, and I gasp as I feel his very evident, very hard erection rubbing against my underwear.
“You feel that, Princess? That’s all for you.” The fire spreads into my core as he adjusts himself again, this time on purpose, his need seeking me roughly. I clench around him, wanting him too.
“Gods, Alaya, I can feel your wetness already.” His words are like tinder. I lose myself in the taste of him and the feel of him between my thighs.
“I need to taste you. All of you.” He pulls back to look into my face. “I’m not sure if anyone has ever kissed you there—not that I want to know, if I’m being honest. But I think I might lose my Gods-damn mind if I don’t.”
My breath catches, heat flooding through me. “Show me,” I whisper, the words barely more than a plea.
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He raises and gently pushes me back onto the sofa, pulling me by the waist to the edge, and drops to his knees before me.
Strong hands grab my legs, starting at the calves, and he slowly runs his hands up, bunching my dress with them.
Around the inside of my knees to the sensitive area of my inner thighs.
My dress bunches around my waist as he drapes my legs over his shoulders and bends down towards me.
I feel his hair tickle my inner thighs, his hot breath over me as he gets closer.
His fingers slip inside the band of my underwear, and he starts to pull.
“Are these your favourites?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” With one tug, he rips them from me and throws them over his shoulder.
I’ve known pleasure. I’ve felt the heat of passion ride through me at his kisses and touch. But when his tongue touches my sensitive apex, the feeling is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I jolt my hips towards his mouth and cry out as he swirls around my clit with his slick tongue.
“I guess you haven’t been kissed everywhere before, Princess.” He laughs, and the vibrations from his words send another wave of fire burning to my core.
His tongue slides down the length of me, back and forth, slowly but insistently, sending fresh bolts of pleasure every time he reaches my clit. I writhe against him, but he holds me to his mouth, his hands clasping my cheeks.
“You taste like sunlight here too,” he says breathlessly. “And it’s so fucking intoxicating.”
Then his tongue enters me—warm, deliberate, hard and devastatingly sure.
It sends sparks racing along my nerves, building something vast and terrifying inside me.
My hips lift of their own accord, seeking more of this exquisite torment, and a moan escapes me—raw, unguarded.
He’s licking and swirling and delving deeper each time.
The heat becomes unbearable—not painful, but overwhelming, like standing too close to a flame and wanting nothing more than to let it consume you entirely.
And through it all, there’s him. The intimacy of this moment crashes over me—his hands on my skin, his breath against me, the way he’s learning every response my body gives. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.
His voice—low, commanding, intimate—breaks through the haze. “Let go. Come for me, Princess.”
The words shatter something inside me.
I surrender completely, every defence crumbling as the fire in me erupts.
The release crashes through me in devastating waves—white-hot and all-consuming.
My body arches off the sofa, trembling violently as pleasure rips through every nerve.
I cry out as the intensity steals my breath.
It’s not just physical—it’s the trust, the vulnerability of giving myself over to him completely.
Wave after wave rolls through me, each one pulling me deeper into blissful oblivion, until I’m nothing but sensation and emotion, shaking and gasping beneath his touch.
He gets up and leans over me, palms down on the sofa on either side of me.
He looks into my eyes with such wonder and lust and leans in, taking my mouth once again.
His tongue that had been inside me moments ago swirls with mine.
I can taste myself mixed with his rain and static sparks.
He groans against me, his hips thrusting against my knee as he finds his own release.
I feel his tremor vibrate on my lips. As everything calms into a steady, soothing kiss, his hand comes up and cups my face.
He pulls away and rests his brow on mine, our rhythmic panting breaths combining.
He smiles. “So, do you want to run now?”
“No. I don’t,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. My chest rises and falls rapidly as I struggle to catch my breath, and I can feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. The words come out shaky and uncertain, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me in this moment.
He stands and runs both hands over his face, then back into his hair.
I don’t think his hair can get any messier or sexier if he tried.
He looks down at his loose trousers and laughs.
I notice the wet patch at his crotch. A light dusting of pink rises to his cheeks, and he turns towards his bedroom.
“I think I need another pair of trousers.”