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She knows.
She knows I’m leaving.
I can tell by the way she looks at me. Those big green eyes aren’t sad, but angry because of what she perceives as a betrayal of the trust I worked so hard to build with her. What I want to know is who told her.
It should’ve been me. When I laid out my exit strategy to the high members of her court, we agreed that I would inform the queen when I was good and ready. When I find out who disobeyed my direct order, they will face punishment. Damn it. This was important to me.
The last contingent of the guards I brought from the Summer Court had left the Spring Court just before dinner, giving me time to spend the evening with the queen so that I could best prepare her for the news.
For the night, I commissioned a tailored suit, not a uniform. A black-on-black suit with gold textile paint made to appear as if gold is spilling from my shoulders down my arm. The hems are also painted, most of the work there resembling thorns.
When I commissioned the suit for the dinner, I asked for a “touch of gold” on the sleeves, so this exuberant thing isn’t what I had in mind, but it is what it is. I don’t have much of a choice, seeing as how my clothes are in the Summer Court already.
The queen appears at the steps before the lower gardens wearing a skintight, beige mini dress. The problem with choosing outfits like that is that males stare with desire in their eyes, and her appearance stirs their heats. I’m not immune to her beauty. Most certainly not to how her body curves and flares into wide hips.
An intricate skin painting, a drawing of leaves, vines, and flowers wraps around her leg and invites the eye as well as the imagination. I wonder how far it reaches. Where does it stop? Is it edible?
As the Spring queen makes her way down the steps and into the garden, every male in the space eye-fucks her drawing.
I want to paint her body too.
I could. She would let me do anything I wanted to her. Which is precisely why I can’t. I am the commander of the Summer Court armies, and she’s the Spring queen. We can never be together, not in the way she needs.
Chloe is the kind of female who needs a lot of attention and doting upon, and who gives herself and her submissive nature freely and without restraint. Taking advantage of her, using her for climbing ladders, was never on my agenda. I wish for nothing more than her good health and fortune.
I regret not what we have done, but how it will affect her when I tell her I can’t stay.
I will preserve her virginity even though I am aware I’ve already broken her heart. She will remain in mine, which makes us even.
I stand aside as she passes without stopping, and that’s when I see them: Her wings. They’re hanging like old rags instead of flaring out from behind her back like the prettiest ornaments.
Fae females love their wings since they make the females more attractive, and besides, they can wear them only during the season and only for a limited time. The wings signal that the females are highly fertile and wish to breed.
One night. Spring heat. Take the queen.
I shake my head free of such dangerous thoughts and remain standing.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a male next to me says.
Having not noticed him, I whip my head around and catch sight of an elderly couple.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” the female says, the rasp in her voice making me think she’s smoked more pipes than a sailor in her lifetime. “Commander D’Artaron has no opinion about females at all. Not even if they’re our lovely queen.”
She smiles, showing me one golden tooth.
Respectfully, I tilt my head down. “As a matter of fact, I have an opinion on the queen.”
“Oh,” the lady says, inching closer to me. “Do tell.”
I sense the blade she hides inside her hair. My magic takes hold of it, just in case.
“I think she’s pretty, smart, and very powerful.” I remove my glove and show them the sigil the queen and I share. “I’ll show you just how powerful.” In record time, I construct a gate behind them.
They ooh and ahh, and I leave as people start gathering around the gate. It’s as solid as any door in the palace, and with some imagination adding color and gold as well as designs, it’s lavish enough to be befitting a queen.
While people marvel at her magic, I follow the queen so that we can enjoy our last evening together.
The moment the queen starts mingling, a tall and stocky red-haired male wearing a ridiculous pink jacket makes his way toward her. I untie his shoelaces, tie them together, and twist one of his shoes. This causes his ankle to turn, and the male stumbles, then falls on a lady, who spills her drink on his face. He tries to grab something solid and lift himself back up, but his face is planted in her bosom, which is pushed up by the tight corset, and he can’t seem to lift his head. Finally, he grabs her breasts and pushes off.
