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The nimble beauty bouncing on my lap certainly knows how to please a man, but my only satisfaction is in seeing her groom's expression as I take his wife first.
I want Harl Greystone to watch me give more pleasure than he ever could to the poor girl. She's barely eighteen, and thrown at a man twice her age. It's the least I can do for her.
Harl turns greener at each of her elated screams. I'm not much for kissing, but I sit up and take her lips as she comes apart.
She falls to my chest and the court claps around us. Mira Meyerson's still completely dressed in her long white gown, only missing the panties dangling around one ankle. It wouldn't do to expose the lady's modesty to the entire court. She's a countess, after all.
I roll away from underneath her limp legs and lift my pants back into position.
Peers of the realm are quick to congratulate the bride and raise their goblets to toast."May your fruit bless Mrs. Greystone's womb!"
I certainly hope not. I paid Callan Frejr, the best brewer I know, for a fresh contraceptive potion with tonight in mind. If it fails, I'll have the bastard hanged. I'm in need of an heir, but I'll be damned if my first brat belongs to the house of Greystone.
By law, as king of Ravelyn, I can taste any willing woman—or man—of age in my kingdom. Being taken by the king isn't considered adultery; it's technically a royal service, for which women are entitled a number of rewards.
A child born from such rutting would either belong to her birth family, or, should the woman be married, her husband's.
It's the first law I'll dismantle after I'm no longer shackled by the regents controlling me.
Harl is one such regent. He's spent the last fifteen years attempting to muzzle me. For a while, I needed their guidance, but for at least half a decade, I’ve been able to form my own thoughts. They’re pushing down my will in an effort to cling to power that never belonged to them.
My fucking Harl’s young, pretty bride is the first event in a very long line of retribution I have in store for him. Some husbands are more than happy to throw their wives at me, but Harl's too proud, and too taken by the notion of his own self-importance for that. He doesn't want my favor. He doesn't think he needs it.
"Nicely done, Your Highness," Otto Nettlestein hisses between his teeth as he dogs my steps. "And the lady is quite pleasing. Would you consider making her part of your harem?"
I groan as we reach the entry hall of the Greystone townhouse.
I was sixteen when Otto first mentioned my building a harem, like my father and grandfather before me. I can't discount the appeal. It's safer, for one, and ensures a number of willing partners at my beck and call. But I have no time to cultivate relationships, not even with one person, let alone several. So, eight years later, I've yet to choose anyone.
"The girl's just married, Ot. Have some pity on poor Harl." My advisor snorts, aware of my disdain for the earl.
At least, some of it. He knows I resent how he and Salvar Rhodes strive to stifle my voice even now, when I'm only a season away from no longer needing a regent. What he doesn't realize is that I've hated the earl and the duke for far longer, and for an entirely different reason.
"If not her, then someone else.Anyoneelse," the short, stout man practically begs.
The son of a historian and a soldier, Otto is a true patriot. He lives and breathes Ravelyn, loves our kingdom more than anything and anyone. He'd betray his own mother for the good of the realm.
Which is why I trust him less than any of the snakes slithering at my feet. However, I like him more.
"Why don't you concern yourself with getting your own dick wet, rather than constantly worrying about mine?"
He's undeterred by my callousness."You need an heir, sir."
I do. I am the last of the Devar line. Everyone else bearing my family's name is either buried six feet under or ashes carried away by the wind long ago. Since the foundation of Ravelyn, the Devars have ruled the frozen islands, and our patriarch ensured that only those who share his blood could sit on our throne.
What isn't common knowledge is that there are three other lines with Devar blood, thanks to that irksome, witless law about kings being entitled to anyone's pussy. TheGreystones, the Adlers, and theRhodeses. If I die childless, those three houses will tear the country apart to determine who will take my place.
What I don't need is a vulnerability, and a child would be just that, at least for the first decade or two.I can’t afford such a distraction while surrounded by so many unseen, conniving enemies.
We walk out of the pleasantly fresh building, courtesy of air magik, and into the hellish furnace that is Magnapolis in the summer. The night is heavy and stuffy, and I rush to the vehicle bearing my coat of arms, a raven standing over the skull.
I live on Royal Lane, my home but a few short yards away from Stateside, and if it had been any other season, I would have gladly walked—to the annoyance of my guards—but I don't spend more time than strictly necessary outside in the heat. My skin feels like it's being slowly roasted over a pyre by the time I'm safely locked at the back of my hovercraft.
I half expect to see my face blotched and red in the reflection of the window, but I'm pale as usual, though my skin’s glistening with layer of sweat. Disgusted, I wipe it off with my handkerchief.
The craft barely hovers off the ground when I see a strange, out of place movement in the dark. I frown and squint through the window, staring at the back of the house across the street. I’m aware that the red brick townhouse belongs to the Rhodeses, although I've never stepped onto the property. There isn't much I'm not aware of about my enemies, and the duke of Elandheart certainly figures among them.
I catch another shift in the shadows, swift and just as peculiar.
