Sterling zipped up his fly. The tailored suit pants were a little worse for wear due to his efforts to break into her room, with a tear revealing a tantalizing glimpse of arse cheek as he bent over. The air in the chamber shimmered faintly—residue of the enchantment he’d employed to gather the broken glass pieces into a neat pile on the carpet – further proof that whilst his power might be weakened, he still possessed some.
“I don’t suppose you know the enchantment to fix glass?” He asked over his shoulder.
“No,” she croaked the word, her throat raw.
He muttered a curse in the Old Tongue. “Of course not,” he grumbled. “You would think that they would include some practical spells in the education curriculum, wouldn’t you? Instead, it’s all about wards to protect us from falling prey to each other's mischief and creating enchantments and traps to lure humans into fairy rings for our amusement…”
“I wouldn’t know,” she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I had a governess.”
“Of course you did,” he sneered slightly. “Attending the local community school would be below a Corwin.” He set to work restoring order to the room, pushing the furniture back to place in order to allow the door to open.
When he finished, he rang the bell—a sharp, crystalline tone that echoed in the distance summoning the maids or Wexley. She had never rung the bell herself. It felt wrong. She had never felt more than a servant within the household herself, and servants did not summon other servants.
She did not see who responded, but his voice was clipped and formal when he instructed whoever it was to deliver fresh linens, warm food, and a draught of bloodroot to ease the ache of heat—for him or for her, she was not sure.
His cum still seeped from her, its warmth cooling on her thighs. There remained a lingering pulse of magic and hunger curling inside her womb—a dull ache that she knew would slowly build until she writhed in need again. For now, though, she lay motionless on the bed, wrists still bound in the sheets trying to come to terms with the sudden onset of her heat, and the effects that it had upon her body.
She had not been prepared for this, despite learning about it in her anatomy lessons. She did not blame her governess. She did not think it was possible to prepare another as there were no words capable of describing that overwhelming level of desire and need. It was as if her womb had become some form of Eldritch Horror, a ravenous monster needing to be filled. The thought was slightly repulsive.
The sex with Sterling had been different this time. Not rougher, not gentler—but different. She struggled to understand the change. Less... debasing, perhaps? Their wedding night, he had shown her to her room, and then disappeared for hours, returning drunk and clumsy. He’d undressed, slid into the bed next to her, flipped her onto her stomach, and had taken her from behind whilst she had cried into the pillows.
It had hurt, but more than that, it had been a demeaning introduction to sex, which he had chased by pulling out of her the moment he’d come, rising from the bed, pulling on his clothes, and leaving the room.
She had been shocked, bewildered, and in despair. Never in all her fantasies had that scenario ever reared its ugly head. She hadn’t known how to react. She hadn’t known, then, where he had gone, for he had not given her a tour of the house. She had lain in the bed crying and confused until the morning.
Sex since had followed a similar pattern. He would enter her room in the night, slide into her bed, fuck her without speaking and with the bare minimal of touching, before leaving again as if he had never been there.
In a way, she wasn’t surprised that she would spend her heat tied to the bed watching the sun rise through a broken window whilst her husband cursed and swore in the Old Tongue and shoved furniture around.
A Fae woman’s first heat was meant to be sacred: bathed in moonlight, soothed by songs of old, protected by a mate who whispered of reverence and love. Like her marriage it was not supposed to be like this—with a cold-eyed husband whose duty warred with disdain.
Tears slipped silently from the corners of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and soaking into her hair.
He returned at last, silent at the foot of the bed, eyes shadowed. His jaw worked, but he said nothing for a long time. “What a fucking mess,” he muttered at last—so mortal a phrase from so finely crafted Fae a mouth. He inhaled sharply, as if to speak again, but a soft knock interrupted him. He moved to the door with a predator’s grace.
“Set everything on the table,” he told the maid and Wexley as they entered, their eyes averted from the bed. “And leave the linens.”
“Shall I summon a healer, my lord?” Wexley’s voice was velvet and careful.
“She’s not injured,” Sterling replied. “Not physically.”
Wexley bowed and ushered the maid out with a whisper of reprimand when her eyes ventured to where Kaete lay in the bed. Sterling closed the door behind them and lifted the silver tray. He returned to the bed and set it beside her—but made no move to free her.
“Are you hungry?”
She turned her face away, eyes shut tight. Her silence was answer enough.
“No,” he said softly. He took the tray again, setting it on the dresser. “Perhaps later.”
He shed his pants without ceremony and lay beside her. His fingers brushed the length of her torso, the warmth of his skin igniting the bruises he’d left behind. He measured her arm against the marks he’d painted last night—faint fingerprints bruised into her flesh by his grip
“You mark too easily,” he murmured.
“Or perhaps you are too rough,” she replied.
“Hmm.” One of his eyebrows quirked. “I have not had such complaints from others. But, of course a Corwin would be more refined and delicate.” His hand cupped her breast, the heat of his palm branding her. Her nipple stiffened against him and a moan escaped her, muffled and raw. Shame twisted with want inside her like poisoned ivy. Her skin knew him, craved him.
He lowered his head, mouth hot as he licked slow circles around her nipple, then grazed it with his teeth. She sobbed, shuddering in her bonds.
His other hand slid between her thighs, fingers parting her and slipping into her heat. Slow. Intentional. Unrelenting. Her hips rose in silent supplication. His head lifted, and he watched her, his pupils wide and dark as night. He pulled his fingers free and slipped them into his mouth tasting her on them.
“You’re deep into it now,” he said, voice like gravel and silk. “Your blood sings with the magic of it. I can feel it calling to me.” There was a hint of pride behind the words, a small smirk on his lips. “How that must sting your fine Corwin pride. Never mind. You’ll get over it. I’ll buy you a nice seaside escape to cool your spite in once you are with child.”
“I don't…” She started to protest, but he lifted a brow in challenge.
“Are you about to deny blocking the door and tying yourself in your bed during your heat in an effort to avoid spending it with me?” He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat as he looked away with an eyeroll. “Why would I believe you? We are Fae. We mislead, imply, and deny, and sometimes, in the human realm at least it seems, outrightly lie. I should let you suffer. Let the fever burn through you without relief. Let you whimper and beg the stars themselves to cool the fire in your womb.”
But he didn’t. His fingers returned to her cunt, stroking against her clit with maddening care. She sobbed again; the sound torn from her chest. He moved atop her, slipping a pillow beneath her hips, positioning her the way he wanted.
“Every part of you calls to me.” He whispered.
He guided himself to her and entered slowly, deeply, one hand braced above her head, the other splayed against her belly as though to feel his strokes through her flesh. He watched her face as he filled her, and she did not know what he saw there. He was painfully beautiful, all sculpted shadow and golden skin. She hated him for it. Hated that she arched into his rhythm. Hated that her climax came like a curse—a wracking wave of heat and sobs and surrender.
Sterling lowered his body onto hers and groaned against her neck, thrusting deep as he spilled into her. His hips locked to hers as if some primal part of him couldn’t bear to be parted.
“Terrible timing,” he muttered. “In the middle of a negotiation. In front of half the Winter Court. You could’ve whispered to me. Quietly let me know to take you home. But no. You made a scene,” he said. “Writhing in front of courtiers and lords. Like a siren calling the Wild Hunt.”
He pulled free, roughly. The silence between them crackled with his anger.
“Fucking Corwins,” he spat. “Always think themselves above us all and above consequence.”