The Great Royal Rod Debacle

by Nicole Wells^cw

“Fairy” tales suck when... you’re a pixie on the wrong side of magical social media.

Life is hard in Mythia. Good thing the Royal Rod is harder.

M/F

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I stare at the grand Hickory Dickory clock, standing stolidly in the center of the town square, black walnut gleaming in the sun. It’s the center of all the magic gossip for anybody who’s anyone. Every five minutes it chimes out succulent snippets from the famous vampires, werewolves and other powerful beings who feed it. Crowds amble around the magical clock all day, eager to spread the news from as high up the ranks as Prince Stefan to the rest of the Kingdom.

The spelled time-keeper rings out its gossip again, while two mice scurry over it, adjusting ticks and tocks, like they’re out to spite me. I hear the repeat announcement over the crowd’s murmurs: “Ewen, social darling of Mythia, has closed his Hickory Dickory account.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration. The way the Royals just throw away power while stripping the rest of us of it riles me up. With a deep breath, I try not to live up to my name, Riley. At least, I resolve to not lose my shit here in front of gossip-central.

Wouldn’t the fairies just love that.

I turn around in disgust, loathe to join in the speculation of why Ewen would give it all up when he had the Kingdom’s gossip under his thumb. I shake my head, trying not to bemoan what I could have done with that exposure. He must not need his fans. Even though he’s some distant cousin, sixty-third in line for the throne or something, like all current royalty he’s a vampire. One with impeccable charm which won him an avid following through his Hickory Dickory feed. No doubt Ewen’s so beautiful he looks unreal and untouchable, and has so much power that tossing this away means nothing.

I would give anything to be in his shoes.

Jealous? Hell yeah. I’d love to see what would happen if he was told his people’s main source of income was now solely the domain of freakin’ fairies, thanks to royal decree.

I shoulder my way out of the crowd. And by shoulder, I mean I kick people in their shoulders as I pass. My wings beat furiously, buzzing like a damselfly, and sweat sheens my brow, but it’s worth it to gain a couple inches. Fine, a few feet. Us pixies are a petite lot. Hell, I’m just over three feet and I’m considered a giant. But what I don’t have in height I make up for with a lean torso and curves aplenty. 

At least, I used to catch more than a few appreciative looks.

With half my body above the masses, I glare down at them. Not that it matters when everyone is preoccupied with His Royal Highness Ewen. I mean, the guy doesn’t even need a last name. What is his full name anyway?

Whatever.

A fairy scowls at me and flounces her delicate butterfly wings, iridescent rainbow sparkles pattering down like the world’s most romantic wonderland. Imaginary cellos and violins practically burst into song at the slow-motion glide.

Fuck that.

I narrow my eyes right back at her.

Oh no, you didn’t. You do not want to flaunt your social standing with me, bitch. I’m Riley Feathershorner, a proud pixie. And I’ve had a really bad day.

A dainty shoulder shrugs as she turns her back on me, eyes rolling. I’ve no doubt she’s spotted my tattered dress. Yes, the very one I sewed by hand, with an off-the-shoulder boat neck and handkerchief hemline. It was once the rich cyan hue of a tropical ocean, the exact color of my long, wavy hair and showcased my bronze skin.

Well, I guess it still does that what with the matching brown speckles and smudges, and the new peek-a-boo tears.

I’m sure she’s also laughing over the air of desperation that surrounds me. Literally. I’m so desperate for someone to buy my pixie dust—the only thing I can sell now that we can’t grant wishes—that I’ve had to resort to overhead ethereal signage. Pixie Dust – 50% off. Free Samples! The neon green glow from above blinks erratically, creating unflattering shadows. It’s mortifying, but it won’t kill the way starvation does.

Delicate peals of laughter, like tiny bells tinkling on a breeze, reach my ears. Good god, there’s a whole posse of them now, all shades of elegant glittering pastels shooting me side-eyes.

“That’s a new low, even for a pathetic pixie,“ the one with lavender hair sneers.

“Pixies are so small, you think she could scrounge up some scrap of presentable fabric,” another answers.

“She’s obviously too poor. Imagine being so pitiful you can’t even give away your magic.” Lavender hair’s fake snickers cause a chorus of laughter and more people look my way.

Yeah, fairies are vicious and petty like that.

With an extra burst of wing flaps, I dive straight for their pack. That’s the great thing about being at the bottom and down on your luck. Nothing to lose. I might be wearing my favorite teal gown but it’s mud splattered and beyond salvation from foraging in the woods.

Okay, I’ll be honest. I was scurrying about on my hands and knees. Scavenging. For a single toadstool that turned out to be a common mushroom, not even worth half a copper. I had turned off the air of desperation to save the glow … but a sense of the pathetic still clung to me.

On the bright side, now I don’t give a fuck, from the already zero fucks I had to give. Wind rushes past me and the world spins as I air roll, making sure to flick clumps of dirt at their beautiful gowns. I pry an extra moist chunk loose from my boots and let it fly.

I’m at negative fucks, bitches.

I spin around as I dodge through the forest of their flailing arms and wings.

One point for the pixies!

Their angry faces grow smaller as I zoom away and I can’t make out what they’re saying.

Probably for the best.

I blow them a kiss and high-tail it out of there. I jot through the last of the masses, as acrobatic as a hummingbird, gladly leaving the fairies and their beautiful but cumbersome wings behind.

“You don’t do petty well but at least you can fly better than a sylph drunk on nightshade pollen.”

Well, maybe not all the fairies. I pivot at the sound of Aralia’s voice. The Book Fairy hovers beside me, her blonde hair is impeccable in a chignon and her smart, sleek white dress is perfect. She’s the only fairy that objected when Councilman Erold, supposedly on behalf of our frequently absent King, ruled that only fairies could grant wishes. A rule that took away our livelihood and according to Aralia, who frequents the Court, further divided the Council. As if Prince Stefan marrying a werewolf wasn’t enough.

I shake my head. “That’s not even a compliment,” I tell her as I continue flying.

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she deadpans. Aralia’s eyes scan me, but unlike her colleagues, her look is filled with sympathy. She’s just as snarky on the outside as any other fairy, but down deep she acts more like my Fairy Godmother. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

She somehow knew I took it upon myself to help the other pixies and has been a supporter of my Fiddle Street project ever since, even though she’s always on the go, especially as things are getting tense up at the Castle.

“Gimmie access to Ewen’s account?” I grumble.

She laughs, the sound of tinkling bells on the breeze, as she flies alongside me and the magical crowd falls away. “You should aim higher than that, my dear.” She pats my shoulder. “Try not to fret. I’ve seen enough stories to know things work out in the end—so long as you do your part.” Her eyes stare off into the distance, and I wonder for the millionth time what her part is. She seems more involved in politics than I would have suspected of a Book Fairy.

Aralia shakes herself and refocuses on me. “That’s staying true to yourself, if you didn’t realize,” she explains with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not Prince Stefan and Lucinda, ready to forsake my people for true love. There’s no grand love story here that will make me forget my woes.”

“Hmph, it is lucky their love match results in a beneficial alliance and they don’t have to resort to running away, even if not everyone’s on board. At least the King has come around. Despite Erold’s influence,” she mutters the last to herself before she refocuses on me. “Mark my words, you’ll be celebrating, too, by the time their wedding is here.” I scowl and she tut-tuts. “All stories are connected, dear. And everyone has a love story.”

Aralia winks but I don’t buy it. Pixies are cool with casual sex—it comes with the hormones—so I don’t need a serious relationship right now. I shrug. “What I really want is the tears of a down-on-her-luck orphan whose luck is about to turn. You know, like Cinderella.” Aim high, Aralia said. The witch who requested it offered a gold coin for each drop of that precious ingredient.

Aralia smiles slyly. “Consider it done. And with that, I must be on my way.”

I gape at her. Well, then. With a new spring to my wing-beats, I traipse into the rugged sections of the city where the humans hang. A part of me will only believe it when I see it and I still have to earn my coin to make it through today.

I fly through cobblestone streets, blurs of brown and gray becoming cramped alleys, no glamours here. A human with her head covered in a faded orange handkerchief and back bent over a broom sweeps in the shadows. A rudimentary gas light blearily brings attention to the stenciled wooden sign hanging out from the stucco wall: Betsy’s Bookshop.

Pshaw. I’d never tell Aralia, but books are old news. The King’s personal storytellers, ones with real Talent, whose tales are embellished with light and sound, that’s where it’s at. The aristocracy doesn’t bother with books anymore when the Noble’s Circle has Talented storytellers. I’m sure there’s a way to make coin off their lust for adrenaline and violence.

See, I know things. If only I had the time and money to figure it out.

The woman forms a fastidious pile of leaves and litter away from her stoop.

If I had Ewen’s account, I could broadcast a snippet about a quaint little store not far from the town center that sells books.

I zoom a little closer as the woman stoops down to retrieve the dust bin and manually coax the pile where she wants it, no simple gust of wind or willpower to tidy up her hard work in a second’s time. A violent sneeze causes a shudder to run through me and some of my precious pixie dust scatters.

“Godsdammit!“ I watch helplessly as it drifts in a glinting cloud toward the gutter and the human’s dustbin pile. She looks up at me, and then at the pixie dust sparkling like silver and gold glitter, mouth agape. But she doesn’t scramble for it, like I’m tempted to.

“Don’t suppose you’d care to pay me for that?” I mutter under my breath. I mean, the way things are going, humans might be my only customers. I eyeball the woman as I remember the newest addition to Fiddle Street, a little girl with large brown doe eyes. At least this woman’s hips don’t jut out from going to bed hungry.

I leave my magical dust to the shopkeeper, confident more money is coming my way; I’ve just got to earn it today.

A sigh leaks past my dried lips and I shut my eyes. My fingers reach into my handbag, curling around a thick, rough paper. Although I got no leads from gossip central—stupid crowded clock and its even stupider patrons—I did compile a list from two of the less scrupulous witches I visited earlier this morning. Two items stand out: spotted toad mucus and silk from the web of a vermillion orb weaver, both in the Dark Wood. With my speed, acrobatics, and ability to hover over water, it should be doable, and I’ll have a handful of cool metal coins before the sun sets. Pay is good for venturing into the Dark Wood and it should be enough to supplement a dinner of dandelion broth with actual bread rolls and cheese—for every hungry pixie at Fiddle Street.

I pat the drawstring purse hanging over my hip.

And if I’m lucky, I might come across something else.

Something more than Hickory Dickory’s gossip about Ewen. Of course, gossip could pay dearly if I had a platform for it. Why couldn’t a big shot like Ewen spread the love and transfer his ridiculously large account to someone in need. Someone down on their luck. Someone who would use that exposure to sell her pixie dust and her procurement services. Someone like an adorable yet stunningly sexy pint-sized wonder on wings?

If I knew what he looked like, I’d track him down and make him see reason. Or at least a pixie-sized fist. Like I said, not much left to lose.

If only Hickory Dickory had pictures to go along with the gossip it chimed out.

Oooh, if I had Ewen’s account maybe I could use the power of the sacred grid symbol to make it happen!

I buzz towards the Dark Wood, on automatic as I lose myself in thought. Pictures would be ah-MAH-zing! It would revolutionize Hickory Dickory, that old piece of kindling. A laugh bubbles out of me, giddy with the possibilities.

I could even replace that old timepiece with something new.

I dart above a cottage as I near the outskirts of the city.

Forget Hickory Dickory. I could have a legion of Talented storytellers. With the werewolves’ and vampires’ obsession with stories, I could mix stories in with the gossip, complete with visuals!

There’s no way it wouldn’t be popular.

I falter as the next thought strikes me.

And then I would have a voice the next time the Council or the King do something stupid.

My wings flap with gusto, extra pep to each beat, as I plan it out. The storytellers would need something to mark them as mine. A uniform, for sure. A trendy name, even better.

Mmm, and my own legion of men. Yesss!

Suddenly, I know what I’d nickname them, being partial to the name Graham and the frequent fantasy I have of this imaginary man being polished in company but ruthless in the bedroom.

Oh, yeah, baby. Sexy men and women, delivering gossip and stories to the paying masses, on demand and visual to boot.

I’ve got it! Immedia-Graham! I punch my fist into the air. It’s a solid-gold plan.

A huge oak swipes at me and knocks me off balance.

Motherfucker!

I rub my abused upper arm. “Hey, broomstick, what’d I do to you?” I give it wide berth as I leave the city behind. There’s nothing worse than an enspelled tree that’s had to stand still for centuries and suddenly allowed to move. Those brats are mean and itching to strike, someone’s idea of a practical joke I’m sure.

I drift downward, my arm smarting and the breath sighing out of me, like the wind dying under my wings.

Who am I kidding? I’d need massive amounts of gold to get the magic to work the sacred grid symbol. I couldn’t make it visual otherwise. My ideas are just a wild hope, and now that I’m entering the Black Forest, I’d better be on guard.

Because there are things worse than a grumpy old tree with mobile aspirations. And they all live in the Black Forest.

Luckily the swamp isn’t too far in, and maybe my pair of trusty feathered friends will be on the lookout for me. I dim my glowing advert—the denizens here are more likely to eat me for my pixie dust than pay me for it—and sniff the air. I follow the air currents and the moldy, putrid smell of the swamp.

In my haste, my wing brushes a plant and my heart seizes—until I realize it’s one of the few non-poisonous varieties. I double down on being fast, stealthy, and nimble knowing it’s the difference between life or death.

Spying a benign-looking willow tree at the edge of the swamp, I circle it before choosing a discreet branch to perch. I’ve no desire to meet the other inhabitants of the swamp, but if I do, I’ll need my energy. The air is heavy here, and with the way the trees shroud out the sun, it feels like dusk. Pregnant silence reigns and nerves skitter down my back. I wonder if I could glide down to avoid buzzing more than I need to.

There! Salvation! A toad on a log at the far edge of the swamp, where the stench is strongest and the water turns a murky brown. Holding my breath, and picturing full bellies and happy faces when this is all over, I swoop in.

FUUUUCK! I glided too long and am coming in too fast. I snatch the toad but skim the top of the pond, wetting the front of my dress. This close to the foul water, my eyes tear up from the noxious smell.

Oh crap, I can’t see!

Shit-shit-shit-shit!

Cold water envelops me to my chest. I clench reflexively on the supple, squirmy body in my fist as I try to lurch upwards. Gagging, my wings soggy and useless, it’s a small blessing when my feet find purchase in the mucky bottom. Thank god the little bugger was close to shore. I scramble toward that direction when my foot knocks into something solid.

I tug at my wedged foot and the hefty weight gives. It’s then I realize there’s a pull to the water, like a whirling tide. A glint of gold catches the current and I realize I’m on the fringe of a giant whirlpool. My other hand darts in to catch it, closing around a cold metal shaft.

What the …?

Whatever it is, it’s metal, it’s heavy, it’s got an aurelian glow—and it’s mine. I stash it down my leggings under my dress—they’re already soiled anyway, and the line of my leg should hopefully hide it enough.

“Hey, you!”

Kill. Me. Now. A friggin witness to my repugnant dunking? I scramble up the shore and my teary eyes widen at the man standing on the far side of the swamp. I try not to gape and fail miserably. He’s ridiculously fit; not gargantuan muscles like a demon or beast, just simple flawlessness, lean and solid. I can’t help but grin as I realize he’s short enough not to seem like a behemoth like everyone else—a veritable unicorn in height. I stomp down the automatic urge to try and claim this pixie wet dream for myself.

The stranger with all the right proportions advances on me and I get a closer view of his good-boy looks. My belly does a flip-flop: a baby face, slightly narrow but balanced with wire rimmed glasses. Full lips currently pursed, in contemplation? No scowl lines are present to indicate habitual grumpiness—he shines with an easy-going nature and hair full of gentle sable waves that must match his personality.

Oh my god, he’s a total Graham.

At least that’s what I think until he opens his mouth again. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Ah, there are those scowl lines. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he stalks even closer. I get a little lost in his beautiful, twinkling umber eyes. They’d be really mesmerizing if it weren’t for his blistering glare.

Something about the fact that he’s spitting mad at me when I’m soaked and dripping in what I refuse to acknowledge is offal, lights a fire in me. Which, let’s be honest, is crazy stupid with the flammability of all these noxious fumes.

My words fly out like darts. “What the fuck is your problem? All you people above four feet, you’ve got airs. Too much attitude with all that altitude if you ask me, you high and lofty arrogant ass.”

I’ve always found bravado works well, and let’s face it, spitfire is my only weapon right now. My eyes roam his biceps and muscled chest, the pale linen shirt molding to him in this humidity. He’s out of my fight class. A sectioned-off corner of my mind points out that he’s not a creature of these woods and could actually help me, but I stare him down and cross my arms.

Then wince at the squelch sound.

His face is thunderous. “Who in their right mind goes for a swim in a cesspool? Are you addled?”

It’s like my life choices personally offend him. Do I not have a right to wallow in shit?

Wait, that’s not what I meant. I reflexively twitch my wings to get the upper hand, literally, but the bottoms are still soggy and mud splatters all around, just short of reaching him.

“Definitely not the smartest creature. Poor thing’s got beauty instead of brains. It would be a public service to mute her with a spell,” he grumbles under his breath.

I step closer to him, and I’m the teensiest bit impressed he doesn’t flinch at the smell. In fact, he’s standing with his feet spread and arms crossed like he’s defending his turf. “What kind of giant turd stands guard over turds?”

His right eye twitches as he stares me down. This dude is definitely someone from the upper echelons of society. Only they can produce such withering stares, standing their ground even if it is pure muck. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he deflects. “I don’t trust you. Either you’re stupid or you’re up to something and if you knew what was best, you’d come clean.”

Like I have a choice! What I wouldn’t give to be clean right now. Time to bring his uppity arse down a notch. “For your information, not that it’s any of your concern, Your Royal Highness,” I unleash the over-the-top address like it’s a whip and grin when I see him flinch. “I was collecting this here toad.” I dangle the amphibian between us. “Black Forest toad mucus is quite the hot commodity, and not everyone has the aerial skill to pull it off.” I pause and subconsciously pat down my water-logged skirt, my fingers sliding in slime. Okay, maybe I should have left that last bit off.

“It’s a frog, not a toad, you idiot.”

Did I mention boyish charm? I take it back, all of it. He’s no Graham. He’s a fucking anal-retentive Heathcliff who won’t help out a hard-working lass down on her luck and in distress.

The guy is staring at the cesspool, and he starts when he realizes I’m watching him. “What?” He motions at me. “If you’re done wool-gathering, I have a cabin not far from here.” His eyes rake over me, calculating. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Something fishy is going on here.”

A bitter laugh squeaks out of me. If only it were fishy. “I’ll take it, and a bath,” I rush out, before he can take it back.

As I ease through the muddy shore that tries to suck my foot off my leg, he grudgingly holds out a hand. I pass him the frog. He stares at it for a beat. “Hey, if I can’t cash in, at least I have something for dinner, right?”

After all I’ve been through, I’m not giving up what little I’ve acquired. My mind hones in on the heavy golden object pressed against my thigh and I smile. He glances at me and that suspicious, thunderous look returns.

What’s his problem? I’m the one who had a crappy day. Just to egg him on, I start whistling a jaunty tune and add a skip to my step. He narrows his eyes before looking away.

Spirits buoyed with the promise of a bath, and the possible treasure tucked against my leg, I turn to my reluctant guide. “Why was there a ginormous cesspool back there anyway?” I ask in an obnoxiously chipper voice.

He looks at me like I’m touched in the brain. I bristle under the look and scowl back, throwing my shoulders back. He might be handsome as hell, but his personality is as foul as the stank creeping under my waistband.

“Where the blazes do you think all the waste goes when you flush? You think vortexes portal to nothingness?”

EWWWW! Did I say I was at rock bottom? Rock bottom is being hungry, cold, wet, mortified, and mad while covered in excrement. If I don’t yell, I’ll cry. I cast about for anything else to think about, some way to vent. “Well, what were you doing there, Heathcliff?”

He looks taken aback, and the silence drags on as we walk side by side to his cabin.

Eventually, I figure he’s stewing over the name. I need him talking to distract me from my own misery as badly as I need a bath. “What’s your name, then?”

“E-Er. Um. R-Rhod.”

He doesn’t know his own name? The dolt. I glance at him from the side. At least he’s pretty to look at. He may be short by everyone else’s standards, but towering over me as he does, he’s just the right height for me to use my wings but not need to.

“Um, it’s short for Rhoderick.” He jolts me out of my thoughts. I notice his brown eyes are speckled with gold. For a moment, it feels like fairy dust must be floating in them, because time gets suspended and I think more about his kissable lips than my own disgrace.

And then he opens his mouth again. “You smell like shit.”

“Because I’m caked in it, you over-sized hair-brained beast.”

He smiles. For some reason, my insults amuse him. Yup, Rhod is a dick.

My head jerks back as my hair is yanked. I stumble backward, close enough to feel Rhod’s body heat but not touching.

His low voice tickles my ear and raises goosebumps along my shoulders and neck. “You were about to step on a hole.”

I glare at the innocuous dark dot he’s pointing to, seething and trying to wrangle out of his grip. “Don’t you mean in a hole? Your command of language is embarrassing, as are your manners. For fuck’s sake, let go already!” I claw at his hand just as he lets go, only to grab me around my upper arm. I twist to finally stare murder in his eyes.

“No, a houl, an underground ghoul that waits to suck people into a magically barricaded pit where it slowly sucks the life out of you.”

I gape at the dark dot I thought was a rock with new, wide eyes.

Rhod wiggles his eyebrows, smirking. “Size doesn’t matter when magic is involved.” Then, still holding me by my upper arm, he guides me around it before letting go to lead the way again. “And your hair was the only clean part on you,” he throws over his shoulder. As he walks he makes a big show of wiping his hands on his pants.

He has to, because I’ve only got eyes for the trees and ground, constantly scanning for threats, every imagined movement and every spot of darkness an increasingly worse spine-chilling horror.

This is why I don’t veer from my flight paths, I scold myself as I do a weird dance of stepping gingerly while also trying to stick to Rhod like glue.

We step into a clearing. Newly hacked stumps of pine trees litter the area around a modest cabin with a wrap-around porch. I pause as he takes wide steps up to the door and unlocks it.

“Finally!” Rhod scowls at me and holds up both hands, palms out. “Don’t come in. There’s a well over there.” He points to the side yard and a metal pump. “Just gimmie a sec and I’ll grab some hashtag beads.” He takes a deep breath, his powerful chest expanding and highlighting all that glorious muscle. 

He really is a fine example of a man candy, custom made for a pixie.

Rhod seems to revel in the fresh air now that he’s distanced from me, an almost sexual moan of mocking appreciation that should have me pissed but instead has me flushed. A gleeful smile erupts on his face, complete with two good-boy dimples.

The air catches in my throat and my stomach dips—jeesh, his sex appeal is messing me up.

“You’ll need some magically enhanced water pressure before you get within ten feet of my home-sweet-home,” Rhod delivers with glee as he raps on the door frame. He pinches his nose. “Lord, you stink worse than a ten-day old marmot stuffed with pustule juice and festering in the summer sun.” Then the bounder disappears inside.

My stomach drops to my feet at the insult. If only the heat rising to my face would dry my wings. Bastard.

I step up to the front door. I slide my finger along the still-blonde wood and it comes away sticky with sap. Unwanted admiration trickles through my mind and my plans for repugnant revenge dissipate. This house is newly built, and judging by those shoulder muscles I spied, I’d bet my left tit mouse he built it himself.

The cheerful chirp of a chickadee marks the appearance of my left and right titmice. Speak of the devil. The two gray birds and their ever-constant black-and-white friend twitter around me. Drat. Even if I can’t feed myself, I can usually scrounge up crumbs for the trio, especially if they braved the Dark Wood for me.

“Sorry, buddies,” I whisper as I back away from Rhod’s cabin. “You know, I wouldn’t actually bet you guys for anything.” I swear the birds shrug before taking off. Yes, I like to fly with feathered friends. They’re like little children … little grown up wild children that act like they can’t live on their own but are more capable than me of securing a meal. I shrug my shoulders as I make my way to the well. Anyway, what I mean is I’m the adult here and I try to take care of them.

Which reminds me of my own clan and the troop of pixies at Fiddle Street who depend on me. I should at least contact Aralia and ask her to check in on the kids, but I don’t want her to know how dire things are. Anyway, us pixies can put on pounds in a blink with the proper nutrition, and I still might pull in a profit today and get back on my feet.

A torrent of water knocks me on my ass, my legs flailing in the air.

“What the…?” I sputter before I get a face full of frigid water. Well, at least it’s clean. I submit to the onslaught, exposing all the nooks and crannies I can while remaining decent. When the deluge ends, I spy Rhod on the porch, beads in hand, brow furrowed in concentration as he stares at the well pump a few feet from me.

I cup my lips. “Can I have a bit of privacy?”

His brown eyes dart to mine. He scours me with a clinical look, spending extra time scrutinizing my hands and dripping handbag. I open my hands and hold my palms out. Rhod scoffs and I seem to pass the test.

Until his eyes crawl back up my body before returning to mine. For a moment, time is suspended. I swear his pupils dilate, but I can’t be sure from this distance. I shake off the heaviness, positive I imagined something that isn’t there.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’ll head in and get the fire going. A tunic’s here, and a sponge too.” He juts his chin towards the outer corner of the porch floor. There’s some white folded material with a spiraled belt on top. I may be petite but even I know that is going to be an indecent outfit.

What’s his game?

My forehead scrunches. I guess it’s good the last shred of my pride got buried under a pile of crap.

The thunk of a solid wood door closing reverberates through the clearing. I surreptitiously check that my one saving grace, the golden rod, is still with me. Yup, my fingers brush against the hard length, right before a tremor of cold wracks my body.

Okay, I’ve got to get out of these clothes.

I use some of my meager pixie dust—not like Rhod-up-the-ass is going to be buying my fares—and whisk water into the waiting pail, then I direct it behind a rhododendron shrub that’s twice my size. My teeth clatter as I shake, but I take a second look around. From here I can see the start of a little garden tucked behind the cabin. There’s a chimney spouting clouds of smoke, and I don’t even want to think about how much magic it cost to haul those stones out here where even some shifters don’t dare to tread.

My eyes widen as my suspicions seem to be confirmed. It’s there in the glass windows, the magicked tools laid against the trees, the stone chimney. Rhod must come from money, although he doesn’t appear to have a particularly large endowment of magic. Anyone with magic to spare would surely have defunked me before they even managed to gag. Plus, he used beads to move the water. I nod to myself, inexplicably satisfied to have figured a piece of him out.

Then the nod turns into a macabre contortion as another shiver possesses my body.

I whistle at the chickadee to stand guard. Then I pull my knife from the sheath on my arm—thank god I don’t have to toss that leather—and cut my clothes away. I rinse as much as my body can take, using the last of my sparse magic reserves to heat the water. The sun is close to setting, and I’ll just have to wait until I’m recharged tomorrow. Then I’ll complete the list. In record-setting style, I dress as fast as possible in a tunic that doesn’t have laces in back, laying my wings flat with a grimace. Hmm, maybe I can rip the neckline for my wings and use the belt?

Maybe if it wasn’t so fucking cold that all I can do is shiver.

I quickly belt the shirt, transforming it into a dress, and turn, ready to hurry towards four walls and a fire.

My eyes snag on my golden treasure lying in the puddle at my feet. I freeze, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

I pick up the the gold piece and reverently sponge off this treasure. It’s intricately carved, bulbous with heavy ornamentation at one end. The width of the rod is the perfect size to curl my fingers around. My arm tenses as I bring the hefty weight to eye level.

Shit, this thing could be solid gold!

Up close, red gemstones twinkle at me, inset among green and blue jewels. My heart is in my throat, its rapid beats sounding in my ears.

Hot damn!

I curl my upper body around the treasure, my mind spinning like a one-winged pixie.

This has got to be some friggin joke, right?

I peek around, but nothing has changed. Gritting my teeth and squeezing the rod close to my chest, I narrow my eyes at the forest.

The fairies must be behind it.

Yet when I spy my chickadee scout, she’s running her beak through her feathers, unconcerned.

I hold the hefty golden rod in front of me again. Scroll work and intricate claws form the setting for the precious stones—don’t think rubies! Those cannot be emeralds and sapphires, either. Oh fuck! 

There must be at least ten stones here.

My wings twitch and my heart now thunders in my ears.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Riley. It’s probably bronze plated to look like gold.

With a shaky breath, I scratch my blade right under one of the fleur-de-lis decorations farther down the handle.

“HEY!”

I jerk and drop the rod as a visceral fear rips through me.

Oh god, thieves have been killed on sight for less!

My stomach plummets, until I realize the voice is now coming from the ground.

“Dear sweet god of blacksmithery, not again! For the love of velvet lined coffers, get me out of this filth!” The muffled words are plaintive, somewhere between a royal toddler denied her chocolate truffles and a unicorn nose deep in a tree trunk after a failed charge.

I retrieve the rod from the soggy ground.

Crazy, it’s now warm to the touch.

I turn it over and the area I nicked shows no cheap tin underneath.

“Well, that’s oh-and-two for me.”

“What?” I answer automatically as I study the metallic work of art. The magical metallic work of art, because I might be prone to flights of fancy, but I’m not creative enough to make up a bejeweled solid-gold talking dildo substitute. I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

“I was grateful you rescued me and stupidly granted you the ability to speak to me. It’s what you do before endowing wishes.” The sullen voice says it like it’s stating the obvious. I hoist the rod up in front of me.

Wishes?

“What are you?”

“The Royal Scepter. Well, the thirty-seventh one, from the Xaghuyvier line. The hot shot on the throne now is a ridiculous purple crystal disgrace. I’m from the time we kept things classy.”

I shake my head and lower the scepter. Shadows are creeping in from the forest trees and I’ll not push my luck—I’ve no doubt already used every last positive iota due me from luck, fate, and goodwill combined.

After briskly cutting some morning glory vine from under the rhodie shrub, I lash the twine around the inside of my thigh and secure the scepter. I tentatively move my leg, watching the drape of the tunic.

“Hey!” The muffled shout tickles my skin.

Hmm. The fall of fabric gives it away. I remove the belt and let my breasts—just the right size if you ask me—create an overhang that the scepter at my thigh can hide under. It should work so long as I don’t stride into the wind.

“HEY!”

That vibration will take some getting used to. “If I never hear that word again,” I grumble as I huddle into myself and traipse toward the log cabin. “Listen, I’m in a bit of a bind—”

“You’re not the one strapped where the sun never shines, with a view of—!”

“Yeah, about that.” I roll my eyes and slow my steps as I near the front door. I can’t in good conscience sell this priceless treasure, especially now that it can talk and help me find its owner. “I’ll make a good search to find your rightful owner, promise. But right now, I can’t keep you safe unless you’re hidden.” I try to make whispering rapidly to myself look like something all the cool kids do.

“I’m just saying, your topiary could use some tending.”

My foot hovers mid-step just as the front door opens with a groan. My heart stutters. A Graham—I mean Rhod—stands there, buff-colored towel around an even buffer body, barely hanging on to his narrow hips. My eyes are sucked in like magnets to the wet hair curling on his naked chest, a dark line south marking dangerous territory. His glasses are fogged and a steady stream of warm, misty air escapes out the door.

I’d step inside into the sauna nirvana, except my feet no longer follow my commands.

Well, to be honest, I’d have to issue the order, and all I want to do is soak up the sight before me. Miles of smooth sun-kissed skin cover hard, lean muscle. His baby face is the perfect false advertising, betrayed by the naughty gleam in his eye. He’s my every wicked fantasy brought to life.

Until he opens his damn mouth. “I’d never actually seen someone carry on a conversation with themselves. I didn’t think it would have been possible for you to impress me more with the fathomless depths of your insanity.” He grins like a lunatic as he leans a long muscular arm against the door jamb.

My trapped wings start an agitated flit, straining against my tunic. The retort dies on my lips as his eyes drop to my chest. I look down and my breasts are as good as bare, the fabric pulled taut by my wings, my nipples hard enough to drill diamond in this cold.

Heh. Two can play at this game.

I sidle up to him, and his ravenous gaze returns to my eyes. When I’m close enough to share body heat, I pause. A cloud of mist envelopes me, perfumed with the smell of expensive soap, the kind made from prized centaur milk and mint leaves hand-picked by virgins. Rhod’s Adam’s apple bobs and I can see a few short, thick, dark brown hairs on the soft skin under his jaw, ones he missed that last time he shaved. I breathe his air for a second more, just long enough to make him wonder what will happen next, force him to think about his attraction. Then I duck under his arm, the tips of my breasts brushing him with the subtlest caress.

His gasp causes a Cheshire cat grin to bloom on my face. I sashay my hips as I saunter into the main living room—only to stumble as my brain processes what I see.

“Oomph!“ I barely catch myself on the lip of the giant copper tub, and dunk my forearm in divinely hot water. “You gargantuan prick! You have a fucking heated tub in here?” I spin around.

That gleeful look is back in his eyes, dimples in full attendance. I think he even preens as he stands a little taller. “Well, yeah. I know what’s worth splurging on.” His eyes linger on me, like I’m some investment, some charity case.

Little does he know.

I sputter, incapable of forming the words barreling through my head. Also, because I almost got a third dunking.

Really, Universe? Three dunkings in one day?

I patently ignore the subtle scent of mint and soap in the air, the warm wafts of steam billowing into me. I definitely don’t snuggle up against the tub, stealing every morsel of heat I can.

“What?” Rhod’s face is the picture of mischievousness. “I wouldn’t let my pal Yarley in here without taking off his boots, and that was just plain ole mud. You were covered in—”

I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay. You don’t need to spell it out.”

“Well, I would have if there was a spell strong enough to get rid of all that crap.” He winks, oozing this endearing charm, what with the matching dimples in his open face and this kind of self-effacing laughter at his own corny joke. Rhod’s at maximum boyish cuteness while I’m freezing my ass off and it breaks something in me.

That’s it.

“What the fuck is a giant heated bath doing in the middle of your living room?” I scream.

“It’s still warm.” He closes the door and walks by me. A thick finger trails through the water that I happen to know is the perfect just-short-of-scalding temperature. The wake strengthens, and soon a gentle current swirls in the tub. Rhod looks at me, standing two steps closer than natural, a light-hearted challenge in his eyes. “I thought you’d want to take a turn.” He looks on the verge of waggling his eyebrows, and normally I wouldn’t hesitate getting naked but I’m not ready to explain my new metallic appendage.

I look over my shoulder. Wisps of steam curl above the inviting now-swirling surface. Lord, I could immerse my whole body in there, even stretch my legs out. With a groan, I turn back to him. “I’m good,” I croak, in the same voice I’m sure I’d use at my own funeral.

Rhod motions his hand up and down at me. “You’re practically blue. And shaking. You obviously need a turn in the whirlpool. You’ve probably never seen one before, but this is state-of-the-art magic. I doubt there’s more than a handful of models in existence.” He pats the thick copper rim, shiny and new. When I don’t even blink, his eyebrows shoot up. Soon his eyes narrow and he continues in a dry voice, “What I said earlier, about your endless stupidity, it wasn’t a challenge.”

Gods help me, I growl at the almost five-foot tall man. “Lookit, you overgrown beast.” But I stop there, because my mouth is faster than my sense of self-preservation.

The maniac throws his shoulders back and smiles.

And he thinks I’m deranged.

I look away and his words echo in my head. Inspiration strikes. “Did it ever occur to you that I was traumatized by that whirlpool of stink? Maybe I have a phobia of whirling water now?” I yell-gasp, the perfect combination of shock and anger to cover up the pure stupidity of refusing heaven in a tub.

His shoulders soften and his body curls toward me. “No, it hadn’t.” The words are gentle, like the sympathetic look in his eyes, and there’s nothing for me to rail against. So I retreat to the hearth and it’s blazing fire across the room. Silence reigns as I angle, contort and rotate myself until I’m evenly toasted. Although I wish I was cocooned in that weightless, perfumed liquid heat behind me, drying by the fire is nothing to shake a stick at.

Or an ornate, and definitely too valuable for the trouble, scepter, for that matter.

Asking around will definitely bring unwanted attention.

And the longer I have it, the more I’m asking for trouble.

Hmm, I can inquire at Fiddle Street, and also see if Aralia knows anything.

I take my time, my body slowly uncoiling its tense muscles, as I sort through options in my head.

A few moments later, I know exactly when Rhod joins me, despite his silent feet. It’s like he’s got an anti-shadow, this thing that doesn’t trail him but precedes him, a heat instead of the cold and dark. My breath comes fast and my palms sweat. It makes me feel like I’m running when I’m standing still.

“I wouldn’t do that in public if I were you.” His voice is gruff.

God, is he gonna call me stupid again?

I turn to face him, straightening up with a glare. “What, dry my hair? How in the hell is that stupid?”

His jaw works, the clenching muscles highlighted by the orange glow from the fire. He’s radiating tension, a rigidity that vibrates, but his eyes—those good-boy, spectacled eyes—are now molten, liquid desire. No longer the color of rich walnuts, they are pools of pure black. “Bend over.”

The low, quiet but dangerous words rock through me. My knees almost buckle at the sound of his husky voice, and my pixie pouch practically flips to follow his command.

Just as I realize he means I had been bending over to dry my hair by the fire, Rhod stalks right up next to me. His large hands cup my jaw, dragging my face close to his.

“I wouldn’t do that either.” His breath skirts across my cheek, a warm touch that sends a cold shiver through me.

“Do what?” My voice is embarrassingly high.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?” God, brain, kick into gear here!

His hands mold the side of my face. I know my wide eyes show just how exposed I feel as he cradles my face in a desperate grip. Rhod leans down, now impossibly close. Too close to even see my reflection in his glasses. That smell of fresh, minty soap is so strong I can taste it. His nostrils flare and I can see every fleck of rich brown and gold rimming wide, black pupils. He leans in even further—invades my space and takes my air, stealing the breath right out of me.

“Like this.” I feel his lips brush against mine when he talks. Confusion reigns as his presence overpowers me. Rhod’s fingers dig into my jawline, and his breath puffs across my face. His tense body and barely restrained words seem to be demanding something. What were we even talking about?

“What?” My hands drift down his arms and back again, riding the impressive valleys and curves that built this log cabin. They pause at the mountains of his shoulders, and I just barely keep myself from popping onto my tiptoes, ready to scale him.

This mount of a man huffs, a light air that skitters over my face and sends another round of shivers down my spine. Pixie pouch is on the verge of apoplexy, the needy wench. His smooth, deep voice is like rich chocolate: “If ‘what’ is all your vocabulary has to offer, I have a better occupation for your mouth.”

Yes!

Biting my lip between my teeth, my hand snakes over to his nape and I use the clasp to launch myself at him. My trapped wings try to give me a boost as our mouths meet. I almost fall but a strong hand grips my hip, fingers practically spanning my back.

My tongue wars with his as I wrap my legs around him. Rhod tastes as delicious as he smells, feels as hard as he looks. I dig my fingers into the muscles at his neck, rake my nails down his back. My body arches in pure wanton abandon. All the stress and pressure and worry that has been riding me for the last four months sizzles into a lightning bolt of raw need that pounds through me as I ache to ride him.

Must kiss.

“Yes,” I gasp during the brief moment our lips separate.

Must feel.

I press into him, whimpering and rubbing. He bites my lower lip, pulling away and dragging it between his teeth.

Need naked, now.

I’m a panting mess, my pixie pouch weeping with joy. Literally. Rhod sucks at the tendon in my neck and my eyes roll back into my head.

Must! Need! Now!

My grip weakens as a tremor wracks my body.

The slam of a wall against my wings and back orients me to the fact that we’ve moved. The cool tapestry feels delicious against my flushed skin and I moan, delirious with sensation overload. Rhod cups my ass, grinding against me. My hands come up and wrap around fistfuls of his still damp hair. I tug, wanting his mouth back.

Lick. Bite. Suck.

Mewls come out of my mouth but he clamps down on my neck instead.

Oh, sweet dear Queen of Pixiedom!

I writhe under the excruciating pressure on my suck-here-for-self-explosion button. And my pixie pouch dies. Straight up surrenders.

I squeeze my naked thighs against his waist as he continues to suck at the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

Yes-now-yes-please-now-now-now!

Damn this tunic, every rub burns my oversensitive skin and my chest aches for relief. “If that’s what your mouth can do, I have a better job for it,” I try to pant, ending on a high-pitched whine as he bites again. I throw my head back.

Rhod finally looks up, eyes dilated black, and I snake my hand under the coarse linen and up my chest. His cool, blunt fingers follow the trail on my heated skin, skating up my waist and freeing my breasts from his shirt. My head lolls against the wall, eyes slitted in anticipation. I can just imagine his hot, wet mouth closing in on me. Phantom sensations drown me and I screw my eyes shut. I bite down on my lip, but it doesn’t keep the whimper from escaping.

Although Rhod’s shout eclipses it. “What the fuck is that?”

My lust comes to a screeching halt. I jerk my head up. “What? My nipple? This is a breast.”

“You have a gold titty between your legs?”

Oh, shit! “Um, no.” I try to gain distance, perhaps replace my clothing, find my dignity, but I can’t budge. “I’m just really happy to see you?”

An unfortunately familiar voice answers, “I’m scarred for life. I mean, I thought a renowned piece of craftsmanship graced by kings and queens drowning in a shit-pool was bad, but this. This is humiliating.”

“I knew it!” Before I can move, Rhod rips the scepter from me. I flail and then hit the floor. 

Ah, yes, dignity, there you are. Under the ashes by the flagstones.

“Go on then. Tell me your price,” Rhod grits out, eyes flinty and fierce. Oh wonderful, bossy and curt Rhod is back. I wrench my shirt back down. I preferred when he was bossy, curt, and kissing me.

I stand to my full three feet four inches. Either he’s offering to buy the scepter, which I’ve become oddly fond of, or he’s accusing me of prostitution. Pretty sure he knows he was about to get it for free, so… I eye him, knowing he’s richer than he lets on, what with the hot tub and all. Visions of happy, twirling pixie kids and all-you-can eat feasts dance before my eyes.

But a promise is a promise.

“There’s no price. There’s a rightful place.”

His eyebrows draw down, and I think he’s two wing flaps away from pulling a weapon, although he’s still only wearing a towel. A tented one at that. It’s amazing he can look so thunderous while sporting an erection that looks like it’ll break me. And by break me, I mean shatter me into a million ecstatic pieces until I’m nothing more than floating sparkles of carefree energy, lazing about in the sun.

Rhod catches me looking and turns to the center of the room by the whirlpool. He yanks a shirt on, punching his arms through the holes. “You’d force me?” His incredulous voice breaks as he jerks on leather leggings, scattering my thoughts.

“Um.” I can barely follow this guy’s whiplash moods. I shake my head, eyes skirting away from hands curled into fists, unbuttoned shirt flayed open to expose a six-pack dusted with dark hair. The broad shoulders underneath which now bear the crescent indentations of my fingernails.

“Force you? Like bondage?” I shrug. “Yeah, sure, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Rhod pauses in buttoning his shirt and his forehead bunches.

“Uh-oh. You’re not really into BDSM are you?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you have a good girl thing. Er, I totally take it back. I was just testing your true character. Inwardly, I’m totally appalled.” I jab my finger into my mouth and mime gagging myself.

I’m totally unconvincing, too.

“You’re not going to turn me in?” I barely catch the whispered realization, but his amazement is clear to see in his smile like a sunrise.

My damn heart skitters to a stop and the breath stills in my chest. He’s not just undeniably sexy. Rhod’s baby face is open, the vulnerability clear to see. I’ve seen his dimples and his bossy side, but this peek at his humanity melts me.

“You hadn’t tracked me.” He shakes his head, looking at me anew. “You have no plans on returning me back there.” Now something like gratitude with a side of passion blazes in his eyes as he takes a step closer.

“Whoa, kids.” The scepter has been surprisingly unbothered by this whole kidnapping thing. “First, Daddy’s gonna need a new sheath—”

“What?“ I choke on the word.

Rhod barks back a laugh with one look at my face. Truly, the man’s vacillating moods need some kind of medical attention. His head swishes back and forth between me and the scepter, lips pressed into a thin line that still manage to curve into a smile, before he ekes out, “He doesn’t mean—”

”—and a well-oiled rub down.”

“What?” I’m not taking sex advice from an inanimate object, no matter how much it might feasibly double as a dildo.

Rhod’s still shaking his head as he looks at me, unable to get words out around his smothered laughter.

Is that tic part of a syndrome, maybe?

“Make that a caustic strip.”

“What?!” Like, set my clothes on fire or something? The scepter’s been exposed to some weird kinks, and I don’t mean craftsmanship. “Okay, this is getting alarmingly weird.”

“You can’t call yourself ‘Daddy’, no matter how old you are,” Rhod gasps out to the scepter.

“YOU! You have no right to talk to me, and I’m not talking to you!” If the rod could cross its arms and huff, it would. It’s such a child-like personality, I can’t help but goad it. “Um, well, technically…”

“Gah! And you!”

“Wait, what did I do?” I stare at the elaborate gold cylinder and ignore Rhod’s smirk as I carry on my conversation with the royal rod. “I could have sold you to the highest bidder, but I chose to do the right thing.”

“You returned me to this nincompoop!”

I shoot Rhod a superior look. “On that we’re agreed. He’s a towering sex stud with a few nails missing. And by nails, I mean—” And that’s when the word returned sinks in. “Wait, what? Rhod is your rightful owner?”

“Rhod! How unoriginal.” The scepter’s voice becomes muffled as Rhod’s large hands try to cover the whole length while shoving it into his shirt. “This doofus is His Royal Highness Ewen.”

“WHAT?”

The duplicitous log house builder’s smirk grows into a full-out facial eclipse of a smile as he gives up on quieting the rod. “Vocabulary, Riley. Using full sentences does a brain good. And image, too, for that matter.”

“You’re telling me you’re Ewen-fucking-Hickory-Dickory-Dock!”

“Well, I’m not, I’m just Ewen, but you were about to get well acquainted with my Hickory Dickory—”

“Ugh! You threw away your account! All your followers! All that power.” Suddenly it’s like the tables have turned, and I’m the one with the thunderous face.

Rhod—no, Ewen—crouches down at my feet. He’s got that open face again, dimples winking. Something like admiration beams, as if I was the royal one here. I shuffle my feet.

“And you didn’t know who I was.” He gently coaxes my hand away, curls his fingers around mine before tucking it against his chest. “I owe you an apology. I honestly thought you had tracked me and were after the scepter.” A corner of his lips quirks up. “I mean, it’s obvious you couldn’t track anything if you couldn’t even avoid diving headfirst into a cesspool.”

That’s not exactly how it went down, but I’ll roll with you if you keep caressing my hand like that. And by roll with it, I mean—

“I can’t believe you defiled yourself to rescue the scepter. You must not have even known what it was.” He shakes his head, muttering, “And you would have sacrificed your own prosperity to do the right thing.” His eyes bore into mine. Not lustful black, but a color even deeper, penetrating and heavy. “Then, most unbelievable of all, you were attracted to a man who you think has a formidable height, but actually has nothing more than a house in the woods.”

That look unloosens my tongue. “I mean, this house is in the Black Forest, which means as nice as it is, it’s worth all-crap ton of nothing. It also means you might be cute, and delightfully tall for a pixie, and some kind of prince, but you’re still crazy. Why would you try to live in a place straight from a kid’s nightmares?”

He clears his throat. “I’m actually Rhoderick Ewen Marshall Xaghuyvier the third. My father’s the one who goes by Rhoderick.” The more he talks, the angrier his voice gets. “Most people call me Ewen. I’m not a prince. I’m not even a full-blooded vampire. I’m Viscount of Nigreowere.” He shakes his head, loose brown hair flopping into his eyes.

“Where?”

“Exactly. It’s a little-known uninhabited patch of land. And we’re on it.” His eyes are burning as he looks away.

I settle down beside him and try to meet his eyes, but his gaze remains locked in a battle with the floor. “Tell me more.” I squeeze his hand.

For a moment I think he’s going to shake his head and shut me out, but then he raises his eyes to meet mine, bitter pain clear in those majestic browns. My wings try to flutter and before I know it, I’m in his lap, cradling his head.

“Oh, Riley. It’s ridiculous. I’ve no right to complain. Especially not to an emaciated pixie who’s clearly living on the edge.”

I spread my hands out. “Rhod—er, Ewen—you’re literally living on the edge of civilization here. I’m not judging you or your pain.”

An unwanted voice interrupts, “Well, technically, that comment on his housing sure came out as a judgem—”

“You hush or I’ll sit on you.” I glare at the scepter as Ewen pockets it. I stroke his cheek, stubble bristling my palm. “Ewen, you’re entitled to your feelings.”

He exhales forcefully, like a teapot venting before it boils over. “Entitled. Entitled to a scrap of unwanted dirt is about all I am. Look at me.” He spits out the words, face screwed like he ate something nasty. “I’m an embarrassment to the whole notion of royalty, only one-sixty-fourth vampire. Do I look like a vampire to you? I have stunted fangs, Riley. I can’t actually bite. I have no problem being out in the sun. I don’t have their special strength or speed. I’m barely five feet tall. I’m not ashamed of wanting to help others. I don’t have the intimidating presence needed for negotiations, to rule.”

I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for this baby-faced good guy in that dog-eat-dog society.

“I know I’m not perfect like Crown Prince Liam. I don’t hate Prince Stefan for his looks and power; he’s even one of my friends. Does it even matter that I’m okay with who I am?” Ewen’s eyes drift to the side and a hand rakes through his wavy hair. “Everyone I know, everyone I meet, knows me as my title first. My place in the line. And I fail their expectations. Every. Single. Time.“ Ewen’s fist pounds the floor with his words, his voice escalating. “I’m sick and tired of their judgements.”

His body vibrates with tension. “My family tried everything they could to hide me or change me. And change sure as hell hasn’t worked. Do you know how many foul potions I’ve had to down as a kid? Charms I’ve worn? Illicit spells I’ve had cast, the spell casters paid off for a lifetime to keep it secret?”

I lay my hand over the fingers digging into his knee, trying to ease their death grip. An animalistic sound erupts from him and his fingers fist. In a flash, Ewen stands and punches the wall as I tumble onto the floor, again. The wooden wall doesn’t give, and blood leaks down his hand, trailing to his elbow. “Those merciless bastards took a stand against Stefan when he announced his love for Lucinda.” He laughs humorlessly. “It was the final straw, trying to turn the Council against my friend. I’ve finally had it with them.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. After a moment, Ewen grates out, “I’m sick of the falsities and I’m done with trying to meet impossible standards.”

“Hell, yes! You’re you. It’s the height of stupidity to try and make you anything else. No wonder you were so obsessed with idiocy—you’ve been surrounded by it!”

Everything I know about Ewen clicks into place and I can't help but empathize. I stand, my own hands in fists, straining to punch his offensive family. “You’re a fucking survivor, Ewen. You survived all those attempts to change who you fundamentally are. Which, by the way, is an amazing, sexy, gentle-spirited heartthrob. And, while we’re at it, you are never allowed to go anywhere near a pixie village. You’re a prime specimen with the perfect, rare height that would drive all the ladies into a frenzy, and I found you first!”

He sports a surprised grin.

“Can you imagine if a vampire fully bit and bled me? I’d be a dried husk. Not everyone needs or wants big, bad, and scary. And that’s not the only way to be powerful or have a presence.” My feet inch closer, enough for our body heat to mingle.

The corners of his mouth kick up further. “I noticed. No way in hell would I get in the way of a pissed-off pixie, especially you.”

“Damn right. And that’s what you see on the outside.” I take a deep breath, aware he needs to understand this, knowing it’s okay to share. “Looking at me, you wouldn’t realize the change I’m orchestrating with my Fiddle Street project. With the Book Fairy’s help, we’re finding jobs for the pixies who can no longer sell wishes. Instead, they procure items for witches that take advantage of a pixie’s speed and diminutive size. Then we pool our resources so that no one goes hungry.” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble. “Well, that’s the vision at least.”

Some of the tension has drained from Ewen’s face, his body bending towards me as he listens.

“My connections have kept pixies and all different types of magical creatures from destitution. There are oddball jobs out there, even if they’re hard to find. And we pool our resources.” My chest puffs out at the wonder in his eyes. I grin, knowing every drop of blood, sweat, and tears has been worth it. “Together we’re stronger.”

His brown gaze meets mine with a softness that makes my insides turn to jelly. Then he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear. “You know, turquoise has always been my favorite color.”

Before I can compose myself, he kisses me.

I kiss him back, ready to pick up where we left off.

Then the gigantic swamp clod breaks it off and picks me off his lap before strutting over to the kitchenette part of the cabin.

My mouth falls open, my lips tingling and swollen. I still feel the warmth from his fingers on the shell of my ear, the fresh taste of him on my tongue. I press my lips together. Holy moly, I just kissed Ewen! The perfectly sized, ridiculously handsome, good-boy-that’s-definitely-bad, Hickory Dickory darling. A kinda made-for-me guy who happens to be royalty.

A grin escapes and I quickly cover it with my favorite pet peeve rant. No need to let him know he’s turning out to be my ideal man. “It’s teal, not turquoise! Jeesh. Why does no one seem to understand the very critical difference between bold colors and calm colors?”

Rhod-fucking-Ewen comes back with two huge earthenware bowls, and I meet him at the thick, rough-hewn table, also made out of pine, and surely another product of Ewen’s craftmanship. I feel like making an homage to the tree for having a hand in forming this fine specimen of a man. I watch with appreciation as he places the two large bowls side-by-side, his shirt straining. The legs of the chair drag across the wooden floor as I sit before the feast he’s laid out. They’re massive portions and there’s skin on the surface of the stew, like they’ve cooled down after sitting out for a while. My thoughts collide into a realization: Man, he must have been busy while I was washing outside!

Savory aromas of sage, rosemary, and garlic in a tomato broth assault my nose and I lose that train of thought as I attack my meal. My stomach gurgles its joy, my ravenous hunger suddenly unquenchable.

There’s a thud as Ewen places a pewter mug in front of me. I look up into his laughing eyes. “Let me guess, teal is kick-ass and bold.” He drops into his seat, the presence of his large frame and that warm inverse shadow enough to wrestle my attention from the remains of my meal. “Did I mention I love how passionate you are about everything?” He gazes pointedly at my nearly-finished bowl.

I pause. Daintily wipe my lips. Stifle a burp. Then I realize the small succulent morels I thought were mushrooms might not be. “Was that the frog?” I gasp. “I was joking about eating it. I’m actually a vegetarian.”

He doesn’t look surprised. “Yeah, no worries. It’s leftover stew I made last night: beans, carrots, mushrooms, potatoes and squash. The frog is off to offal-less pastures, so to speak.” He winks, smiling fondly at me. “I caught on to your gruff exterior covering a tender heart.”

Unreasonably flustered, I gesture with my fork. “Back to what you were saying about me being passionate. That’s how I got my name—Riley, because I get so riled up. Identity is a big thing for pixies and we receive our adult names after a special ceremony. It helps us embrace who we are. We believe there are no qualities that are inherently good or bad in pixie culture.”

He looks fascinated with a dimpled grin and a spark in his eyes, his voice smoky enough to cook the food. “I happen to like you riled up.”

I spear a potato from his bowl and then take a stab at flirting. “And I like that you’re not some villainous entity in the night. You’re the perfect size for a pixie.”

Ewen looks surprised, and I scold him in a husky whisper, “I’ve already told you this, but I’ll forgive your poor attentive skills since you’re so cute.”

His look goes from cheeky to scorching. It makes me babble. “Well, your baby-face is cute until you get that smoldering glint in your eye. Then it’s clear you’re a total Graham.” My eyes trace his corded neck, the pulse beating there, down to the flat plane of his chest.

“Riley!”

My gaze jerks to his face. “Yes, that glint, but less flinty and more black.”

He looks like part of his face wants to laugh, part wants to rip his hair out, and part wants to rip my clothes off. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh! I meant thank god you aren’t a full vampire. Your hard chest and dapper face make my pixie pouch do a jig, and when you boss me around in that ultra-sexy voice, she rolls over like a goddamn puppy for you to scratch her belly.” I reach out, skirt my fingers over his sternum.

“Riley,” he says, this time a low note of warning. His eyes darken until his pupils are midnight black.

“Yes, that’s the gaze!” God, I bet he’s a badass in the bedroom.

He covers my hand and stills it, lips pulled tight like he’s holding a smile back, sultry bedroom eyes searing me. “Did you have a point?”

“Just that you’re kinda perfect for me the way you are.”

This time he smiles big enough that I see his white and even teeth are perfect, too.

I shudder, and flecks of pixie dust coat the ground like metallic dust.

Huh, look at that. The meal is already starting to restore me. We pixies do have amazing metabolism.

“Eyes up here, big guy.” I chide Ewen, his gaze on my breasts. I’ve no doubt the girls have started magically filling out now that I’ve got food back in my stomach. My whole body is rejuvenating itself, although I still have to wait until morning for my magic to replenish.

He reaches out and his arm drags me to his lap where he holds me tight. His whole torso bends down and he seductively purrs, “Then I’ll just have to focus on this ass instead.” I feel his hand cup my behind and I gasp.

Another hand snakes around and soon he’s lifting me up as he straightens up. Our lips connect. He’s savoring, sipping from my mouth, pausing only long enough for a wicked murmur, “And I’d like to hear more about your pixie pouch.”

The bounder. He waggles his eyebrows as he walks toward the back room. I grind against him.

“Mmph. By the Gleaming Anvil, Patron God of Blacksmiths! At least put me down first,” the muffled scepter complains.

Ewen pauses at the edge of the main room by a window, and I pull back to look at him. “Is that your royal rod or is that your … Royal Rod?”

“Preferably covered,” it continues. “In silk or velvet. Bolts of it, enough to block out all sound … and liquids.”

I raise an eyebrow as Ewen’s hand fiddles around his pocket. “It’s got awful timing.” He finally puts me down and pulls out the scepter. “Poor thing’s been around for centuries. It’s usually dead to the world, but since I made my wish, it’s been more active, tuning in and out as it wills.”

“Many a disgrace have I been subjected to. Alas, not all generations know decorum and restraint. There were the three generations of the Hilsaine clan who won me in a bet and spoilt their canine beasts. I had to return to the forge after their game of catch. And the Lady Grodina who liked the feel of cool metal on her bare—”

“I am really sorry.” Ewen looks struck with guilt as he interrupts the scepter. “I didn’t act with any decorum or restraint. I was raised better.” He reaches around me to pull something off the ledge of the window, wincing. The knuckles of his right hand are still bloody and swollen from when he punched the wall. He gingerly passes the intricately carved leather band stained black with a blue velvet-lined holster, to his left hand.

“Lord Xaghuyvier.” The scepter’s voice is grave. “I may not have a brain but I have plenty of sense. I was granted power to gauge wishes and their execution, as you well know. Not all wishes are granted.” It’s solemn as it continues quietly, “I understand now your wish to lose your royal identity and be free from them forevermore.”

I feel Ewen tense beside me, holding the rod above its holder as it continues, “Your parents gave me to you to use this generation’s three wishes and make yourself bigger, stronger and more vampire-like, didn’t they?”

“What?” I gasp.

“And then, after you received your wish and freedom from them, you still hurt when my presence reminded you of their rejection, so you threw me in the cesspool.”

“WHAT!”

Ewen has the grace to look sheepish. “To be fair, any more wishes and the royal family—the full-blooded ones—could track me. Their magic is one of the few that could undo my wish.”

“Oh, Ewen. I wish—”

His warm hand smothers my mouth, smelling like fresh soap and leather. “No wishes. Not yet.” He cants his head toward the scepter. “It’s not a toy, and it’s probably still mad at me. I would be. You have to be careful. That thing is smart, and it does have power to execute the wishes as it sees fit, just as it chooses which of its owners can converse with it to ask a wish.”

I barely restrain the urge to bite him. Lucky for him, he removes his hand. My wings buzz in agitation. “Listen, I’m just saying, you don’t have to give up your royalty or your fame to prove them wrong.”

The insane man is smiling as he turns to me. “Why would I keep faceless fans when I could have the adoration of someone who actually knows and accepts me?”

I roll my eyes at “adoration,” then almost roll them again as his hand strokes my face, thumb swiping my lip, skirting the line between intrusion and exploration. “Why would I want to continue playing their games when I can make an honest living in the forest? Be someone I can be proud of, free of their toxicity?” His eyes burn into me.

“Oh.” I lick my lips and inadvertently brush his thumb. Taste the salt and soap of his skin. See his smile, that of someone who’s won.

“Wait, what? Listen, I’m not overcome with adoration. I mean, yes, you’re sexy as hell, but I’m not one of your followers. In fact, you’re a bit crazy to give up your Hickory Dickory account—we need to talk about that—and you’re delusional to be setting a cabin up in the Dark Woods. There’s got to be a better way.” I cross my arms as my mind runs over possibilities. With the power of the scepter and my connections, I can almost puzzle the pieces together.

Ewen’s dismissive voice scatters my thoughts. “Please don’t make some martyred wish on my behalf.” He steps closer.

Argh! Infuriating man! Must he crap on my plans? “I’ve had enough poop for one day!”

A confused grimace breaks across his face before he shakes his head. “Make a wish for yourself and secure your future. See if it will let you use the last wish to benefit your people. Your noble organization would be a far better use than the selfish preoccupations of my family.” He nods to himself, like all his plans are coming together. “It’s safer in your hands, and when the wishes for this generation are gone, you can sell it, or pass it on yourself. You’re the owner now.” He drops the sputtering scepter in the pouch and thrusts the leather holder at me.

“What? No. I’m not going to hand it down to my kids. And I’m not going to sell it!” I take a step back. “I’m not even going to take it! That’s your family heirloom!”

His face darkens. “I have no family anymore. They won’t be able to find me.” His mouth twists. “I doubt they even have any desire to. And I have no desire for them to hold onto power they don’t deserve.”

I scrub my hands down my face. What a mess. “Ewen, you don’t know what future generations will be like. They might not have your parent’s prejudices. And you can’t live on your own forever. You thrived with the social magic community. That was a part of you as much as anything else.” I think about the rumors I’ve heard about him, and his massive social magic presence with Hickory Dickory. “You’re a people person aren’t you? You need people.”

He pauses with wide eyes and a face of understanding, and then huffs, shaking his head with a stubborn set to his jaw, clearly not willing to listen. With a sigh, I look out the dark window. The fireplace’s light makes it impossible to see anything but our own reflection, but I still shiver at the thought of what lurks out there. All the baddies come out in the dark. Guess I’m spending the night. With a lunatic. I turn back to him. “Look, I’m glad it’s worked out so far, but it’s just not realistic to live in the Black Forest. That’s crazy.”

Did I say his face was dark? It’s thunderous now. “You don’t think I’m strong enough? Fast enough? Big enough?”

“What? No! I—”

“You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Riley. Maybe you can use your wish to expand your vocabulary beyond ‘What.’” He thrusts the scepter at me once more, hitting me in the chest with it. “Look, you can willingly take this or I can make you.”

“What!” I scoff. This is getting ridiculous.

He raises his eyebrows and smiles like he’s won another round.

“Argh!” I throw my hands up in the air. The poor guy really does need a wish more than me—he’s still got some serious issues to work through and he’s not making the best decisions. “You’re crazy! You don’t realize what you’re throwing away! Have you ever starved? Or had to make your own way with nothing? Or even had to support yourself? I have. It’s stupid to burn all your bridges now. You need to make a better plan, while you still have the resources to do it. Because this.” I throw my arm around. “This may be your dream, but it’s also a nightmare. You’ll never make it out here on your own.” I hold up my hand as he opens his mouth. “It’s not personal. No one in their right mind would live here. There’s all manner of monsters—”

“I really thought you understood.” His grip on the rod case makes his knuckles white. His other hand is fisted, the skin reopened and bleeding more. “I knew you were trouble. You know, I’ve been on edge ever since I saw you in these woods, and then you found the friggin’ scepter. You’re going to ruin everything.”

I grind my teeth to keep rash words in, then turn toward the window to catch my thoughts—just in time to see a massive claw smash through the pane and reach for me. Metal flashes as I scramble backward, a scream caught in my throat. There’s a thunk and a silver dagger impales itself between the first two meaty claws. I’m frozen as an inhuman screech roars through the broken window and then suddenly I’m yanked backward.

“Fucking turquoise pixie and your damned sexy distractions!” Ewen pushes me behind him, a sword in his right hand, blood from his bruised knuckles dripping over the pommel and another throwing dagger held in his left. “I forgot to set the wards at sunset!”

I rip a tear down my tunic for my wings and take to the air, grabbing the scepter’s leather strap as I go.

Fucking bad time to be out of magic!

I loop it over me and zoom in a circle, looking for a defensible position. The rafters?

The beast, its paw half the size of the window, reaches farther this time, thick black nails gouging the floor. Ewen lets loose his dagger with a twang, catching the webbing between the claws. He rushes forward, sword raised with both hands, but before he starts the downstroke, the skin rips and the paw jerks back, leaving behind streaks of putrefying black blood. The blistering scent is acrid in my nose.

I swoop down to the fireplace and remove one of the longer sticks. Monsters tend to be strong on animal instincts, and I feel better with a firebrand in each hand.

Ewen’s spinning another knife in his left hand, a safe distance from the open window, eyes intent. Suddenly, his body is fluid grace. I don’t even see the blade move, but I hear the thwack of it connecting. “Fucking timing. You know I could take this thing if I hadn’t hurt my dominant hand, right?”

Note to self—he apparently likes to carry on conversations when the shit hits the fan.

There’s a loud crash and front door rattles with splinters shaking off like autumn leaves.

Oh hell no.

“Could you take on two of them? Because either this is one big motherfucker or we’re screwed.” I stare at the hearth and debate putting the fire out. I’d singe myself, but the smoke would mess with them and in the chaos, if I didn’t burn my wings in the process, I could feasibly fly out the chimney and the hell away from here.

But there’s no way I could carry Ewen. Shit!

I look down at him as he dives across the floor. “And by screwed, I mean we’re fucked sideways and from behind no matter which way we turn.”

He opens a cupboard and grabs some magical beads. I zing over and he tosses a coil at me. I just barely keep from setting the place on fire, juggling my flaming sticks. “Take the window one. It’s already injured.”

“Wait! What—”

Ewen moves away. He braces himself in the middle of the room, facing the door, next to the hot tub with his back to me. I speed after him, covering his blind spot. As I hover by his shoulder, I jerk quick glances towards the quiet window.

Are they regrouping? What spell should I cast?

It has to be something simple since I’m using the beads. Light to scare them? What could kill them?

And how ever-loving fuck will we fight off the next round of monsters that are undoubtedly coming?

Ewen rubs the sacred hashtag symbol on the bead and the front door swings open to his magical command. Then a torrent of water spews from the hot tub like a water cannon. I hold my breath as it beats back the ginormous figure on the threshold.

Until the figure goes horizontal. And starts swimming.

Oh, shit!

“Watch out!” Ewen yells as he backpedals. The water dies down and he’s scrambling dangerously close to the scrapes in the floor and the range of Suspiciously Quiet And Super Angry Monster Number One.

“Did you not see the fucking scales?” I drop down and block his retreat, my wings almost too shaky to work properly.

Think-think-think!

But there’s no time. Ewen turns and looks at me, desperation in his eyes. I can barely form a coherent thought, my mind flooded with the scaly figure that’s spearheaded toward us, row after row of barbed teeth on display in its gaping jaw. A fishy, swampy smell blends with the noxious smell of acrid blood in my nostrils.

Time slows down. I can see every droplet of residual water slinking across its murky blue skin, limbs flattened against its sides as it continues forward like a projectile. Its inhumane eyes with vertical slits blink using a clear eyelid. Everything is in crystal-clear slow motion.

Which is exactly how I see Ewen reach for me.

Scratch that. His fingers extend and strain for the scepter. His face is flushed and sweaty, rich brown eyes intense and focused worlds away.

There’s a blinding flash of gold light. And silence. I no longer hear the water dripping, don’t hear the flames crackling in my hand. I can’t even hear the pounding of my heart. For a moment I think I’m dead.

And then I hear laughter. Roaring, raucous laughter. My other senses slowly come back. Ewen is on the floor, gripping the scepter to his belly, rolling around. The front of the cabin is trashed from the water, the back with jagged scars across the floor, but there are no more monsters.

Thank God.

Dropping my sopping sticks, I pull at him. “Hurry!” I scan the quiet cabin and the windows as I yank his shirt, throwing all my weight into it. It’s about as useful as coaxing a boulder with a feather.

“Fuck, that was close.” He swipes tears from the corners of his eyes. “I saw my life flash.”

“C’mon you idiot!” I tug until seams start to tear; he doesn’t budge. “We’ve got to fortify this place.”

A new wave of laughter starts.

Damn, the chimney plan is looking better and better.

I let go and Ewen captures my hand. “It’s okay, Riley. We’re safe.”

“Says the man who had the brilliant plan to open the front door to homicidal beasts—”

Ewen sits up. “I made a wish. It was tied into my heritage, so it was a no-brainer.” He eyes the scepter like the madman he is. “I mean, for something with no brains.”

“—And then decided to give them their preferred environment. You know, because those swamp monsters weren’t fast and scary enough already.”

He looks at me, crazed grin dimming enough to let a serious stare through. “I claimed my land. Asked for it to be safe and bountiful. Pretty standard wish-fare for rulers.”

I shake my head, wings twitching, adrenaline scratching at me to move. “What.” It’s more an irritated command than any form of question.

“Nigreowere is small enough. The scepter’s magic could handle it.” He cants his head at the golden rod, like he’s in some museum, not recovering from the fight of his life.

I, on the other hand, will collapse if I don’t give in to the urge to test my maximum wing speed. Without directive, my body ends up doing both. I end up a buzzing, hovering, limp zombie of a pixie who doesn’t know whether to believe cute-and-sexy or trust my adrenaline-on-overdrive.

“What exactly are the stipulations?” Ewen asks the scepter as he reaches up and pats my lower back.

“With the numerous attacks that I’ve repelled since your wish, I’d say the protections will run out in your lifetime at its current size.” My head whizzes to face the talking scepter, startled as always when it talks. It’s creepy. That thing doesn’t have a face.

But then again, eyes would probably be creepier.

“With better fortifications and some basic deterrents, you’ll have protection for over fifty years. A good crop of monsters will have gotten the message by then.”

Ewen nods. “It’s enough to work some negotiations. With the smarter monsters at least.”

The agitation runs out of my wings as the cadence of the words sink in. Philosophical, planning words. I breathe, sweet air filling my lungs, followed by more gasps. Suddenly, I’m gulping, hyperventilating—I can’t get enough air. I need a lifetime’s worth.

“I fulfilled prosperity as what you would need to thrive: fruits, vegetables, fresh water and the like, but also commodities that would be considered prosperous in this land.” The scepter voice is enviously pedantic.

I guess life and death crises don’t mean the same when you’re centuries old and can be remolded.

“Rare specimens like a tree with thorns that are used as weapons, one shrub with poisonous sap, another with an almost universal antidote. Plants that are symbiotic to coveted second sight fungi. They should last longer than the defenses, provided you continue to cultivate the land.”

Ewen absentmindedly hums his agreement, then drums his fingers on his chin. “Those resources are valuable throughout Mythia and the Four Kingdoms.”

Words slowly soak in. And I jolt upright. “Ewen! You made a wish!”

He turns and his eyes travel over me. The breath stills in my lungs. That inverse shadow is playing with me, reaching tendrils out to stroke me wherever his eyes alight: my eyes, my hands, even my ankles. Ewen’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before, never really seen me, and like he might never see me again. As if he can’t believe I’m here. As if I’m his every wish come true. “We’re alive.” His voice is a gravely whisper that sets my heart to a new beat.

My brain hurries to catch up, but like my knees, it’s shaky. A breathless murmur escapes. “But … the royal family will track you.”

“Yes.” He nods slowly. “On my terms. My land. I’m making a stand, Riley. Instead of hiding.” Beautiful brown eyes pierce mine. How can he be so strong and vulnerable at the same time?

The words clamor in my mind, but I don’t hear them; I hear a victor shouting his win. A sigh and a laugh compete to exit my mouth. “And you figured this out when you should have been putting together that scales and webbed claws equals water?”

He hands me the royal rod like a peace offering, and I reluctantly take it, the cool weight dipping my hand. “I figured it out about the same time I figured I really liked you in my space. Like, right up in my space, even though I told you to go get the easier monster.” Ewen holds me prisoner with those intense eyes, and I don’t move as he sidles uncomfortably close. “I liked that you had my back.” His hand closes over my hip, the other settles across my back. “We make a good team, pixie.”

“So they’re gone? Just like that?”

Ewen snaps his fingers, and a beckoning smile with matching dimples lights his face. “Just like that.”

“We almost died,” I breathe. This close, I can see every brown dash of stubble, the way his long eyelashes fan his skin when he blinks, an eyebrow hair gone awry that I want to smooth out. The simple existence of hair has never been such a miracle as this moment. The dimples in his smile wink at me and it’s like I’m seeing them for the first time. I want to kiss each one.

“We’re safe now.” Only his lips move, and I can see the vampire in him now, preternaturally still, like he’s stalking. My heart thrums in my chest, drunk on adrenaline and the urge to live life to the fullest, to feel every sensation and wallow in my every desire rides me hard. And by hard, I mean—

“If you could just slip me back into my carrying case, that should be enough to plug my ears. Even better if you—” Ewen’s cool fingers guide mine, cutting off the scepter’s voice and sliding the rod into place. Then his hands travel up to my face. Scratch that—one sly hand winds up the hair at my nape, securing me to him.

“Life is so sweet right now, Riley. Colors more vivid, hope brighter, your pouting lips more precious. There’s only one thing that would make it sweeter.” Ewen’s voice is a husky pant, his eyes bottomless pits of black that dare me to seize the moment.

My wings give me a boost. The thrill in my veins has nothing to do with monsters and everything to do with the man in front of me. My legs wrap around him and I grab a fistful of hair, desperate. “You shutting the fucking up and kissing me crazy-stupid?”

His smile shows a flash of larger than normal canines before his lips crash into mine. Our tongues clash for dominance. He pulls at my hair and his just-on-the-border-of-being-too-big-and-I-love-it size looms over me. I let my wings drop, tucking them flat against my back, just in time before he slams us against the wall. Ewen’s fingers dig into my hip, holding me up. His mouth devours me as he presses every hard pound of his flesh against me. A crash sounds beside my head and I realize he’s banged the wall with his hand, like there’s a beast he’s trying to placate. Ewen’s moan turns into a pained growl and his lips tear away from mine. There’s a rip and before I even process the breeze across my midriff and chest, I see him snaking my tunic around his fist. The makeshift bandage dangles down his arm, my former clothing caressing my skin with a tickle.

Then Ewen’s eyes focus on me. Did I say he looked at me like he’d never seen me before? Oh, this look sent that look shriveling, to hide under the bed and count its blessings.

Holy moly.

That steamy gaze brands every single inch of me and then sets me on fire. My low belly clenches and my pixie pouch is one second away from imploding.

With a fucking look.

His lower lip disappears under white teeth, the point of a fang bright against his plush, red lip. His black eyes are dangerously, deceptively calm. “I want to fuck you right now, against this wall, over the table and on the floor. There’s a bedroom down the hall. I’m going to give you the chance to run if you want a bed.” His voice is gruff power and I’m so enthralled the words don’t register. Until my feet touch the ground and I hear, “Run.”

I scamper by the broken window glass, half running, half flying. A door looms ahead, slightly ajar. My heart is in my throat, the cool air rushing past me and kissing every exposed crevice of my completely naked skin. I dive into the room, a massive rough-hewn bed dominating the space. The sheets are rumpled and every breath smells like pine sap and fresh soap. I tuck my wings in, prepared to tumble with a somersault, but then jerk like a dog on a leash. Thick fingers have me by the hips again and drag me to the edge of the bed. My face is turned against the counterpane and my sensitive breasts are swaying and heavy, dragging across the soft cotton.

The skin across my back tingles as I feel the remains of my tunic brush there, his makeshift bandage drifting lower, until one greedy hand kneads my rear. Another sneaks up to ravage my breast. Words of praise rain down, a stream of consciousness I don’t think he’s even aware of. My fist and a bit of bedsheet find their way to my mouth as I stifle my moans. Never in my life have I felt like such a delectable morsel.

Then every inch of his perfect-for-me towering height drapes over my petite self until his lips touch the shell of my ear. “I never said I’d fuck you in the bed.” A shiver rolls through my whole body, pixie dust floating in the air like sparking dust motes and covering the bed sheets. He straightens and yanks me to the edge of the mattress, flush against him, his member hot against my back.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet your royal rod.” I try for sultry but the words are muffled by the sheets and a wee bit desperate. His knee spreads my thighs, thick fingers hone in right to my core.

“Yes!” An orgasm rips through me. I’m mindless, clutching at him and bucking. But the wave builds instead of crests as he massages the pearl of nerves. Oh, sweet lord, it’s gonna be one of those.

Like a starburst, the tight ball of giddy light explodes. My wings beat and my body shakes, as uncontrollable as the moans that fall from my lips. I ride the rhythmic clenching, my fingers and toes twitching, until I release with a scream that could shatter glass. Every single nerve ending is blissed out—even my elbows are an erogenous zone. My entire being pulses as drifts of pixie dust coat the air.

Whole. Body. Orgasm.

“What was that?” Ewen’s voice is a bit scared and proud at the same time. I let my head flop back into the bed, eyes closed.

Oh, yeah, we’re a go for round two, soon as I regain control of my limbs. I need every single fuck as promised.

“Um, pixie pussy power?” At least that’s what I mean to say. The words slur, drunk as I am on my own ecstasy, coming out more, “Pissy Puxie-powee.” I attempt to flip over, pretty sure I’m just waving my womanly bits in a possibly obscene come-hither way.

Heh, works for me.

One final flop and I get an eyeful of his magic wand. I’m planning out rounds three and four—his royal rod isn’t even anointed yet!—when Ewen yelps, “What?”

I scoot back. My pixie dust tingles, like a warm blanket of sunshine … with a punch. “Oh? Cat got your tongue?” I smirk, but I can’t hold it. He’s so damn sexy.

He leans over me, arms caging me in, and then his tongue takes a long swipe from the top of my breast across my shoulder to that panty-melting spot on my neck. I see stars and take a few lungfuls of air before explaining quickly, “When we feel safe and prosperous with a male we are particularly attracted to, we kinda lose it. Think of it as nesting by orgasm.”

Ewen’s eyes bug out of his head.

“Yeah, it’s not something we let outsiders know. You’re officially part of pixie society now, bud.” I scoop some of the fine powder up and blow, setting it afloat, creating little fairy lights scattered and hovering in mid-air. Another handful and the dust casts out like little strands of silk, creating a romantic canopy around us. “Any wishes?” I’m drunk on my own power. I know it won’t last, but it’s helluva fun when it happens. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

Ewen leans down, eyes intent. “I wish you would stay with me. Here.” My heart skips a beat, my body already declaring him mine.

“Wish granted,” I sigh. Ewen kisses me and then enters on one long stroke. I clutch at him, vibrating with need. Ewen sets a demanding pace and we ride each other, clawing and squeezing and thrusting toward that summit, so in sync with each other—every move perfectly attuned and timed—yet so wild. It’s the most exhilarating dance of my life.

The tension builds, a perfect rapid escalation. I need another orgasm to take the edge off of this desperation, this need. My body is responding stronger than I thought possible, pheromones, adrenaline –and something more—a dangerous cocktail in my blood.

I’ll never get enough.

Just when I’m about to max out and hit my release, cold iron cuts into my wrists.

What the fuck?

Ewen sports a wicked grin and a handful of my magic dust. I tug, only to find I’m handcuffed to his bed.

Oh, damn. He is into bondage!

Ewen leans into me, not even pausing as he pumps his hips relentlessly. “I was just getting started, my precious pixie. Can’t have you flailing too mindlessly.” His voice lowers at least two octaves; it’s like pure bass reverberation sliding across my naked skin as he says, “I have so many plans for you.”

And then he bites me.

I howl.

I didn’t even know I could howl.

I lift off the bed as my wings strain, vision blackening at the edges until I squeeze my eyes shut.

What does he expect when my toes curl and I arch like there’s only one part of me that matters—and it’s not the part with the brains.

Breath is a scarcity as I pant through another mind-shattering orgasm.

The room echoes with the sound of our panting, and then the clank of my handcuffs opening. “Turn over,” Ewen growls.

God help me, I flip so fast pancakes are envious. My mind is stuttering on the possibilities, edging towards the kind of excitement that might make this a party for one. I’m one second away from humping the edge of his bed.

Please, yes, one touch and I’m home free, again!

Except the villain pulls me up and wraps me in the bedspread, with a little slap on the ass like he’s done! My mouth drops in indignation, I can’t even form the words to demand more of the sexy-sexy back.

Which turns out to be a good thing because in the silence I hear voices.

“Gerald, I really don’t think that was a beacon.”

“Riley’s gone missing into the Black Forest and then the place lights up like a fairy high on firecracker bugs. It leads us right to her. What else would you call it?”

“Are we saving her from him, because I wouldn’t mind a rescue.”

“Is someone gonna move that webbing stuff? Or amp up those twinkling lights? If Riley’s not in danger and we’re risking our asses for her, we deserve a better show at least.”

I’d know that last voice anywhere. “Aralia!” I shout, mortified and alarmed. “What are you doing here?” As I hurry out the door, Ewen drapes a cloak over my shoulders. The weight makes me pause, as does the smell of sweaty male. My male.

I see three heads bobbing through the broken window. More voices sound behind them and I blush to the tips of my ears. Half the clan must be here!

Aralia looks over her shoulder and then turns back to me with a smirk. “I visited Fiddle Street, and the fairies there said you never showed. Then Maude said she saw you enter the Black Forest.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I told you you’d get your happy ending.”

I step up to the window. Everyone except for Aralia falls back. There are pixies hovering and standing throughout the yard, all armed and on guard. Maude, a young green-haired pixie, yells over Aralia’s shoulder, “We figured you got in deeper than you could fly out. And whoever messes with one of us, messes with all of us!” A few fists pump the air, but no one turns. Everyone is watchful.

Moonlight reveals that most of the clearing is trampled, especially near the window, and massive footprints mar the ground there as well as the muddy area by the well. There’s no other movement, though, and the edge of the woods no longer looks impenetrable. New trees and plants surround the border like a safety net, and there are tidy little rows of plants everywhere else. The sound of crickets and the rustling of clothes from the pixies fills the night—normal noises. The whole picture coalesces and I realize the sense of menace is missing from this little parcel in the woods.

With relief, my eyes turn back to my clan. My heart warms and tears prickle at my eyes. Aralia’s voice softens as she continues, “Yes, dear, we’ve been keeping tabs on you. Someone has too, you obviously only know how to take care of others, not yourself.” Her eyes take in my body, and she nods approval. “Glad to see you finally fed yourself and put your meat back on your bones. You’re too important to the whole pixie community, Riley.”

“Sounds like you’re kinda like a royal leader in your own right.” Ewen’s arm drapes across my shoulders and I lean into his strong, warm, and perfectly-massive body. He kisses the top of my head.

Aralia tells him, “I’ll let Stefan know you’re well. Both he and the Crown Prince were worried.”

“I found an answer to my predicament, and I have a solution to Riley’s too.”

It’s some time later when I’m dressed in a long tunic that laces up the back (he does have one!) cradling a cup of tea, most of my clan spread around me in Ewen’s great room. The sky out the window is the green-blue of an impending dawn. We’ve both told our tale to the laughter and amazement of my family and friends, and time seems to bear out the truth—Ewen’s land is indeed a safe haven.

“An island sanctuary in the middle of the Black Forest.” Heston wags his head. The elders have been throwing ideas back and forth for the last few minutes, business acumen even sharper than their swords. “It’d be a shame not to have a cottage for rent, for the poor soul that gets stuck out here at night.”

“Ha, the poor rich soul! Vamps and weres are always daring and ribbing each other to breach this place,” Tomas barks.

“And fairies will pay twice the rent, the arrogant bastards!” someone else shouts. A cheer goes up.

Aralia clears her throat and wrangles the attention back. “I think there should be a special token for ones that need free lodging. Having a base will allow a lot more pixies, and others down on their luck, to find specialty items.”

I nudge Ewen, which is easy seeing as my legs are draped sideways over his. “You’re an honorary pixie now.”

He straightens, transforming with the kind of aplomb he must have spent years in royals-only school cultivating. A hand flattens across his chest in precise movements. “It’s my honor.”

Lord, this man. Is swooning possible when you’re already lying down?

“You all need a big man to keep you out of trouble.” He winks and puffs out his chest.

I realize now how much he enjoyed every time I made a dig at his height. I swat at him, taking advantage of the opportunity to run my hands down that wall of hard muscle.

His joking eyes darken. “You, especially. You’ll be needing a firm hand.” The promise of spankings looms in his eyes.

I straighten up and lean into him, swiveling my hip suggestively against his rod. “Well, I need a firm something,” I offer with a side of sultry, my own promise of hot, sweaty nights shining in my eyes. My voice drops lower, “The things I could do to you, hidden here away from the world, days on end. Just wait until—”

Ewen squirms and adjusts himself. His eyes dart around the room as he tries to adopt a nonchalant face.

I laugh wickedly, shameless. It’s old hat to tune out the Elders, especially when I’ve got something much more entertaining to focus on. Using my body as cover, I slowly stroke down his lower abdomen, letting his anticipation build. His breath hitches as I slip under the band of his pants. I smile as his eager rod salutes its new master.

“Hmm, someone needs a firm hand,” I whisper, easing lower to circle his girth.

His fingers slam into mine, holding them prisoner under the cotton. Ewen covers his movement with a cough. “Oh, you’re going to pay for this, little pixie,” he growls for my ears only.

“Promises, promises,” I tease. By his expression, I know we are garnering weird looks.

He clears his throat. “Can we tell them your ideas about the third wish and then, gently but firmly, kick your clan out of my house?“ he orders in a whisper. His breath is like a finger trailing to the dear-god-don’t-touch-unless-you-want-me-to-convulse button, that spot on my neck that’s bruised from his bite. Ewen’s eyes have darkened to pure black, our thoughts in tandem.

Which reminds me, “How do you know what I’m planning for my third wish?” I pull my hand away and lean back to scrutinize him.

“Well, since I kinda took the wind out of your self-martyring sails, I figure you’d spend it on some other heart-wrenching cause, with your Fiddle Street organization a prime candidate.”

My brows scrunch and I slide off his lap. “I’m listening.”

“So am I,” the scepter pipes up. “Thanks to all the gods and goddesses you two are talking and not trapping me between your lusty bodies. I mean, I’ve been stuck in a cesspool between a rock and a hard place, and I’ll take that hard place over being squished next to Ewen’s hard—”

Ewen pulls the scepter out. It seems to capture the light from the fire and radiate it out in a warm golden glow. The splinter conversations, as well as the main one, grind to a halt.

“—Royal rod,” Ewen finishes, saying it like a proclamation as he presents the sovereign staff to everyone. The air is heavy with expectation.

“We were talking about the third wish.” Its magical, penetrating voice echoes with authority and can’t be ignored.

Wait, it’s used its magic so everyone can hear.

Does that mean my whole clan has the power to weigh in on the wish?

Ewen projects his voice, and my wings flitter. He’s a true royal commanding the crowd in this moment, a knight in shining armor with a sexy kink for pixies named Riley. “There’s one more wish left, and it’s been granted to Riley. The thirty-seventh generation royal scepter appears invested in this cause, by sharing the gift of communicating with it. I suggest she use it to keep her Fiddle Street organization protected and thriving, expanding the operations to all down-trodden citizens of Mythia. It’s a wish fit for any ruler, but instead of land-based, it’ll be focused on your program.”

I beam. It’s perfect. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Is it possible?”

“That’s two wishes! Protection and prosperity.” Georgina the Gray likes to poop on everything. I should introduce her to the cesspool.

“Three. Expanding the program.” Mickey ticks off his fingers.

Gah, Mickey too.

I feel eyes on me, but no one is looking my way. Discussions have splintered again as all the pixies have their say on what they think the wish should be. Ewen strokes up and down my arm, claiming my attention. He jerks his head toward the scepter, which radiates a soft golden glow. The feeling of being watched intensifies and the room quiets once more.

“My lady, you have my sincerest gratitude for saving me from that cesspit and restoring me to my rightful owner. Is it your desire to see your program successful?”

“Yes,” I breathe, like I’m making a vow.

“Then, by the power granted in me to execute the wishes as I see fit, it is my pleasure to bestow your wish.” And for a moment, I swear I get the sense he’s winking at me. “Which means all three of them, by necessity of course,” the sneaky scepter adds, for my ears only.

The Royal Storyteller Alain is still missing, just before the royal wedding. Hickory Dickory chimes out the juicy gossip and the magical crowd in the central square eats it up. It’s second nature for me to ignore it now, and not just because half of what it spews is pure nonsense. The gossip is only as good as the source. No, I ignore it because I’ve got my ear to the ground with my own network of pixies, humans, and all sorts of magical downtrodden. I know my information is solid gold.

Well, at least, it certainly turns a profit like gold.

“Is Sam doing better?” Ewen trots beside me, all the female glances sliding off him like Hickory Dickory’s chimes. Sam is a recently orphaned shifter. Lone wolf families are all too often left alone, and for a sweet and suddenly orphaned pup like Sam, it was a death sentence.

“Yeah, he’s all squared away.” We’re well connected now, and it wasn’t hard to convince the mated gay bear shifters who’d been longing for a family to take him in. I stick my tongue out at a fairy who’s eyeing my man. She scowls and my eyes narrow as I recognize lavender hair.

Oh, you’re going down, bitch.

I flick a coin in her direction, careful not to touch it as I release it from a special purse. She reflexively snatches at the silver, greed in her eyes. Unfortunately for her, it’s bespelled—a trap I set for when I come across thugs who take advantage of the poor and desperate.

Ewen and I move on, his eyebrow raised as a screech of “What the fuuuck?!” sounds from behind us.

“It’ll cost more than a pretty silver to get rid of the boils. And no one hiring will want to work with someone who has ‘Swindler’ emblazoned across their forehead.”

“I take it you know her?” He twists around, his jaw dropping before he faces me. “And really don’t like her?”

“I’m regretting having the spell last only forty-eight hours.”

His shoulders shake as he laughs. “I’m so glad you’re in my corner, pixie. Are the Immedia-Grahams ready to launch?”

I haven’t paid Hickory Dickory much heed because I’m partial to my new social magic platform, spread by sexy Talented storytellers who now have the magic to add images. “Yup. The story of the down-on-his luck troll besting a swamp monster with nothing more than a life-sized thorn from our land is already trending. Even the wolves love a good underdog story.” The crown prince wants the Alain news squashed, and our popular diversion should help.

Aralia says Alain might have been murdered by urolodytes—life-size roach-like creatures—and has been working non-stop to keep it quiet. She’s also off on her next project, now that my Fiddle Street program is a success and pixies are thriving. She mentioned something about an author and getting me my gold coin last time I saw her.

We’ll do our part to help her, and all of Mythia by extension. A storm is brewing in this Kingdom, with the King increasingly absent from Council meetings, Erold dividing the Council, and now Alain’s disappearance. But we’re getting armed for any trouble.

Ewen has built up a new legion of followers, and we both recruit more every day, him through his Dark Wood safe haven, and me with my Fiddle Street program. Ewen’s family is not so ashamed of him anymore, not that Ewen cares. He’s been virtually adopted into my pixie clan, and he’s got real family in Stefan. We’ve even had the ear of Liam, the Crown Prince. He’s got mad respect for the fact that Ewen lives in the most dangerous part of Mythia.

And I’ve got mad respect for his stamina, his sense of humor, his courage, and oh yeah, his bad-ass bedroom dom side. I can’t wait to get home to our cabin and splash the walls with more of my pixie dust. I’ve no problem selling my abundant wares now, and it’s proven to be a great cover for my other exploits. If I keep nesting this often, we’ll soon have a new generation for that scepter to mess with.

“Ooooh, turn here.” Ewen interrupts my thoughts. Which is good, because I find myself walking around dazed and smiling like an idiot all the time now. “I want to visit Yara’s.”

“The leatherworker?” My smile turns down at the sides, confusion pausing my steps.

“Yeah.” His eyes take on a naughty gleam. “I’ve got a special commission and I’ve been counting the days until it’s finished.” He winks, those beautiful browns sparkling and baby-face dimples shining.

Lord, my man is a total Graham.

And he’s absolutely perfect for me. I smile back while my pixie pouch purrs at his royal rod.

In the ethos where herds of story ideas run wild, Nicole Wells is known as the Devourer. A voracious predator, she —

Okay, she’s an award-winning author who channels her imagination into science fantasy romance, PNR, urban fantasy, and paranormal women’s fiction. 

For a free story and more, check out www.nicolewellswrites.com.