Fingers coated in black polish wrapped around my dick and the blonde ran her tongue up and down the seams sweetly. "There have been rumors that your aunt isn't pleased with you, my prince."
My thumb creased over the surface of the picture. It was old and unaware, taken from a high point that should've been difficult, even for a private investigator.
"Hmm," was all I said as she pumped hard, parting her legs wider at my feet. She blinked up at me with innocent wide eyes, even if we both knew she was anything but innocent.
"The Council has begun to whisper that the Queen's Consort might be a better choice than waiting around for you to fulfil your duties."
I cocked my head at the picture. Maisie Adams had such intense eyes. They were the kind that arrested you on the first look and made you look again. The second look was enough to notice other things.
Like the sharp cut of her chin. Or the scowl that hid perfectly plum lips. Or the permanent pull of hairy brows. Or the innocence that hid behind scattered, curly lashes. Individually, they were each nothing special of note. But altogether, she was striking enough to befuddle.
And it didn't help either, that what she hid under those large, ugly clothes could cause a catastrophe. And it would become worse if she managed to survive the transition.
"Are you even listening?"
Unwillingly, I dragged my gaze from the picture and narrowed my gaze at the blonde. She had been sucking my dick in exchange for information for the past year, but I still couldn't remember her name.
I caught her chin between my fingers. "I told you I preferred you with your mouth full, darling."
She flushed a pretty red and sucked my tip past her luscious lips, blushing harder at being called darling. I always called them that when I couldn't tell them apart from the others–there were always so many of them, throwing themselves at our feet for sexual favours.
Who was I to decline? I could be quite generous, when I wanted to be.
My gaze flitted back to Maisie's photo.
Adams, I thought, as the blonde moaned deeply, squeezing her thighs together as I thickened past her throat.
I remembered attending that funeral five years ago. A heart attack, they'd said. I wondered what Maisie might do if she ever found out–
The doors swung open.
The maid tried to scamper away at the aura that sank into the atmosphere, the brush of old power and new licking against our skin, but I held her in place.
There were only a handful of people who could barge into my rooms even if I had given the particular order that I was not to be disturbed.
The Lycan Queen was one of them.
Her blue eyes were sharp and livid as they honed in on the blonde with my nails digging into her scalp. Her lips curled with distaste. "Get out."
The blonde scampered away, not bothering with her clothes before fleeing out the door.
"You were not to return," the Lycan Queen said. "Not until I released you from your exile."
I pulled on my robe.
Outside the castle, the bonfire burned steadily, bright enough to light up the world in orange and red. The beating of the drums pulsed in my chest like a lull, enticing, seducing, calling me towards the rite, Orgia.
Every Lycan male of age was expected to participate. The priestesses chose the females. The aphrodisiacs were burned into the flames, so that every Lycan within a twenty mile radius was doused with it. That, coupled with the red moon had certain effects on us all.
Inhibitions were lowered. The Hunt for the perfect mate for the night was as intoxicating and ferocious as the drive to fuck. Coitus was required for repopulating.
Every Lycan showed up. They performed their duties. And they left.
The same could not be said for me.
I had done it every season for six years. I was required, as the Crown Prince, to repeat this ritual every time a Lycan female was in heat, like a fucking stud.
And yet, not one pup.
Not from me. Not from any of us.
The race was dying and I was doing everything the priestesses instructed and it was never enough. It was never going to be enough. And still, every season the expectation reset. Show up. Try again. Give more. For the race. Four our people.
There was no line. There was no point at which Soren Black had given sufficiently. There was always something.
And it had been so since I was engaged at the age of five.
Tessa Graham. Beautiful, cruel Tessa. I had met her when I was fifteen and she was thirteen. I had asked if and why she wanted this marriage. She looked at me like I was stupid and said, "I will be your Queen. I will be the mother of your children. I have been taking lessons to that effect. You will belong to me."
It was simply how things were and Tessa had been taught that since she was a child. She was prepared and primed for the throne. For me. For us. I suspected even Tessa had never been given the chance to decide what she wanted for long enough to even know it.
I had not shown up to the wedding.
I had been away, investigating rogue activity in the east with three of our people missing and six wolves dead. One of which was Richter Adams.
I hadn't returned in time.
My aunt exiled me to Ashbourne in retaliation. Far enough that I was out of touch with my kind, but close enough that her spies could keep an eye on me.
Now, there was only fury into those blue eyes that I had grown used to over the years.
"The exile was given by the crown," I answered dryly. "I am the crown. I choose to come and go at my pleasure."