The Cruel Fae King: A Sexy Fantasy Romance Series (The Cursed Kingdoms Series Book 1) Read online

  The Cruel Fae King

  Copyright 2019 A.K. Koonce & Rebecca Grey

  All Rights Reserved

  Editing by Copeland Edits

  Cover design by Methyss’ Coven

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also By A.K. Koonce

  About A.K. Koonce

  Also By Rebecca Grey

  About Rebecca Grey

  Prologue

  The Other Princess

  Emella

  Move faster.

  Wild wind made from my own frantic movements whips past me. The night air lifts my lavender hair up off my shoulders, leaving them exposed, bare, and cold. Claw-like branches catch in the strands, tugging them violently, but I keep moving.

  A heavy canopy of leaves withholds almost all of the moon’s silver light. Animals coo and caw unaware of the pursuit through their home. Twigs snap under my feet, giving my assailant awful telling clues to follow. Every urgent step within the twisting, grabbing, brush is a weary memory game that I’m hastily losing.

  I must keep moving.

  Footfalls sound heavy behind me, sending goosebumps over my naked body. Closer and closer they grow. Louder and louder, like my adrenaline-fueled heartbeat. Fear is my enemy as it renders my limbs awkward and heavy, sending me stumbling into the thicket. I know my end is finally here.

  Holding my head high, I glare into the dark sinister eyes of the fae who will undoubtedly end my life. A velvet black cloak hangs down to the forest floor, covering his lithe figure. But I know. I know exactly who hides underneath that cloak. I know him all too well.

  My ears catch the bubbling sound of the river. So near. I crawl frantically backward toward the sound. Just a touch of the water. Or if I could get near enough to call it to me, drown out his fire. The small sliver of hope keeps my aching legs moving. Cuts along my limbs scream in protest as the silver blood trickles out of the wounds.

  “You are no longer of use, Princess Emella.” His words make my heart tremble. Large palms wrap around my ankle, drawing me to him, my hands searching for purchase amongst the scattering leaves and twigs.

  May Goddess Nature lead me. May she guide me in the present.

  The familiar prayer doesn’t feel as holy as it once did.

  “This kingdom will never truly be yours.” I spit toward my attacker.

  “Stupid, stupid girl. I don’t want power. I want divine peace.” He says he wants peace. Even as he lunges at me.

  Cold steel stings as it slices my neck. Fresh silver blood immediately crawls down my throat.

  May she guide me . . . even in the life after this one . . .

  One

  The Forgotten Princess

  Syren

  Twisted vines and twigs glued on by sap do not make the best crown. Hair sticks to the drying sap and catches on the pointy sticks. Once I wore an enormously cumbersome— albeit beautiful—jeweled crown made with millions of tiny cobalt stones. Everything I make pales in comparison to the wonders that used to be within arm’s reach. Now, it’s oceans away.

  Myself included. This pathetic excuse of a voodoo doll included. Blood drips from the tip of my finger. Hot, red, and wet, it splatters on the dry earth, quickly absorbed by the parched soil. Dull aching pain throbs, a reminder that I am no good with needles. Or tiny whittled sticks made to look like needles. They are too small and dainty. Exactly the feminine work my father wanted me well acquainted with.

  But once again, I disappointed him.

  I mean, I can stitch you something pretty, but I’ll ruin it with the stains from my repeatedly pricked bloody fingers.

  Strong, sturdy, and clumsy hands: that’s what I have to work with here. These hands were made to wield swords, climb trees, and other things that used to make my father’s blood boil. Anything that made that cruel man glare, I'd do.

  Would it please my father to know that they have come in quite handy, pun intended, here on this island?

  “Ouch.” I hiss to no one in particular. The twig, sharpened to a mean point, stabs into my newly calloused fingers. It is truly meant to stick into the rough gnarled brown bark of my handmade doll, yet somehow it emerges from the leaves stretched over it and digs into my skin every time. With a shake, I ignore the pain and attempt to stick it in again.

  Twigs, vines, nuts, and leaves don’t necessarily make the prettiest doll, but for the voodoo magic to work, you don’t need something beautiful. You just need a doll. Mine is barely that, but I’m hoping Goddess Nature finds it pleasing and my anger justified. Which, in my opinion, it is.

  “I hope your dick falls off.” I pull the twig out and shove it right back into the doll again. Under the pressure, the small stick snaps between my sore fingers. “Dammit.”

  Glaring hopelessly, I imagine the wine-colored hair that every fire fae has, but his is frizzy. I imagine he has brown beady eyes like swirling vortexes of shit. Likely squinting with all that judgment he had for me before he even met me.

  I think I’m great. Other people think I’m great. So why does the opinion of one rotten king define me and spoil my future?

  Shining and spectacularly bright, the beautiful tropical sun warms my now-tan skin. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore calms the anger that wells inside me every time I think about that piece of fire fae garbage.

  Tell me, who wants an arranged marriage anyway? Especially to marry a cursed king? I sure as hell don’t. Well, I did. Kind of. But now, I totally do not.

  Though if given the chance, I should thank him for my new, much freer surroundings. No rules to follow or prayers to kneel for at every odd hour. No restricting dresses. No more getting screamed at for sneaking away to practice sword fighting with the guards. No more arranged marriages or uniting of kingdoms.

  Am I supposed to cry over banishment? Thanks to that king, it’s just me, the ocean, and the mermaids that like to play in the nearby canal that divides the island.

  I’ll take whatever life gives me, and I’ll always make do. Even if that means crowning myself with syrup and forgotten tree limbs on an isolated island meant for murderers and thieves instead of a forgotten fae princess.

  Slipping in the thick pebbly sand, I stumble forward into the cooling shade of a large, particularly healthy batch of trees. I drop the voodoo doll among the charcoal rocks before trying to climb over them. The rocks aren’t tall enough to require much actual climbing, but I do have to give a good hop or stretch of the leg to get from one to the
other.

  As the rocks grow thinner and the tall wild brush of the island grows closer, I hear the sound of my waiting prey. Clucks and chirps, scattering pecks and scraping talons turn the corners of my mouth up in a devilish grin. I part the tall grass before me.

  Large chickens, plump from their feastings on the seeds and fruits I’ve gathered and tossed here daily, eat without care.

  Perfect.

  I eye those lazy trolls like the ignorant claim to trade they are. With a mad dash, the chickens scatter, my arms reaching out as I chase after them. The prick of the island under my bare feet doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. I hardly feel it. Hardly even care.

  Crouching low, I scoop one flailing bird up. My hands hold its flapping wings tightly to its side. The chicken’s soft feathers poke out between my fingers. I only partly feel bad as I tie it up with forest vine while it calls out shrieking cries.

  “You need better friends," I whisper to the bird. “They all left you behind.”

  Weaving through dense thicket underfoot, I follow the sound of the babbling creek. Near the beach, it becomes nothing but a trickle, but closer to the center of the island, it opens into a large vein ten feet across. Perfect for bathing, getting a drink, or trading poultry for information or goods brought from my kingdom by the lovely merfolk who visit here. I use the term lovely loosely.

  Assholes. They're total assholes.

  I used to feel bad for the animals I sacrificed or prepared for dinner. Hunger has a way of making those pitying feelings vanish like puddles of water on a hot day. My sacrificial chicken serves the purpose of batting away small limbs and hanging vines. He doesn’t like it much but, hey, my hands are clearly full here.

  Obscenely large but otherwise ordinary trees shade my walk from the beach. The shadows allow a trickling breeze to cool my skin, and I almost shiver.

  Everything here is so . . . green. I fucking love it.

  My home is just blue, blue, blue. Oh there is some teal, and a little bit of blue. Any green we see is, you guessed it, blue-green. Now, I like blue. It’s the color of the ocean and my hair. I happen to quite like my blue hair.

  But green is just lovely and new. It’s refreshing, the color of living. It’s the color of my current home. Green is the color of thriving, magical, and glorious isolation. Like I’m on vacation.

  For-fucking-ever.

  Scorching gray stone burns underfoot before I toss the chicken into the water. The eerie long fingers that rise from the sea should alarm me but I'm used to Agatha now. I ignore the scaly hand of the mermaid who pushes the thrashing bird under the water, its squawking turning into choking bubbles. Under the perky peek-a-boo sun, I lie down and enjoy the feeling of its heat over every part of my body.

  The ghostly remains of my once full skirt fan out, tattered, against the rock. At first, I attempted to wash the dress every day or so. Between the washing and the wear and tear of being on a deserted island, it was starting to wither away to nothing. So instead, I don’t worry if it smells like sweat. There is no one else here to smell it.

  And it looks beachy now. More natural. Cute, even.

  Or so I tell myself.

  The heat of the sunlight warms my face as I lie on my back. Carefully, I reach for my knife that I left along the rocks yesterday. A piddly little thing, small and rusting. A parting gift from the guards before I left.

  Twirling the small blade in my fingers, I close my eyes and let the sun bathe over me. With indifference, my fingers drift in the salty ocean water to my left. This feeling, I call apathy. Agatha calls it detachment, says it’s ‘bad for my soul’. I’ll let Goddess Nature decide for me one day.

  I toy with the sea, using my magic to make the water drift higher into the sky so it shades over me in a lurking wave that won’t fall until I’m ready. It’s a meager little display of power. Nothing like the dark magic of witches or even other fae like me. Because father didn’t think magic was important for someone as imprudent as me. I got into enough trouble without it.

  During my bitter thoughts, movement ripples through the waters and I drop my held magic, causing more sloshing movement.

  Beads of water splash over my face, and I squint into the sun before the green-skinned mermaid pops her head into view. Her strands of mossy emerald hair act as a curtain around me, bringing the sharp angles of her face into view. Her black eyes blink at me, my reflection daunting and dirty in the shine of her gaze.

  “Hello, Agatha,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re in my sun.”

  “I see you have already got quite the tan.”

  “Gotta look good for when company shows up.” I swat my hand at her.

  “Ah yes, because of all those visitors you get. It’s a must to look good for them.” She teases in her smooth accent. Damp fingers slide through my hair. Agatha fans the long blue locks out over the rock as she combs at it. “Better work on these knots then.”

  I wouldn’t consider Agatha nice. She is a mermaid, and mermaids are not kind creatures. When I first stumbled upon her as I bathed naked in her little watering hole, she tried to slit my throat with a jagged piece of coral. Forgive and forget though, right?

  No, our friendship is a balancing act of trading secrets and otherwise unattainable goods. In a way, we’re similar she and I. She once told me she was an aging two-legged witch. She said centuries ago she was cursed to live the rest of her days as a woman of the sea.

  But maybe that was just a lie to make me feel connected to her in my banishment.

  “Agatha, can’t it be enough that I want to look good for you?” I wink playfully.

  “By the Goddess Nature, do not dare bother to look nice on my account. Let yourself go. All natural.” After a moment of silence, she adds. “You’re getting faster at catching those fat round land birds.”

  “We call them chickens.” Inwardly, I feel proud that this feat has gotten easier in the recent weeks. My first few attempts at catching them were comical at best.

  I fell in a lot of chicken shit my first few days here. It wasn't pretty.

  “Cheek-ens," Agatha says slowly in her heavy accent.

  Ignoring her tug on my hair as she braids sections here and there, I cozy into the rock a little more. Her slick fingers curiously follow the curve of my ear up to the pointed tip before she goes back to her work. Between the wonderful feeling of her playing with my hair and the heat of the sun, I’m somewhere between dreamland and reality. My favorite place to be.

  It’s nothing like what I had glimpsed in the Northern Kingdom. I barely stepped foot on its bedeviled soil before that stupid King Iri’s guards met me to point me right back to the boat that dropped me off here. All that comes to mind when I think of that kingdom is bitter, frigid, welling anger.

  My jaw clenches as my brows lower hard.

  “You’re thinking about him again?” Agatha says, tucking a cherry red water lily into my hair.

  “Him who? I don’t know what you mean.”

  Him the asshole who ditched me three days before I was to meet him, marry him, and unite our fae kingdoms to better the Union of the Fae? Nope, not a clue who she could be talking about.

  “Do not let your thoughts dwell much. Care to know what is the most recent scandal?” Agatha tilts my head back till I can see the lift of her muscles under her skin, as if she is raising her nonexistent eyebrows.

  Word under the sea travels much faster than word on land. Mermaids, they’re gossipy little things. Gossip Guppies, my friends used to say.

  Back when I had friends, I mean.

  “Don’t tell me a thing. I’m happy in my own little world here.”

  “You liar," she whispers into my ear. “I know you hang on my every word every time I come here. Fae, you really are tricky things. Do you ever tell the truth?”

  I chuckle as her words mirror my thoughts, then shrug my shoulders in response. Well, I don’t go through all the work of dragging a chicken through this thorny forest just so she can comb my hair. Spit it out, me
rmaid.

  “King Iri has found himself betrothed again.”

  That bastard.

  “Wow, hope this one works out for him. Third one’s a charm. Hope he doesn’t let this one die like the one before me.” Poor little Princess Emella. I suppose my fate as a forgotten princess is better than hers.

  I shove the dulling blade of my corroded knife into the soft dirt next to the rock with a little more force than necessary, imagining King Iri’s face as I do.

  “You lie.” Agatha howls. “You wish he would rot on the bottom of the ocean until merfolk pick his bones clean.”

  “Eh, I couldn’t care less what he does or doesn’t do.”

  “If it makes you feel better, the new fiancé is half and half.” She says it like he is marrying a sweet creamer and not a high fae with a noble background.

  I gasp, propping up on my elbows to get a good look at her. “No shit?”

  “I do not lie like you, fae.” She blinks slowly, offended that I would question her. “She’s only half high fae blood, not royal at all, just high ranking. Her name’s Aisha, and she has wind magic.”

  She isn’t a princess? And wind magic. What an absolutely terrible gift from Goddess Nature. She’s clearly not in the Goddess’s favor.

  I smile, rolling to my stomach, and let my fingers dip down into the cool water. As I bring them up, the liquid clings to my hand in a typhoon of swirling droplets that soothes my mind as well as my magic.

  “You’re still thinking about him.” She smirks.

  Ugh, she’s right.

  Cold black eyes appear in the water behind Agatha. I point wearily. Not many mermaids are fond of fae, so there isn't a need for me to chime in on their conversation. I wouldn’t want to get roped into fetching two chickens at a time. Talk about excessive work.