Meet the final two POV characters. After this, you should have a good idea as to everyone's backstory and motivations, and their plans are in motion.
CHAPTER TEN
THE FOMORIAN COURT
BRES
Bres lay on his bed, running his fingers over his bare chest. In the pitch black of his windowless tower room, he couldn't see the scar, but he didn't need to. Instead of flattering, his nickname of
The Darkly Beautiful
was now a taunt.
The perfect looks he was so proud of -- high cheekbones, long, sleek black hair, big blue eyes, and ethereally glowing skin were traits he'd from received from his Fae mother.
All of them meaningless with the single, ugly slash across his chest.
On the giant-sized Fomorian stature he'd inherited from his father, the scar was barely noticeable. The physical wound The Morrigan inflicted on him during the last war had healed, but the reminder left behind felt like failure.
The Fomorian side of him was proud of the mark on his flesh. Many warriors wore their battle scars with pride. But the Fae side of him detested the lack of perfection. After all, he'd become king when the ruler before him lost an arm fighting for the Fae, and was therefore disqualified from ruling because his body was no longer perfect. The Fae admired ideal beauty almost to obsession.
His magic was even slower to recover than his body. The Morrigan had struck him with the Sword of Light. She had not only marred his skin, but drained his immortality until he'd been hardly more than human, and left him to die. He should have. That he survived was surely a sign he was meant to rule. His powers, years later, were almost to the point of fully restored.
He longed to return to the forest of Inisfail Fae territory. Toraigh, the island he'd taken refuge on after the war, was windswept to the point of no trees at all. It was a cold, lifeless expanse of rock. Appealing to the Fomorian side of him, but not the Fae. It seemed like the two halves of him never agreed on anything.
But the time to repay the crow was rapidly approaching.
If he could find her.
And a treasure.
The sword was out of reach, wielded by Fechin. Bres had no desire for another taste of that blade. He wasn't likely to survive that again. Three other treasures were fair game, though, their locations lost.
The stone.
The spear.
The cauldron.
Possession of any one of them would strengthen his claim to the Inisfail Fae throne -- especially if he found the Stone of Destiny. It sang for true kings. No one could deny his right to rule when it sang for him.
Of course, an heir wouldn't go amiss.
The treasures were lost -- had been for centuries -- but now that his magic was restored, heirs he could do something about immediately.
Bres rose from his bed, pulled on his leather pants, and headed up the stairs of the tower barefooted. Torches mounted on the walls burst into flame as he approached, illuminating the dark corridor as he spiraled to the top floor and opened the wooden door, locking it behind him.
Windows allowed moonlight to stream into the room through the bars. A fire warmed the open space, filled with a couch and a couple of chairs arranged around a low, rectangular table that held the remains of dinner.
Three doors, to two bedrooms and a bathroom, led off the main area. While his prisoners couldn't leave, they lived in relative luxury. They had comfortable furnishings in clean surroundings. Meals prepared with the best foods. Nice clothes of the richest and softest materials. Books and art supplies to occupy themselves.
The sisters, twins with red-hair and glowing fair skin, watched him with wary expressions. The look of dread on their faces when they first saw him always gave him a thrill. They were right to be worried. He kept his treatment of them random -- kind, cruel, loving, impersonal. They never knew what to expect from him, or what they could do to influence him.
He couldn't blame them for being confused -- from day to day it was a mystery to him how he'd react to them. Some days he saw them as beautiful women he cared about, and others they were just reminders of what he'd lost.
Meghan wore a floor-length gold silk dress while Morgan wore a green long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and boots. She sat on the floor in front of Meghan as she brushed her sister's hair. They jumped to their feet as he crossed the room.
"Meghan. Morgan. How are you tonight?"
"Release us, Fomorian." Morgan glared daggers at him. She was the more spirited one and always made the demand.
Bres flashed a grin at Morgan and turned to Meghan. She tried to back away, but he stretched out one long arm, palmed the back of her head, and forced her to him. Bending, he pressed his lips to hers and breathed magic into her.
Between heartbeats, she stopped fighting him and parted her lips with a needy moan so he could slide his tongue inside her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went soft against him.
He wasn't called the Master of Love Spells for nothing. "Show me how much you missed me."
Meghan leaned into him, her long red hair falling forward to tickle his skin. She pressed a feather-light kiss on his mouth, then on his chest as he urged her head down. Small, delicate hands caressed his shoulders and chest. Kneeling in front of him, she trailed her mouth over his abs. Meghan's clever fingers undid the laces of his leather pants and freed his cock.
Her palm encircled him, fingers exploring the length of his semi-hard dick. He lifted his gaze and met Morgan's icy, emerald eyes as her sister stroked him to full hardness. The pressure of her hand was just right, the speed and rhythm steady.
Under his influence, she would have no memory of doing this for him unless he wanted her to, but she remembered how to please him. She and her sister had pleasured him often since he'd taken them as tribute when he was king.
