There are eyes in my summoning circle.

Glowing blue eyes, blazing in the darkness like sapphires on fire. Not red like Hex's. Blue. A blue so vivid and intense it burns.

Just eyes. No body. No form. Just eyes floating in shadows that are somehow darker than the darkness around them.

The mug slips from my hand.

It hits the floor and shatters. Tea and ceramic shards spray across the floorboards. The sound is obscenely loud in the silence.

The eyes don't blink. They don't move. They just stare at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I've caught a shadow being.

"Little Witch," says a voice from the darkness. It's deep and smooth and controlled in a way that suggests enormous power being held on a very tight leash. "We should talk."

My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. My magic surges instinctively, defensive, ready to fight or flee or do whatever it takes to survive.

But I don't move. I can't move. I'm frozen in place, staring at those burning blue eyes in my living room.

This is Dis. The weapon who carried out a coup. The usurper who sat on Hex's throne. The being who ordered my flat burned down and wanted me to burn with it.

And he's trapped in my summoning circle.

The realisation hits me all at once, crashing over me like a wave. The spell worked. It actually worked. He's here and he's bound and he can't leave until I let him go, and I have absolutely no intention of letting him go.

I have a former shadow king trapped in my flat above a coffee shop in Bristol.

This is insane. This is the most insane thing I've ever done.

"You're smaller than I expected," Dis says. 

It makes me bristle immediately, hot anger flooding through me and burning away some of the fear. I'm short, so what? I would have thought an interdimensional being would be above such stupid human observations. Height doesn't mean power. Height doesn't mean anything except where I shop for trousers.

"And considerably more startled," Dis continues, those blue eyes narrowing. "Did you not intend to summon me?"

I find my voice. It comes out steadier than expected, which is a small miracle given that my entire body is shaking. "I intended exactly this."

"Did you." It's not a question. The blue eyes narrow further, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "How foolish."

We stare at each other across my living room. The shattered mug lies between us. Tea seeps into the floorboards.

"Welcome to Bristol," I say. "You're going to be here for a while."

The eyes burn brighter. The shadows around them shift and swirl, he’s not deigning to manifest into anything solid, but the binding is holding. He can't leave the circle. Can't do anything except exist as eyes and darkness and fury.

"You have made," Dis says, very quietly, very carefully, "a significant mistake."

I lift my chin higher. My hands are still shaking, but I clench them into fists and hold my ground. I will not back down. I will not show fear. I will not let him see how terrified I am.

"No," I say. "You made the mistake. When you burned my flat down."

Silence. The kind of silence that feels like it's full of sharp edges.

Then Dis laughs. It's a low, dark sound that rolls through the flat like distant thunder. Not amused. Not even close to amused. Something far colder than that. Something that makes the temperature drop again and frost form on the window behind me, ice crystals spreading across the glass in delicate patterns.

"Oh, Little Witch," he says, and there's something terrible in his voice. "You have no idea what you've done."

I think about the texts I studied. The binding spells I memorised until I could recite them in my sleep. The three months of preparation that went into this moment, every detail checked and rechecked. I think about what he did to me, how he destroyed my peace when I had only just won it. I think about how very tired I am of taking hits and never, ever punching back.

"I know exactly what I've done," I say. "I've bound you. And you're not going anywhere until I say so."

The blue eyes stare at me. Unblinking. Burning with something that might be rage or might be grudging respect or might be both at once.

"You are mistaken," says Dis.

The shadows pulse, testing the boundaries with more force. The runes flare bright in response, blazing blue-white, holding firm.

"Very, very mistaken to dare to try to hold me," he growls, and his voice drops into something deeper, something that resonates in my bones. "I am Dis. Dismay. Disaster. Disgrace. Disfigure and disembowel."

Each iteration drops like the threat it is. Each word is a promise of violence. Primal fear coils in my belly, cold and sharp, but it ignites something else too. Protective rage. Furious determination. He tried to kill me once. I won't let him do it again.

“Alright, Disney!” I snap. 

He slams against the invisible wall with a snarl that sounds like tearing metal. The entire building shakes. I take a step backwards, my heart in my throat, certain the binding is about to break.

But the wards hold. He's trapped. Properly, completely trapped, no matter how much power he throws at the circle.
I've actually done it. I should feel triumphant. Vindicated. Powerful.

Instead, I just feel terrified.
​
Because I have a former shadow king in my living room and absolutely no plan for what happens next.

​

I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The crystals on my nightstand are glinting in the lamplight. I placed extras under the bed too, just in case. The salt line at my bedroom door is perfect and unbroken.
I should feel safe. Protected. The witches said this would help.
Instead, I feel ridiculous. Like a child hiding under the covers, convinced a blanket will protect them from monsters.
Except the monster is real. And I’m hoping he’s going to be stopped by some rocks and table salt.
The lamp flickers.
My heart jumps into my throat. I sit up straighter, pulling the duvet closer around me like armour. The temperature is dropping. I can see my breath misting in the air.
Oh no.
The edges of the room start to darken. Not natural darkness. This is something else. Something alive. Black shadows creep along the walls like ink spreading through water. They pool in the corners. Gather along the ceiling. Wisps of smoke curl and twist through the air.
The lamp flickers again. The light dims to almost nothing.
Then I hear it.
Laughter.
Low and rich and deeply amused. It echoes around the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sound makes my skin prickle. Makes my stomach clench with a confusing mix of fear and something else I'm absolutely not ready to examine.
"No, no, no," I whisper, scrambling backwards on the bed until my back hits the headboard.
The laughter grows louder. More solid. The shadows thicken and swirl, gathering at the foot of my bed. They twist and coalesce, forming a vaguely humanoid shape.
Hex materialises slowly. Like he's pulling himself together from scraps of darkness. But something is different. He's not as solid as before. Not as defined. His edges blur and shift constantly. I can see through parts of him to the wall behind. He flickers like a faulty hologram.
The wards are working. Sort of.
His red eyes blaze through the shadows, fixed on me with unmistakable amusement.
"Well, well," he says. His voice is slightly distorted. Layered. Like he's speaking from underwater. "This is a surprise."
I clutch the duvet tighter. My knuckles are white. "Stay back!"
“You cannot command a prince of the Shadow Realm,” he says haughtily.
Oh god. I’ve pissed him off. I called him a duckling and I’ve strewn crystals around, and all it has done is insult him.
Hex takes a step forward. Then another. He prowls around the side of the bed with that predatory grace. But when he reaches the salt line and the crystals, he stops. His form flickers violently. He reaches out one shadowy hand, and it hits an invisible barrier. Ripples spread through the air like he's touching the surface of a pond.
He pulls his hand back and tilts his head, studying the protection with genuine interest.
"Clever," he murmurs. Then his gaze snaps back to me, and that amused smirk is back. "Did you do this all by yourself, or did you get help?"
"I had help," I admit. There's no point lying. He clearly knows.
"From humans dabbling in magic?" He sounds delighted by this. Like it's the funniest thing he's heard all week. "Oh, Adam. That's adorable."
Tentative relief tickles over me. He doesn’t seem enraged, he seems… amused. Deeply entertained, as if I’m nothing more than a clumsy puppy that’s just done something absurd.
"It's working!" I point out, trying to inject some confidence into my voice. Trying to sound braver than I feel. "You can't get to me."
Hex's rich laughter rolls through the room again. He moves to the other side of the bed, testing the barrier from a different angle. Still blocked. He completes a full circle around my room, prowling like a caged animal. Except I'm the one who's caged. Trapped on my own bed by my own protections.
This was a terrible plan.
"You're right," Hex says, stopping at the foot of my bed. He leans against the invisible barrier, shadows writhing around him. "I can't touch you. Not while you're cowering behind your little magic tricks."
The way he says it makes heat flood my face. Cowering. Like I'm pathetic. Like I'm weak.
"I'm not cowering!" I snap. "I'm being sensible!"
"Is that what you call it?" His eyes gleam with mischief. "So scared of getting close to someone that when a handsome man offers you a good time, you put up wards."
My mouth falls open. The absolute audacity. The nerve!
"That's not what this is about!" My voice comes out higher than I'd like. Defensive and flustered.
"Isn't it?" Hex's form solidifies slightly, just enough that I can make out the sharp planes of his face. The curve of his smirk. "When was the last time you let anyone into your bed, Adam?"
"That's none of your business!"
"Two years, wasn't it?" He sounds like he already knows the answer. Like he's been rummaging around in my head. "Two years since you let anyone touch you. Since you let yourself feel anything."
"Stop it." My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the mattress, trying to ground myself.
"You're so desperate to keep everyone at arm's length," Hex continues, his voice dropping lower. Softer. More dangerous. "You live in someone else's flat. Work a job you hate. Have no real friends except the goth boy who thinks you're a fun occult mystery. You're not living, Adam. You're just existing."
Each word lands like a physical blow. My chest feels tight. My throat is burning. He's right. He's absolutely right, and I hate that he can see it so clearly.
"And now," Hex says, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical gesture, "someone finally wants you. Really wants you. And what do you do? You run and hide behind crystals and salt like a frightened child."
"You're a shadow creature who wants to feed on me!" I yell, finally finding my voice. Finding my anger. "Forgive me for being cautious!"
"Cautious." Hex tastes the word like it's bitter. "Is that what you call two years of self-imposed isolation? Caution?"
I glare at him. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches. I want to argue. Want to defend myself. But the words stick in my throat, because what can I say? He's not wrong. I have been isolating myself. Keeping everyone at a distance. Telling myself it's because I'm protecting myself from getting hurt again.
But maybe I'm just scared.
Hex watches me wrestle with this realisation. His expression softens slightly. Not much, but enough that I notice.
"You have claws, little human," he says quietly. "I saw them when you called me a duckling. That was brave. Foolish, but brave."
Despite everything, despite my anger and embarrassment and the crystals between us, I feel a small flicker of pride at those words.
"I want to see you use those claws on everyone who tries to walk over you," Hex continues. "Not just me."
I blink at him. The anger drains away, replaced by confusion. "What?"
"You let people push you around," he says bluntly. "Your boss. Your family. Strangers in the coffee shop who are rude to you. You just take it. Smile and nod and swallow your anger."
"I'm being professional!"
"You're being a doormat." He says it without heat. Just matter-of-fact. "And I'm going to fix that."
"You can't just fix me!" I splutter, indignation rising again. "I don't need fixing! I'm fine!"
Hex raises one eyebrow. The gesture is elegant even through the flickering shadows. "Are you?"
No. I'm really not. But I'm not about to admit that to him.
We stare at each other across the barrier. The silence stretches. My heart is still racing. My hands are still shaking slightly. But the fear is fading, replaced by something more complicated.
He thinks I have the potential to be brave. He wants me to stand up for myself. He's not trying to make me weaker. He's trying to make me stronger.
That's very boyfriend goals of him. Damn it.
"Why do you even care?" I ask quietly. "About whether I stand up for myself or not?"
Hex's expression shifts. Something flashes in his red eyes. Something I can't quite read.
"Because you're mine," he says simply. "And what's mine should know their worth."
Oh my fucking god. Who says shit like that? Did that really just happen?
Mine. He said it so casually. So certainly. Like it's an established fact. I should be offended. Should be angry that he's claiming ownership of me like I'm a possession. But instead, my stomach does that swooping thing again. That rollercoaster drop sensation. I feel my face heating up.
But it’s hardly my fault. No one, I mean absolutely no one, could remain composed while a sexy shadow monster says sexy shit like that.
He said I should know my worth.
Oh no. Oh no, this is bad.
I clear my throat and try to redirect. Change the subject before I do something stupid like swoon.
"What would feeding you even entail?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. My stupid brain floundering to change the subject and grabbing the first thing it can think of.
The effect is immediate and spectacular.
Hex's entire demeanour shifts. The amusement in his eyes turns predatory. Hungry. His form solidifies further, shadows pulling tight around him until he looks almost completely real. Almost completely there. The barrier between us seems to thin.
"Oh, Adam," he purrs, his voice dropping even lower. All gravel and honey. "Are you sure you want to know?"
No. Absolutely not. I should stop this right now. Should tell him to leave and never speak of it again.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
Hex's grin is wicked. He moves closer to the barrier, as close as he can get. His eyes never leave mine.
"It's quite simple," he says conversationally. As if we're discussing the weather. "I need to feed on desire. On pleasure. On the energy generated when you feel good."
I swallow hard. My mouth has gone completely dry. "And how exactly would you do that?"
"I would touch you." He says it so casually. So matter-of-factly. "Kiss you. Make you feel things you've been denying yourself for far too long."
Heat floods through my entire body. I'm pretty sure my face is the colour of a tomato. This is too much. Way too much information.
"I don't have to do anything invasive," Hex continues, clearly enjoying my reaction. "I don't have to hurt you or take anything you don't want to give. I just have to make you feel pleasure. The more intense, the better. The more drawn out the better. And I'm very, very good at that."
The confidence in his voice makes my stomach flip. The promise in his words makes my skin tingle.
"So when you say feed," I manage, my voice coming out embarrassingly breathy, "you mean..."
"I mean I would worship every inch of you," Hex says, his eyes blazing. "Learn what makes you gasp. What makes you moan. What makes you forget your name. And I would feast on every delicious moment of it."
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
I'm going to combust. Right here. Right now. Just spontaneously catch fire from embarrassment and arousal and complete overwhelm.
"And you wouldn't get anything out of it?" I squeak. "Besides the feeding?"
Hex's laugh is low and rich and does absolutely nothing to help my current state. "Oh, I would get plenty out of it, Adam. Watching you fall apart would be its own reward. Knowing I'm the one making you feel that way. The only one."
The possessiveness in his voice should worry me. Should set off alarm bells. Instead, it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"But I'm a terrible kisser!" I blurt out. Immediately cringing at my own words. Why did I say that? What is wrong with me?
Hex tilts his head, studying me with renewed interest. "Who told you that?"
"My ex. He said I was too eager. Too sloppy. That I needed to learn some technique."
The temperature drops even further. The shadows around Hex darken, writhing with barely contained anger.
"Your ex," Hex says slowly, each word clipped and precise, "was an idiot."
"He wasn't wrong though," I mutter, pulling the duvet higher.
"Yes, he was." Hex's voice is firm. Absolute. "Enthusiasm is not a flaw, Adam. Neither is passion. Your ex was trying to make you small. Trying to control you by destroying your confidence."
I blink at him. That's exactly what my therapist said, the one time I went. Word for word, almost.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I can see you," Hex says simply. "I've been watching you for years, even from the Shadow Realm. I know you better than you know yourself."
That should be creepy. That should be stalker behaviour that sends me running for the hills.
But instead, it makes me feel seen. Known. Like someone finally understands.
This shadow being is better than a therapist. Much better. And that is so spectacularly messed up I don’t even know what to do with myself.
"So if I let you feed," I say slowly, trying to wrap my mind around this insane conversation, "you would kiss me. Touch me. Make me feel good. And that would give you energy?"
"Yes." Hex's eyes are locked on mine. Intense and unwavering.
"And I would enjoy it?"
"Oh, you would more than enjoy it." The promise in his voice makes me shiver. "I would make sure of that."
“And there wouldn’t be any side effects?”
A smirk spreads across his face. A truly mischievous one. “Your throat will be sore from screaming. And your knees might get a little bruised.”
I gulp, and the sound echoes around the bedroom. I’m not deigning to reply to that. I’m going to rise above it, ignore it and move on.
"And then what? You'd just leave? Come back when you're hungry again?"
"That depends entirely on you." Hex leans against the barrier, his form flickering slightly with the effort. "I could visit only when I need to feed. Quick and transactional. Or I could stay. Keep you company. Make sure no one walks all over you. Teach you how to use those claws properly."
He's offering companionship. Not just feeding. He's offering to actually be present in my life.
My heart is racing so fast I'm worried it might actually explode. This is insane. All of this is completely insane.
I'm considering it. I'm actually considering letting a shadow creature into my bed so he can feed on my pleasure.
What is wrong with me?
"I need to think about it," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hex nods slowly. Like he expected this answer. Like he's perfectly content to wait.
"As you wish," he says. Then his grin turns wicked again. "But these wards won't last forever, Adam. Eventually, they'll fade. And when they do, I'll be right here. Waiting."
The promise in his words sends a shiver down my spine. Not entirely from fear.
"Now get some sleep," Hex says, his form already starting to dissipate. Shadows pulling apart like smoke. "You look exhausted."
"Whose fault is that?" I mutter.
His laughter echoes through the room even as he fades completely. "Sweet dreams, little human with claws."
And then he's gone. The temperature returns to normal. The lamp stops flickering. The shadows retreat to their normal corners where they belong.
I'm alone in my bedroom, surrounded by crystals and salt and the lingering smell of sage.
I flop backwards onto my pillows and press both hands over my burning face.
He wants to kiss me. Touch me. Make me feel good. And all I have to do is let down the wards and invite him in.
It's the worst idea I've ever heard. It's also the most tempting idea I’ve ever heard.
I grab my pillow and scream into it. Long and loud and full of frustration.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just having a complete mental breakdown while a shadow prince tries to seduce me into being his personal snack bar.
Totally normal. Completely reasonable.
I roll onto my side and stare at the crystals on my nightstand. They glint innocently in the lamplight.
How long will they last? A week? A month? And what happens when they weaken? What happens when Hex can reach me again?
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, a small, traitorous part of me is already looking forward to it.
I'm so screwed. X 

​

That is one impressive house. I feel daunted just looking at it. It is a million miles from the tiny two-up two-down in the East End of London where I started my family all those years ago. Well, not a million miles in actual distance, it’s only about eighty of those. But it is so far away in every other aspect, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Am I happy that my great-great grandkids are growing up in luxury? Yes. Am I happy that it is a side effect of being enslaved by a psycho billionaire? No. Well, maybe yes. Having some good come out of it has to be something. 

A heavy sigh escapes me. I don’t know the answer. I’m tired and I just want to see my family. Whatever I think or feel about things is irrelevant. It happened. It is reality. Time to get on with it. Moping is for losers.

With that thought in mind, I carefully drive my car down the driveway and get it as close to the front door as I can. Thank heavens there is a porch, and it is a cloudy day. I’m really not looking forward to getting older, and direct sunlight meaning bursting into flames instead of intense discomfort. But I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

All right, time to take a deep breath and make a run for it. 

I grimace as I barrel out of the car and sprint the short distance to the shade of the porch. I’m so anxious to get out of the sun that I don’t even hesitate about ringing the doorbell.

The chimes ring out pleasantly and the large fancy door opens swiftly. I quickly step inside into the white marble floor of the entrance lobby. The grand staircase is super impressive.

“Edmund?” says a pleasant voice behind me.

They are probably slightly offended that I barged past them, but there is sod all I can do about that. I needed to get away from the sun. Hopefully, they won’t report my social faux pas to their boss.

“It’s Ned,” I reply automatically as I turn.

And then my long dead heart thumps. Jesus effing Christ. My eyes are feasting on the most handsome man to have ever walked the earth.

Tall, check. Dark, check. Handsome, hell yeah, because if I needed to breathe I’d be asphyxiating right now.
He is definitely six foot something. With dark, luxurious looking hair in what has to be an extremely expensive haircut. Eyes the color of finest whiskey. Strong nose and jawline. Manly chin. Good tan.

Flipping heck. If he smiles, I just know his teeth are going to be dazzling white and perfect.

My gaze rakes over his broad chest and then down over his strong legs. All wrapped up in a very fancy suit.
I swallow. God damnit. This is no butler. This has to be Morgan Dowd. My great-granddaughter's widower. 

Apparently, taste in men is genetic or something. Because, damn it. This is unreal.

“Come this way, please,” he says.

I nod mutely and follow him. Why the hell did he have to open his own door? He could have sent a member of staff to do it. Now his first impression of me is me bursting into his house uninvited. 

Not that he seems bothered. And besides, I am about to glamor the poor man into hiring me as his nanny. It is not as if he needs to like me.

I glance around as he leads me down a hallway. The house is silent. It feels empty. I don’t think the kids are here and it is stupid of me to be disappointed about that. I knew they wouldn’t be. Because who the hell introduces their kids to all the people they are interviewing?

Morgan opens the door to a lovely study. There is a big mahogany desk, groaning bookshelves. And a plush leather chair in front of the desk. Right in a beam of dazzling sunlight.

“Take a seat,” he says as he gestures to the cursed chair.

Fuck my life. The only other chair in here is the one behind the desk. The one he is about to sit on.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks.

“Whiskey, please,” I answer.

And then I remember it is not even lunchtime. And this is a job interview. For a nanny position.

Morgan gives a soft chuckle. “I know the feeling. How about coffee to tide us over?”

“That would be great!” I blurt.

Oh my days. I can’t believe he took my fuck up for a joke. I’m never this lucky. Ever.

He wanders over to a side table, and I belatedly spot a gorgeous coffee machine. For fuck’s sake. I thought he was going to have to leave the room. Oh well, there is nothing for it. I’m going to have to act while his back is turned.

Quickly, I grab the chair and yank it sideways, towards the shade. It is far heavier than it looks and it scrapes loudly across the stained floorboards.

Morgan whirls around at the noise and catches me red-handed. Wrapped around his expensive chair and inexplicably dragging it across his fancy floor. 

I wince. “The um…sun was in my eyes.”

He blinks at me. Then he robotically holds out a coffee. I think I have really freaked him out now. Should have known my luck wasn’t going to last. I’m going to have to glamor the shit out of him.

I take my coffee and sheepishly sit in the chair. At least it is out of the sun now.

Morgan takes his seat on the other side of the desk. He places his coffee cup down, and then he sighs heavily.
“The kids are four, three and two years old. Their mother died by suicide just over a year ago. I’ve taken as much time away from my business as I can, but I need to be more hands on. Hence needing a nanny.”

He takes a deep breath and the grief in his eyes is breaking my heart. “I just wanted to get that out in the open.”

“Okay,” I nod calmly.

While inside, I feel like I am dying. How many times has he had to say that today? Lay his grief bare for everyone to see. It’s awful. And it is all my fault. Ritchie said he’d kill my family if I didn’t behave. And stubborn, arrogant ass that I am, I didn’t listen. And my great-granddaughter and her family paid the price.

“The kids are doing remarkably well. They have a great therapist. The job isn’t anything to do with that.”

I nod my understanding. “And how are you doing?”

He blinks at me again. His body even recoils a little. A tiny, rueful smile tugs on the corners of his generous lips.

“Not so good.”

Now I’m the one startling in surprise. That was a brutally honest answer. But I did ask. And I’m a stranger, a safe space. Someone he thinks he is never going to see again, because I’m pretty sure he is not going to give me the job by his own violation.

He visibly rouses himself and picks up a piece of paper.

“So you don’t have any professional experience, but you helped raise your baby sister?”

She was my daughter. I want to say it. It is on the tip of my tongue. I long to claim her, to tell the world that she existed and that she was wonderful. But I can’t. I look nineteen. Early twenties at most and that is shockingly young to have kids these days. 

I want to come across as normal and unremarkable as possible. As well as avoiding awkward questions about where my child is. So, sister is the lie I am going with.

My Barbara has to stay dead and buried. As much as it pains me. But this is all so I can take care of her great-grandkids, so I think she would forgive me.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say with a smile.

Morgan doesn’t reply. His eyes look over the piece of paper in his hand. My shitty resume, I assume. I only threw enough of a one together to get an interview. My plan always was to get my foot in the door and then use my powers to get him to give me the job.

Except I wasn’t expecting to feel guilty about it. Goddammit!. This is awful. Stupid conscience. Dumb morals. What good have they ever done me?

Morgan sighs heavily and places my resume down. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“The job is yours, if you want it.”

His softly spoken words drift around the study. My mind replays them. Several times.

“What?” I splutter, because I must have misheard him.

“You’re hired.”

I stare helplessly at him. He looks at me and smiles. A nice smile, even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 
I haven’t used any glamor. He has to have had dozens of far more suitable candidates than me. What the hell is going on?

“You are a man,” he says.

Well, no shit. Ten out of ten for observation.

He shrugs. “It feels less like replacing her.”

His gaze drops to the floor and his shoulders droop. For the second time today, my long dead heart beats. Fuck me. My great-granddaughter had excellent taste in men. Truly phenomenal. Her husband is hotter than hell and so damn lovely it is unreal.

I can feel his love for her. It is a palpable thing hanging in the air between us. He loves her. Misses her. Morgan mourns his wife with an intensity that smolders.

The knowledge settles my determination. I’m going to take this job. I’m going to look after the kids, but now I’m also going to look after him, the very best I can. Because, lord knows he deserves it. And it is the very least I can do. A shitty pathetic gesture towards making amends for this terrible thing I have done.

And while I’m doing so, I need to keep my heart dead. I absolutely cannot fall for this man. Nope. It cannot happen. For so very many reasons. I don’t deserve him, for a start.

But most of all, because his heart is already taken.

I take a deep breath and seal my resolve into my soul.
​
Then I smile. “When do you want me to start?”

​

​Mabon stirs in my arms. He untangles himself and stretches like a cat. All long lines and elegant grace. He is completely naked and utterly free from shame.
He yawns. “Give me Mister Dinky.”
“W…what?” I stutter in surprise.
He flashes me a condescending look. “Put your cock inside me.”
Whatever I was attempting to say gets stuck in my throat and gurgles. A light-headed feeling washes over me as all my blood rushes down. I was already fairly hard, just from memories of last night as well as it being morning.
“Get on with it!” he snips.
I roll on top of him and he spreads his legs for me. I look down at him and he grins up at me with sparkling eyes.
“I’m loose enough from last night, slide Mister Dinky in.”
I grunt, and do as I’m told. His tight, soft heat engulfs me, and I groan in delight. He feels so fucking good.
His head tilts back and his eyes flutter closed.
“That’s it. Good boy,” he purrs. “You fill me so well.”
Oh fuck. Fireworks are going off in my mind. I felt his words viscerally. They have sunk into me and rewritten my DNA. I may never recover from this, and I don’t even care.
I ease all the way into him, but before I can savour the sensation, my hips take over and start to rock.
Mabon moans. “Keep going. Harder. Deeper.”
My body obeys him. The friction of my thrusts zings like electricity through my veins. I gasp.
Then I stop. His eyes snap open in outrage. I give him a slow gentle slide of my cock, nearly all of the way out, then a sensual glide in. The noise he makes is music to my ears.
“No,” I rumble breathlessly. “I’m going to give it to you nice and slow until you are a whimpering, pleading mess.”
His amethyst eyes glow. Sparkling delight. Dark satisfaction. Keen anticipation.
My heart ricochets against my ribcage in response. He likes my idea. It pleases him. He wants me to tease and torment him. To slowly fill him with pleasure until he cannot take it anymore. Maybe this is how I get him to scream my name. By making him so desperate that he begs me for it. Pleads. Whines my name in a cry for mercy.
My hips settle into their new rhythm. Pulling out, sliding in and feeling his body opening up for me all over again. In and out. In and out.
He is tight around me. Soft silken heat. Little ripples of his pleasure spasm around me. He is moaning beautifully now. His cock is hard and flushed. Leaking clear liquid onto his taut stomach.
My movements are too gentle to cause his chains to pull on his piercings. And that’s a tragedy that needs to be resolved.
I shift my weight onto one arm. With my now free hand, I take a hold of his silver chains, just above his belly button ring. I lift gently upwards, pulling the silver chains taut. Tugging on both his nipples and his cock at the same time.
His nipples immediately harden, and he cries out and writhes helplessly. Grinning, I do it again and again. Timing it in between my gentle thrusts.
“More,” he whimpers desperately.
A deep groan rumbles through me. My vision darkens and balls draw up. His soft begging nearly made me cum.
“More,” he repeats.
I give his chains a firm tug, and he keens, high and long.
“Do you want something, Your Highness?” I tease.
He mutters something my translator doesn’t catch, but I’m pretty sure it is an inventive swear word.
“Make me come,” he whines.
“I’m not stopping you,” I say. “But I could watch you writhing on the edge like this all day.”
He yowls and lifts his hips up. It forces a grunt from me. He clenches tightly and I’m seeing stars. He wraps his long legs around my waist and holds me tight. He continues to buck up against me. Fast and hard. I should stop him. I should let go of the chains and take a hold of his hips and hold him down. But pleasure is coursing through me. Pure. More intense than anything I have ever felt.
Our hips slam together. Messy and uncoordinated. My cock pulses and suddenly I’m cumming. My muscles are spasming. I’m yelling. Jerking. He keeps on bucking and tightening around me. Milking me. Drawing out my bliss in great shuddering waves that are going on and on. Far longer and deeper than anything I ever thought was possible.
I’m floating now. Spinning amongst the stars. My consciousness driven out of my body by the sheer ecstasy.
He wails his way through his own orgasm, and I love the sound of it. A song of rapture and euphoria. Pure burning joy. All things I have given him and that he deserves.
The volume slowly reduces. Now the only sound is our panting breaths. I open my eyes. He is looking up at me. My softening cock is still nestled inside his heat. I never want to leave. I could stay like this always.
His amethyst eyes are full of fondness. Tenderness. And a little bit of awe. His beautiful face is flushed and sweaty. He looks well fucked. Sated. Drunk on endorphins.
Pride swirls through me. Warm and golden. Look at what I have done to him. Me. I’m the one that has made him look like this.
And suddenly everything is so clear now. As clear as the morning light streaming around the curtains. I know what I’m going to do.

Mabon is already sitting in the sunken bath by the time I reach the bathroom. I hover by the doorway for a moment, while holding my own leash like a crazy person.
“Get in,” orders Mabon.
The bath is big enough for twelve people at least, so fine, whatever. I’ll join the bossy prince in his bath.
As I wade into the hot water, he throws a washcloth at me. It nearly hits me in the face, but I just about manage to catch it in time.
He doesn’t notice. He just leans back against the wall of the tub and tilts his head back, showing off the long lines of his slender throat.
The water is lapping at his chest. Teasing against his pierced nipples. The silver chains dip down into the water and out of sight. It is very hard not to think about where they go. Very hard. Impossible in fact.
I hate that I have such a perfect image of it burned into my mind. I can picture the rest of him in intricate detail. 
“You are supposed to be washing me,” he says without opening his eyes.
His accent is exquisite. Exotic. Enticing. I swear it dances over my skin and caresses it.
He lifts his head up and looks at me. I’m standing here, waist high in the bath, washcloth in one hand, my leash in my other. Just staring at him. 
My cheeks heat and I hastily stumble forward. I’ve never washed someone before, but it can’t be hard. Surely it is simply a matter of running this cloth all over him?
I drop the leash into the water. The weight of it tugging on my bejewelled collar is… is something I do not want to think about right now.
Mabon closes his eyes again and tilts his head back. He is sitting and I’m standing. I’m towering over him. He doesn’t look the least bit concerned.
I take a deep, fortifying breath. I’m biding my time. I’m being clever. I’m gathering information. That means I have to do this. No matter how humiliating it is. Because that’s what I’m worried about. Humiliation. I’m definitely not worried about how much I’m going to like it. 
I’m not into men. Not even extraordinarily beautiful ones. And I’m absolutely not into captors. Or invading overlords. So it’s all fine. Nothing to worry about.
Grimacing, I dip the washcloth into the gently steaming water. Then, I hold my breath and place the dripping wet cloth onto his shoulder. Water streams over his slightly shimmering skin. It pools in his clavicle. A droplet beads on his nipple.
I force a swallow down my dry throat. 
I dip the washcloth again and slop it messily onto his other shoulder.
“You are terrible at this,” he says without looking at me or even opening his eyes.
Indignation coils low and heavy in my guts. Of course I’m terrible at this. I’ve never been ordered to wash someone before. This sudden burning desire to show him that I can be the best personal washer who has ever existed, is stupid. I have nothing to prove. I don’t need his approval.
I clench my jaw and run the wet cloth slowly and carefully over his glistening chest. I slide between his nipples, skirt under the edge of his left one, delicately jangling the silver chain as I go. Then I repeat, this time going around his right nipple.
He doesn’t move. He barely seems to be breathing. But his nipples harden. They darken from lavender to violet. 
I wonder what they taste like? What would the silver rings feel like on my tongue? Would he gasp if I flicked them, or tugged on them with my teeth? Do his nipples get harder than this? More swollen? Are they as sensitive as they look?
I blink. What the hell is wrong with me? Why on earth did my thoughts go down that path?
And now they are not stopping. Now I’m picturing him writhing beneath me while I torment his nipples. I’m imagining making him cum just from that. I’m fantasising that he would make the same noises as the last time I watched him orgasm.
“Enough of this,” he says abruptly.
I stagger back as he stands and turns. Water sloshes everywhere. He steps out of the bath and stands on the tiled floor with his back to me. My gaze drops to his pert ass cheeks as water streams over the peachy globes of perfection.
“You may dry and oil me.”
I cough awkwardly. I am rock hard. And naked. The water is the only thing saving me.
“Now.”
I step towards him. His back is to me. Besides, he is probably already aware of my arousal. Who knows what kind of freaky sex powers he has? He definitely seems like the type to have them.
He points at a low table, where a neatly folded towel sits next to a jar. He said to dry and oil him, so I guess I’m supposed to do it in that order. I’m sure he will soon tell me if that’s wrong.
I hurry over to the table and grab the towel. It is ridiculously soft. Do they spin them out of clouds or something? Actually, thinking about it, this is now a fey court. So towels spun out of clouds could totally be a thing. 
My stomach twists uncomfortably. Just how much my world has changed is deeply unsettling. And that was even before I was abducted and imprisoned. And made to dry a super gorgeous prince with a cloud.
My hand shakes as I dab the towel at the middle of his back. I wait for a heartbeat, with bated breath, but he offers no criticism. So I continue. I pat gently all over his back. And then his ass cheeks. They jiggle ever so slightly under my touch, and the urge to drop this blasted towel and knead Mabon’s ass cheeks with my bare hands is frightfully strong.
I grind my teeth and continue my journey down his long, shapely legs. I’ve done all of this side of him now. Which means I need to walk around to his front. Where he will be able to see my erection.
But I don’t see any way out of this.
Mabon stands perfectly still as I walk around to his front. I stand before him, with the towel ever so casually held in front of my cock.
His amethyst gaze drops down to my groin and then back up to my eyes. He smirks. An honest to god smirk. A mocking curling of his lips that causes dimples to form in his cheeks. Actual dimples. Insanely cute ones. It’s outrageous.
I’m almost angry as I step forward and dab at his chest. But being confronted with his nipples again, drains the anger from me and leaves me feeling hazy. A little dizzy even.
“Those cuffs do not suit you,” he says suddenly.
And they slide off of me and hit the floor with a dull thud that makes me flinch. Mabon didn’t move. The magic just happened, and that is so very freaky.
“Continue.”
Oops. I hadn’t realised that I had stopped. Hastily, I resume my task. 
I work my way down. To his taut stomach. And down a little more. His pierced cock is hard by the time I reach it. I’m sure that should be satisfying. I’m sure I should smirk back. Even though I don’t have dimples.
I try to ignore his cock. I dry one leg and then the other. I’m on my knees before him now. Please tell me this is over. My skin feels too tight for my body. Like I’m about to explode.
I look up at him. He looks down at me.
Slowly, very slowly, his long-fingered hand drifts down to his cock. He unclips the chain.
“You may take me into your mouth.”
A strange strangling noise comes out of me. It sounds like an animal caught in a trap. One that can’t breathe. And I guess that is exactly what I am.
“I don’t know how to,” I rasp.
Not, ‘I don’t want to.’ Or, ‘I like girls.’ Or even, ‘Remember that consent stuff?’
No, nothing like that comes out of my mouth. Just a helpless confession of inadequacy.
Mabon rolls his eyes and huffs. “I’m I going to have to teach you everything?”
I’m fairly confident that’s a rhetorical question. Even if it’s not, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the power of speech.
“I can’t be bothered to teach you right now.” He grabs a fistful of my hair. “Open your mouth and don’t resist me.”
My mouth opens.
His eyes narrow. “No biting.”
I shake my head as best I can with his grip on my hair. If he is willing to mutilate me for trying to escape, I can’t even imagine what he would do to me if I bit his cock.
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and all of a sudden, I have a cock in my mouth. It’s hot and surprisingly heavy. It doesn’t taste bad at all. And the silver barbell isn’t scraping my throat. It’s just there, slightly colder than the flesh filling me, and heightening my awareness.
Suddenly, he is deeper in my throat. I gag. He pulls out a little. He shoves back in, even deeper than before. The choking noise I make is obscene. He makes a pleased, happy noise in return.
Then he starts to fuck my face. His hips are thrusting. He is yanking my head up and down, and the stinging pain in the roots of my hair is exquisite. I’m drooling helplessly. Slobber is escaping my mouth. My eyes are watering, tears are flowing down my face.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. He shows no mercy.
And I love it.
I’m on my knees before a man, having his cock rammed down my throat, and I’ve never been harder. Or more aroused.
He is using me. This pretty, feminine man is using me. Dominating me. Making me helpless and vulnerable. He is taking control and all I can do is submit. Take it. Yield and surrender. It’s driving me wild.
He slams into me and holds still. He is so far down my throat, I can’t breathe. He lets out a soft, breathy moan, and hot gushes spill down into my stomach. I can’t taste him. I guess that’s because he is far past my tastebuds.
I look up at him. He is not pulling out. I still can’t breathe.
He smiles down at me. His eyes are heavy lidded and dark with stars again. He smiles and the dimples appear. He pats my head.
And I explode. My orgasm destroys me. I’m shaking and convulsing. My throat spasms around his cock. He groans in appreciation.
I’m cumming and cumming and I don’t think it is ever going to stop.
Until suddenly it does.
He pulls out of me and my lungs suck in an enormous wheezing gasp, and I fall backwards onto my ass. My head is swimming. My sight is blurry. My lungs continue to heave.
“You look good like that,” he says softly. 
His cool fingers run tenderly over my swollen and puffy lips. He gives me another dazzling smile and pats me on the head again.
“Good boy.”
My cock twitches in response.
Oh heaven help me. I’m so fucked.


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