Chapter Text
Her forearms slammed down on the table, catching before her nose could crack against the wood. It didn’t stop Gwen's stomach from hitting the edge hard enough to wind her. She didn’t have a moment to feel the pain before the back of her shift yanked up.
The hall was full of feasting fæ. Gwen grit her teeth. The handle of the wine jug was turned towards her. All she had to do was grab it, spin around and smash it into his face. It would be quick—
“Gryff.” The voice came from her side. “I wanted that one.”
She hated the lazy way they spoke. The few that bothered with the common tongue, when they needed to make themselves understood for the lowly humans, drawled through the syllables, but the knights accosting her saw no need to include her in their debate. They stuck to the language of the fæ.
“You should have been faster, dear friend.” A palm squeezed her rear, and Gwen’s hand ached for violence.
But then they’d know she wasn’t a whore. She’d be trapped in the Prince of the Mistral’s castle. They’d throw her in the dungeon with Anselm. Her finger dug into the wood hard enough to feel the grain in the sliver between skin and nail.
“You son of a whore.” Gryff’s dear friend growled.
There was the smack of a fist against bone, and the beast behind her was ripped away. Gwen dropped, scrambling from the table to the edge of the hall. The mess of columns that hid servants. The shadows were her first reprieve since she’d snuck in with the whores summoned for the feast. Her choice of disguise was feeling less clever by the moment. Gryff’s dear friend had him by the shoulder, his knee embedded in his diaphragm in a brutal blow that tinged his eerily symmetrical face green.
Gwen glanced to her side, her eyes fixed on the door not far to her left. A servant’s entrance, and her escape, right until an arm draped over her shoulders. Long fingers gripped her upper arm. Her head snapped up, eyes widening as she met the glittering gaze of a fæ. Green, the most vibrant green she’d ever seen. So bright, it looked like the forest canopy when the morning sunlight shone through. She dropped her gaze immediately.
“Knights.” Fingers gripped her chin. Soft skin that healed as fast as it was cut. Unless the blade was iron. Then it festered like a burn. “If you fight over the human, it gets taken away.”
Gryff’s dear friend stood straight, letting the other fæ go. It took Gryff a few moments longer, but he managed it, cheeks flushed and gasping for air.
“Sir.” Both fæ’s heads dipped, eyes cast down.
They were Knights of the Prince’s Guard; they bowed to very few fæ. The creature holding her was important. Granted, not Tristrian, Prince of the Mistral, Lord of Storms and the Firewinds important, but close enough to it that the difference hardly mattered. The weight of the fælord's arm around her burned as her eyes skimmed the high table. The ruler of Stormharth was at his throne. Most of the fælords and fæladies' seats were filled; there were two or three gaps. She couldn't tell them apart well enough to guess at the one who’d caught her.
“Well,” the fælord prompted.
The knights dropped to their knees, heads bowed.
“We are sorry, sir.” A chorus of regret.
“Don’t be too hard on yourselves,” he said. “The sow certainly has a base appeal. I can see how you were bewitched.” Long fingers gripped her upper arm hard enough to hurt. “As you were, soldiers.”
The fælord pulled her with him, his arm around her shoulders. The dresses the whores wore were flimsy, but the skirt at least shielded her shaking knees from the monster’s eye as he led her towards the high table. His chair was far from the prince, between two fælords. Only one greeted him; the other had his elbow leant on the arm of his chair, his face hidden by his hand. The edge of a whore’s skirt peeked out from beneath the table, trapped under the leg of his seat.
It was almost a relief when his hand on her shoulder pushed her down, guiding her beneath the table. She hadn't known what to do next. Gwen slid to the very back. There was just enough space to kneel.
Two other women in the same position. The girl to her right had her eyes closed, her head resting on the thigh of the fælord who’d greeted her captor. Her lips parted, and her breath the even puffs of sleep. To Gwen’s left was an entirely different story.
The woman's shallow whines were trapped in her chest. Her lips stretched wide. A fælord’s fist in the back of her hair as she swallowed his—
Gwen’s gaze snapped in front of her as the fæ that had caught her settled into his seat. His legs spread wide, stretching the black leather of his breeches. His hand dropped between them, reaching. It took all of her will to move forward, to not cower at the very back, against the board that protected the high fæ's dignity from the view of their knights.
He caught her shoulder as soon as she was within reach, and Gwen settled between the enemy’s legs.
“You’ve caught a shy one.” The voice came from the right.
The fælord the girl was sleeping on. She shifted when he spoke, nestling against his thigh.
“An act, I’m sure,” her captor said. “One it will drop quickly if it knows what’s good for it.”
The other fælord sighed. “Cyr, be gentle with the poor girl—it’s not one of your prisoners.”
Gwen froze as the table runner lifted, and she looked up at those same virulent eyes. Set in an almost perfect face. Thick lips and a sharp nose, a jawline less strong than his high cheekbones. The only imperfection was the scar that cut through his dark brow, trailing to his cheek. Any deeper and he’d have lost one of the dazzling green eyes that were staring down at her. Her heart stuttered as her mind caught up. There were so many names for Tristrian’s torturer. The bastard who’d maimed a thousand mortal men. The dreaded Lord of Whispers.
He was examining her just as closely, eyes narrowed and his lips just barely pursed. Gwen watched his brow rise. Another head joined his, craning to peer down at her. She dropped her gaze. Twice she’d looked at his face. It was grounds for him to cut out her eyes.
“It looks half-starved,” the other fælord muttered. “Things must be getting desperate out there for it to be so thin in summer.”
The runner dropped back in front of her face. She was still blinking a moment later when his hand appeared under the table in front of her, a roughly torn piece of bread pinched between his thumb and finger. His skin was a little paler than hers, with a sheen to it that caught the light. Clean fingernails. No dirt trapped beneath the edge from daily toil. The bread was an offering. Gwen's fingers brushed his before he jerked his hand back. Was he taunting her? Her hand dropped back to her side.
His hand returned, knuckle brushing across her cheek before he found her lips. The fæ rested the bread against her closed mouth. It was still warm, fresh from the oven.
Her lips parted, and the fæ slipped the bite into her mouth, withdrawing his fingers almost immediately. So soft! No sawdust or stones to pad out the flour. No risk of losing a tooth when she bit down. Gwen closed her eyes, and for the barest moment, as a thumb brushed across her lip, she was in ecstasy.
“Where were you?”
The fælord’s legs tightened around her shoulders.
“Talking with the newest arrest,” Lord Cyr said.
“Talking or—”
“Talking, Makdara,” he repeated. “The knives will come out tomorrow, after it’s had time to sweat.”
Her heart started beating again as swiftly as it had frozen, relief painful in its intensity. Anselm hadn’t been tortured yet. There was still a chance she could get her older brother out in one piece.
Another morsel appeared in front of her—a berry this time. Gwen took the time to squint at it, identifying it as a blackberry before she opened her mouth. She wouldn’t risk eating a fæfruit. His thumb came with the berry, pressing down. The tart flavour burst across her tongue. His fingers curled to grip the underside of her jaw so she couldn't pull back. The pad of his thumb brushed the inside of her teeth. Running around both sides, as though he were counting. The sensation was strange, especially when he started moving his thumb in and out, spreading more of the squashed berry across her tongue. Spit pooled in her throat, and Gwen swallowed, the motion tightening her lips around his thumb like she meant to suck it.
“Rebel pig,” Lord Cyr said.
“Funny.” Lord Makdara didn’t laugh. “That’s almost the same word they use in their tongue when they speak of us.”
His thumb slipped past her lips. Gwen watched the trail of her spit that stretched between them as he pulled away. To her left, the girl whimpered, her hands scrambling against the ground. The fæ gripped the back of her head, holding her in place, lodged far enough down her throat that she was turning red. His hips bucked as the beast let out a growl.
The fælord held the woman there a few moments longer before he pulled her head back. She was still choking, her nose flaring wide and her throat working as she tried to swallow. The noise rang in Gwen’s ears. Her stomach twisted with the heaviness of dread.
“Took you long enough,” Lord Makdara said.
“You think it’s easy when I have you two nattering next to me.” His laugh was unpleasant.
The fælord pulled his seat back, yanking the woman out from under the table by her scalp. She didn’t come back, and the seat pulled in; only the fælord's knees remained. Gwen almost wished she were her, then she’d have the chance to escape.
“How long do you think?” Lord Makdara asked. “Until the prince gets bored?”
She shivered, and the legs trapping her tensed. His hand came back, reaching. Gwen flinched before his hand covered her scalp, fingers gentle as he brushed through her hair. She felt the edge of his fingernails just behind her ear. A pleasant scratch.
“Another hour at least.” The fælord to her left said, his hands moving beneath the table to lace himself up.
Above her head, she heard the tinkling of wine being poured. The hand on her head shifted, fingers laced through her hair. A cup appeared before her face. She jerked her head back, but the hand caught her, grip tightening.
“You’re giving it wine now?” She didn’t know who’d spoken; when they started laughing, they sounded the same. “What next, let it sleep in your bed?”
“It looked hungry,” Lord Cyr said. “I thought I should feed it something, so it doesn’t bite.”
Gwen turned, her hair pulling painfully tight as she pressed her cheek against his thigh, rubbing her head from side to side. She dared to curl her hands around his calf, squeezing. If he fed her fæ wine, then she was done. It could take her hours to come back to herself. Hours Anselm didn’t have.
He relented, pulling the cup away. It thumped against the wood above her head. His touch against her raw scalp was gentle again, stroking to soothe the burn his grip had caused when he stopped her pulling away. The relief was momentary, as she caught the movement of his other hand at his crotch, pulling at the laces there.
“If it’s another hour, I’m going to need to take the edge off,” Lord Cyr said. “I’m wound up.”
“Wound up?” The fælord to his left chuckled. “Makes a change.”
He’d finished with his breaches now, and Gwen’s gaze caught on the thing in front of her.
“Is the Lady of the Morning Mist not taking care of you?” Makdara asked.
“She’s sulking again.” All three of them scoffed.
“What about the latest arrests?” The other fælord asked. “Any pretty rebels?”
“Pretty rebels, Cath?” Cyr’s tone dripped with disgust. “I’d rather fuck a pig. It’d be cleaner.”
Gwen didn’t know if his—endowment—was normal. She had only the memory of his companions to compare it to, and she had deliberately not looked too close. She didn’t know if all men were so long and thick. The only thing she was remotely sure of was what he wanted her to do with it. She’d just seen a demonstration firsthand. As horrific as it had been to witness, she suddenly wished she’d paid more attention.
She knew it had been too long just staring at him, but Gwen’s limbs wouldn’t move. It had been a mistake to impersonate a whore. But how else was she supposed to get into the castle? She couldn’t leave Anselm to be tortured by the monster in front of her. The beast whose cock was in her face.
He tugged her head towards his crotch, impatient. Gwen shifted forward, palms to the ground. Her tongue darted out, brushing the tip, and he twitched in front of her nose. He tasted strange, a soft musk, and a little salt. She brushed the side with her tongue. He twitched again, swelling more. Gwen regretted the lick. She didn’t want him to get any bigger. The fæ made a noise, a short huff.
“Stop playing coy.” He spoke in the common tongue, every syllable perfectly punctuated and only the softest lilt that marked him as fæ. “Do the work your master was paid for.”
He tugged at the back of her scalp; her lips parted as he pushed himself inside her mouth. Her tongue bucked, pressing upwards as he yanked her closer. His cock touched the back of her throat, deep enough to cut off her air, and Gwen’s nails scraped against the cold flagstones.
She heard the sigh that left him as he slumped in his seat. He let go of her hair, his hand disappearing above the table. Gwen pulled back barely enough to breathe. Her lips pursed around him. She adjusted her tongue as she pulled in air through her nose. It wasn’t so bad now that he was in there. She just had to get through it, then he’d yank her out from under the table. Dismiss her, and she could sneak out. Rescue her brother. All she had to do was bring the Lord of Whispers to completion. Sweet mercy preserve her.
Gwen’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked on him. Her tongue found the rough bump of a vein, teasing. His knees clenched. She let the tip of him push deeper, pressing for a second against the barrier of her throat before she pulled back. It wasn’t long until the spit in her throat escaped her mouth, dripping down her chin. Gwen wiped it off, wrapping a wet hand around the meat of him. He let out the faintest gasp, as if he’d caught and trapped a groan in his chest.
“Is it any good?” Lord Cath asked.
“Enthusiastic.” Lord Cyr’s voice was tighter than it had been, like he was in pain. She tried sucking harder to see if it would help. The edge of her tooth scraped him, and he hissed. “Sloppy enough you’d think it’d never done it before.”
Lord Makdara laughed. “Trust you to find the virgin whore.”
Gwen’s hand tightened around his cock as her whole body tensed up.
“Dara,” Lord Cath said. “There are no virgins left in Stormharth. The prince had them all.”
Gwen tried to force herself to do what she’d been doing, but she couldn’t. She was surrounded by monsters, with a fæ’s cock in her mouth, and he didn’t even think she was doing it well. It was the rawest humiliation she’d ever known. Her eyes snapped closed as the first tear escaped. Burning her cheek. If she wept, she wouldn’t be able to breathe, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Words rang in her ears, distant and strange, and she knew it was bad. She was panicking, and she couldn’t stop.
Fingertips touched her cheek, almost gentle as they caught her tears. His hand stayed there long enough to feel the shudder of the sob that ripped through her. For it to vibrate, the length of the cock trapped in her mouth.
The fæ tugged at her hair, pulling her back. His cock slipped out of her mouth as his other hand curled over hers, where she was still gripping his length. He moved their palms together, gathering the spit she’d smeared over his length. He pulsed in her hand, twitching and hot against her palm. The first spurt caught her by surprise, a rope of pale, thick liquid that splattered her cheek. She snapped her eyes closed again, her free arm wrapping around her middle, protecting her vulnerable stomach. Her other wrist went limp as he kept rubbing himself with her trapped hand.
The second spurt hit the corner of her mouth, a line down her chin and neck. His grip on her hair tugged her closer. Another hit splattered her forehead and closed eyelid. His laughter sounded distant. Her hand was still trapped beneath his as his cock brushed her unsullied cheek. He wiped off the last of his spend on her skin.
Wood screeched as his chair shifted back, and she was sure he’d cast her aside now. Lord Cyr tugged her up by her limp wrist. His other hand dropped from her hair to loop his arm around her waist. Gwen stumbled before she had the chance to stand, landing in his lap, her hand catching against his chest.
Lord Cath’s deep belly laughter rang in her ears. “You covered it.”
Gwen couldn’t open her eyes. His spend clung to her. She could smell the salt of it. It would burn. His thumb crossed her cheek, gathering the sticky trails. He pressed the digit to her lips, prodding like he had with the bread and the berry.
“Open.”
She didn’t know what language he spoke. Just that she really didn’t want to, but a whore would do it. Gwen opened her mouth, and his thumb slipped inside—the taste of him salty and bitter. Foul in every way.
“It must be starving,” Lord Makdara said. He almost sounded sympathetic. “Can you feel its bones?”
The pity made her closed eyes burn. Lord Cyr gripped her torso just under her breast, tracing her ribs through her stolen dress.
“It’s got some meat on it,” Lord Cath said. “A few places I could sink my teeth into.”
The sob caught in her throat, a broken, painful sound. Cloth brushed her face, wiping away the last of his spend. Gone save for the tacky residue it left behind, and Gwen was still shaking. Hot breath touched her ear.
“Look at me.” In the common tongue again.
She blinked, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she saw a green too bright to belong to a man.
“It has pretty eyes.” Lord Cyr inspected her. “For a pig.”
His mouth twitched. His smile was soft at first before his lips pulled back to show his teeth. Gwen’s heart beat so fast she feared it might break. He snapped his jaws together. Close enough to the tip of her nose that she felt the breeze.
“You’re lost, little pig—run home before one of the wolves devours you.”
He let go of her, but Gwen couldn’t move; her legs wouldn’t work. Lord Cyr’s brow lifted, and her body came to life. Anselm, save her brother. It wouldn’t be hard to break the lock on his cell. She'd forged a thousand of them, put them together and taken them apart more times than she could count.
Rescue him from the dungeons. There was a gap in one of the grills of the castle walls that Daw’s sons used to use years ago to steal fæfruit from the Prince’s orchard. They’d both hung for it, but no one ever fixed the grate.
Her knee buckled, and Gwen almost fell. If it weren’t for the Lord Cyr’s hand at her hip, she’d have gone face-first into the pitcher of fæwine. He didn’t let go, holding her there, his hand drifting slowly to grip her—
“You’re right, Cath,” he said.
He let her go with a slap to her rear hard enough her teeth clacked together, catching the tip of her tongue. She tasted blood.
“It does have some meat on it.”
Gwen fled.