Evander bit down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make his father jerk back in shock. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then, I heard a sound I hadn’t heard in months. It was my laughter, which bubbled up within me. It was a bitter and broken sound.
“You find this amusing?” he asked with a glare.
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, smearing tears I hadn’t realised I’d shed.
“I think this is what humans refer to as poetic justice.”
Evander, triumphant, nuzzled deeper into my skin. His tiny fingers tangled in my hair as if to say: Mine.
The defeated King sat on the bed with a sigh, stroking Evander’s cheek. His son reached for his finger and held onto it as his eyes began to droop.
“I guess he is his father’s son after all,” he murmured before he leaned down, his mouth latching onto my other nipple.
I flinched, ready to shove him away, but Evander’s hand shot out, tangling in his father’s long hair, holding him in place.
I shook my head, pulling Evander closer against my chest. My thumb stroked the downy curve of his ear, reassuring him that I understood.
He wanted both of us.
The King had trapped me in his world, bound me with thorns and cruel bargains. However, Evander might become my advocate.
This wasn't how I’d planned on becoming a mother, and I’d never forget Luke, but Evander was an unexpected balm to my soul—a spark of defiance and a flicker of mine in this gilded prison.
Epilogue
Alvar
Days bled into weeks, and I—the most feared dark Fae king who’d toppled countless empires—was now at war with an infant. My son, my magnificent heir, was a milk-drunk tyrant, monopolising Willow’s breasts with a greed that bordered on treason. Every time I reached for her, his tiny claws lashed out like a barnacle defending its shipwreck.
Mine.
He would say until the word reverberated in my mind.
Unacceptable.
Tonight, I would reclaim what was mine. A whisper of magic, woven into Evander’s dreams—just enough to keep him asleep while I reminded Willow of her true purpose.
One taste of my aphrodisiac seed, and she’d forget his name. Her thighs would part, her womb would ache, and she’d beg me to fill her like a vessel starved for its king.
My dirty little flower was always so reluctant until she wasn’t.
I smirked, watching her rock Evander to sleep, her fingers stroking his hair. They could enjoy their victory for a little longer.
For now, the black veins had vanished from Willow’s belly, but soon, they’d return. Darker. Hungrier. Perfect.
A princess this time.
My princess.
Evander was a terror—a tiny, milk-thieving despot who clung to Willow like a barnacle. But a daughter? She’d be mine.
No claws in my hair. No screeching when I claimed her mother’s lips. Just soft curls and adoring eyes, whispering“Daddy” like a prayer.
I’d spoil her rotten.
Gowns spun from spider silk—a crown of living roses. And my consort—my thorn-collared, sharp-tongued queen—would melt every time our girl giggled.
