CHAPTER ONE
Caiden
Sex sells.
It’s a commonly used phrase because it’s true. For as long as dicks have been getting hard, men have emptied their pockets when presented with their ultimate fantasies. Big or small, obtainable or not, it never matters. When the blood rushes south, the wallets open up.
And here in Sin City—where deviance and debauchery reign—we sell every fantasy known to man and then some. It’s what we do, and we’re fucking good at it.
Standing at the two-way mirror from the office that looks out over the main floor of Deviant Desires, I watch as men of all ages and backgrounds throw their hard-earned money at the busty brunette dancing on the stage wearing nothing but body glitter and a smile. They cheer and shout while making lewd gestures and rubbing the hard-ons through their pants. Because every time she makes eye contact, she’s selling them the fantasy that she can be theirs for the right amount of money.
And the right amount is always more.
Business is good—it always is—but it’d be a whole lot better if my manager wasn’t skimming the profits and smacking the girls around when they don’t suck his cock for the promise of better shifts.
Narrowing my gaze on one of the girls giving lap dances on the floor, I use my preternatural vision to see what lies beneath the caked-on makeup. She’s hiding a bruise on one cheek and marks in the shape of fingerprints on her arm.
It’s solid enough proof that the information my men gave me earlier isn’t just hearsay, and it sets my fucking teeth on edge.
The girl isn’t one of my subjects—she’s human, after all—but she is my employee, which puts her under my protection. I don’t believe in abusing the innocent, and I’m not in the habit of mistreating my employees. This asshole is doing both.
It’s rare that I make personal appearances at any of the several dozen businesses I own all over this city—I have people for that—but today, I’m making an exception.
“I’ve just received word he’s entered the club, sire. Madoc has him.”
Turning, I give Seamus Woulfe a droll look.
My senior adviser is sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, his black suit pristine, silver hair and full beard perfectly styled. To look at him, you wouldn’t know he’s almost four hundred and fifty years old, although in the last decade, the lines around his eyes have become more pronounced and he’s slower getting around.
Facts that my younger brothers, Tiernan and Finnian, tease him about mercilessly. As our father’s lifelong best friend, Seamus is like an uncle to us, and in an official capacity, he’s my most trusted adviser and near-constant shadow.
Only the members of the Night Watch—my team of personal guards—are with me more often.
“Enough with the sire crap already,” I grumble as I take a seat behind the desk. “It sounds ridiculous coming from you.”
He simply shrugs. “You’ve deigned to leave your tower for once. There, you’re Caiden Verran, my pseudo-nephew and all-around pain in my ass. Out here, you’re my king, and I’ll address you as such. Don’t like it, leave me back at the tower.”
I roll my eyes. There are two places I spend my time—Midnight Manor, the estate of the Night Court’s royal family where I reside, and Nightfall, my hotel and casino on the Vegas Strip—neither of which is a tower, but Seamus amuses himself by likening me to a self-imposed Rapunzel who locks himself away from the rest of the world.
But I don’t have the luxury of a carefree life like my brothers.
Though the media has dubbed the three of us the Verran Kings of Vegas since our father passed seventeen years ago, I’ve been the only one with an actual empire to run as king of our people.
I scoff at his suggestion. “Like you’d listen if I told you to stay back.”
His golden eyes twinkle with a smile big enough to flash his fangs. “No, Your Majesty, I would not. But you’re welcome to try anyway.”
Our familial banter is cut short when Madoc, one of my Night Watchers, opens the door and shoves the manager in my direction, causing him to tumble onto the floor. My lip curls in disgust. He looks like he just came from getting sucked off in his car. His charcoal suit is wrinkled, tie loosened with top buttons undone, and his shirttails are sticking halfway out, like he was hastily tucking them back in before Madoc got ahold of him.
It’s far from the professional appearance I demand of my managers, and I know for a fact he didn’t look like this when we hired him. He’s let himself go and gotten sloppy. Considering everything else I know, I’d bet my crown he started partying too hard. I don’t mind if my managers want to let loose with the occasional party favor—a little nose candy now and again isn’t enough to get in the way of their jobs—but when the only things you care about are doing lines of blow and getting blow jobs, it becomes a problem.
A big one.
Nodding to Madoc, I let him know that I can take things from here.
Once the door is closed, Seamus gets up to lock it and stays on that side of the room, wisely keeping out of the line of fire.
“Ralph, so nice to see you,” I say, the tone of my voice making my sarcasm clear.
He struggles to his feet, then does a piss-poor job of pulling himself together, tugging on his jacket and swiping his greasy hair back with a meaty palm. Already, beads of sweat are dotting his forehead, and I can smell the stench of his dampening armpits.
There are certain preternatural abilities my kind all share: superior strength, healing quickly, and heightened senses. It’s times like this when I wish I didn’t have the benefit of that last one.
“Mr. Verran, hey there,” he says, his gaze shifting to where Seamus guards the door, then back at me. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Comin’ down to inspect the goods?”
“I think you’ve been doing enough inspecting for the both of us. Sit,” I command. And like a cowering dog, he does.
Steepling my fingers in front of me, I get straight to the point. “How long have you been stealing from me, Ralph? And before you attempt to lie, I suggest you don’t.”
Ralph gulps audibly and shifts in his seat. “About three—” I arch a brow. “Okay, six. About six months. But come on, man, it’s not like you need it. You fuckin’ own this town. You probably got more money than Oprah! I just gave myself a little raise, that’s all. I mean, I earned it. Deviant’s the number one strip joint for miles around. Everyone knows we got the best whores in Vegas.”
The fact that he’s justifying his actions like a spoiled child is enough to fuel my rage. But referring to my employees as “whores” offends me on a personal level. My city is, and always has been, sex-worker positive, and his lack of respect for the women who have more balls to do what they do than he’ll ever have hanging between his legs only serves to enrage me further.
I rise and slowly walk around to stand in front of him, then ease onto the front of the desk in a casual stance, my hands gripping the edge on either side to hide the way my fingernails have sharpened into points. Staring down at him, I bring up the second—and more important—reason I’m here.
“And did you also earn the right to demand sexual favors from them, then put your hands on them when they said no?”
“That what you heard?” Ralph scoffs like the accusation is ludicrous, his eyes darting around the room and landing everywhere but on me. “They wish. Like I’d want any of their used-up puss—”
I strike, cobra-quick and just as deadly, gripping him by the throat. His Adam’s apple bobs against my palm, and I scent the blood trickling from where my nails pierce his fat neck. I jerk him up and lift him to meet my six-foot-five eye level, leaving his feet to dangle in the air.
Satisfaction flows through me as I watch his face turn darker shades of red and his eyeballs begin to bulge out of their sockets.
Before he has a chance to pass out, I easily launch him across the room. Seamus steps aside just in time, avoiding being the meat in a Ralph-wall sandwich.
I wait to speak until I’m certain I have Ralph’s attention, then usher my warning with a deadly calm. “Insult those women again, and I’ll cut out your tongue and eat it while you watch.”
I wouldn’t want to, of course—not the eating part, anyway—but my reputation in this town as a volatile wild card when offended is well-known, and sometime examples need to be made.
Ralph is wise to fear me and what I might do.
Except when he pushes unsteadily to his feet, the look on his face isn’t one of fear. It’s pure, unadulterated malice. Interesting.
Tilting my head, I study him like a lab rat choosing to go left when it should have gone right. I would normally just end this and get on with my day, but he’s piqued my curiosity.
“Fuck you, Verran,” he hisses. “I’ve had enough of you threatenin’ me and stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. Now, I suggest you walk outta here, and when the books are a little light, you look the other way. Or I’ll tell the whole goddamn world what you people really are.”
Seamus and I share a brief glance and arch of our brows. Crossing my arms over my chest, I give Ralph my undivided attention, even more curious now. “Which is…?”
Confidence curls his upper lip into a sneer. “You’re a fuckin’ faerie.”
Surprise lances through me, but I’m careful to keep my bored expression firmly in place. “That’s a shame, Ralph. Had I known you were such a bigot, I never would’ve hired you to begin with.”
His sudden confusion is almost enough to make me smile. Almost.
“What? No, that’s not—” He growls, clearly frustrated. “I mean a real goddamn faerie, with the wings and magic powers and shit.”
“Ah, I see now. Seamus,” I say conversationally, “am I sporting wings I wasn’t aware of?”
My adviser clears his throat to hide his amusement. “No, sir, no wings,” he says, switching to the more common “sir” that my people use in the company of humans.
It’s true—it has to be, because lying is the one thing our kind can’t do—I don’t have wings. All members of the Night Court—along with the equally culpable Day Court—were stripped of their wings, and the royal blood lines of both courts were robbed of our magic to manipulate shadows and light, respectively. Two of several consequences heaped upon us at the time of our exile some four hundred years ago.
Since I was born after the banishment, I only feel an objective sense of loss, in that I know I should have them. But for Seamus and the others who hail from Tír na nÓg, I imagine it feels the same as a human after a limb is amputated.
Devastating at first, but after a couple of years—or centuries—you grow accustomed to the loss.
Snapping out of my thoughts, I continue. “And, Seamus, have you ever known me to wield magical powers of any kind? Beyond my reputation with the women for having a magical dick, I mean.”
This time, Seamus isn’t as successful at cutting off his chuff of laughter. I’m not particularly humorous. I’m more of a sharp wit and dry sarcasm kind of guy, leaving the jokes to my brothers, who don’t have the burden of ruling on their shoulders. So, no doubt my magical dick comment took Seamus by surprise, for the humor and the fact that since I took the throne, lunar eclipses occur more often than my dick sees any action.
Sadly, with a kingdom to rule, I don’t have the time to indulge in all of life’s simple joys like my brothers do.
Regaining his composure, Seamus answers. “No magic powers that I’m aware of, sir.”
“Nor I of you, old friend.” I look back to Ralph, whose face is now a bright tomato red. “Guess that settles it, then. No wings and no magic.” Both true statements, if a little misleading.
“You motherfucker,” he mumbles, fishing a small container out of his pocket and unscrewing the cap. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to do this. You’re gonna be sorry when you’re on your knees and helpless as I beat the shit out of you and leave you for dead. And then? Then I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want with every bitch in this place, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it!”
With that, a severely unhinged Ralph cackles with glee as he dumps the contents of the container onto the floor.
Well, well…
Someone’s been doing a little too much googling.
I don’t move, simply arch a brow and wait.
Suddenly, Ralph’s elation dies a quick death as he realizes neither of us has dropped to our knees, compelled to count every grain of salt in the pile at his feet. “I—I don’t understand,” he sputters, panic blooming in his beady eyes as he tries to figure out where he went wrong. “Why didn’t that work? You’re fairies—I know you are. It said pure iron or salt… You’re supposed to be down there counting the fucking salt!”
I should probably care what led him down this path—why he thinks I’m something most humans write off as fictional—but I don’t. It’s already been a long day, and he’s been tapping out an Irish Riverdance on my last fucking nerve since I learned what he’s been up to.
“Poor Ralphy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read on the internet?” I tsk and give him a pitying look. “For what it’s worth, your whole approach was a horrible idea. If you ever suspect you’re in the presence of the fae, the very last thing you want to do is act like an asshole. Word is they offend easily and have tendencies to retaliate in brutal and creative fashion.”
A switchblade suddenly appears in Ralph’s hand, the knife flicking into position with a metallic snick. “Fuck you, Verran. We’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”
And now I’m done playing around.
Dropping the ruse like an anvil, a malevolent grin slides onto my face as I abandon my glamour and let Ralph get his first look at the real me: pointed ears, golden eyes so bright they almost glow, and deadly sharp canines.
He gasps, and I revel in the spicy scent of his fear.
“You should’ve gone with iron, Ralph.”
“F-f-faerie!”
Loosing a ferocious growl, I cross the distance faster than he can track and pin him against the wall. “It’s fae, you sniveling piece of shit. And I’m the motherfucking king.”
With that, I use my bare fists and brute strength to unleash the day’s frustrations on Ralph, punishing him for all his transgressions against me, my business, the workers under my protection, both human and fae alike. The whole thing lasts less than a minute but probably feels like an eternity to the man lying battered and bloody on the floor, whimpering in pain the same way I’m sure the women did after he assaulted them.
Seamus walks over and offers me the handkerchief from his pocket. “What do you want to do with him?”
“Tell the assistant manager he’s been promoted. Then have Madoc take him out to Joshua Tree and send him through the veil. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to dance and drink himself into a stupor with the other assholes at the Spring Court. If I’m lucky, he’ll be captured by the Winter Court and tortured for fun.”
Honestly, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the Summer, Winter, Spring, or Fall Court that finds him once he’s in Faerie, the world my ancestors hail from—a place in Ireland that exists in what humans call a parallel universe—or how they treat him while he’s there. They’ll get bored of him after a few days and spit him back through the veil.
Unfortunately for Ralph, a few days in Faerie could be a hundred years or more over here. A punishment that amuses me more than the swift finality of his death would, since a human mind cannot travel back from Faerie and survive fully intact.
Seamus dips his head in acknowledgment and leaves to follow my orders. Wiping the blood from my hands, I exhale slowly, regaining my legendary control and applying my glamour once more.
This wasn’t how I saw this meeting going, but that’s on Ralph. During his Google search, he should’ve paid less attention to the myth about counting grains of salt and more to the myriad warnings against insulting members of the fae. Especially the ruler of the Dark Fae.
Tossing the blood-stained handkerchief onto Ralph’s chest, I stride out of the manager’s office, where Seamus is waiting for me. “Let’s get out of here.”
“To the tower it is, sire.”
“Keep it up, wiseass, and see if I don’t make you walk back to Nightfall.”
He gasps dramatically. “That would be uncommonly cruel, Your Majesty. You know how slow I am these days.”
“Slow, my ass,” I say, cutting him a dubious look. “I saw you dodge that Ralph bullet like you were two hundred years old.”
He opens the rear passenger door of the Bentley for me. “Well, don’t tell the princes. It would take all their fun away.”
He winks, making me grin and shake my head as I slide into the car. Once the door is closed, I exhale slowly and let the adrenaline of the past hour drain out through my feet into the floorboards. Despite the neon chaos going full bore outside my window, a quiet stillness wraps itself around me, and I feel like myself again.
Seamus gets in behind the wheel and asks the same question he always does, whether he knows the answer or not. “Where to?”
“To Nightfall, old friend.”
Soon I’ll be back in my own office where I can relax in my usual fashion—pouring myself an expensive drink while the humans pour their money into my city.
It’s fucking good to be king.
