➸ Bellator Pulcher, Princeps Saeva

Ingmar was growing bored of this place. Bored of finding a new bed to sleep in every night, of having to hunt for himself all the time, of having no one look at him with the proper mix of respect and fear. Initially escaping to Blossom Forest had been an adventure - a chance to shed the responsibility that awaited him on the throne and escape all the difficult questions that faced his future. In his birthplace, the pressure mounted daily for the princes to determine which one would eventually wear the crown . . . take a mate . . . lead their territory into greatness, and continue the legacy of prosperity and power their kingdom had boasted for generations. An unspoken support for Ingmar as the future King had started cycling through the halls weeks before the brothers decided to skip out; he stood the obvious choice, so much more serious and aggressive than his carefree sibling Idal. While the strawberry blond prince would have the pleasure of tumbling his way through the maidens in the palace until he died, Ingmar was expected to marry for political reasons, to “grow up” and push his hedonistic desires to the side until he found the appropriate time to enjoy them. Both brutes had lived their entire lives devoid of consequences, yet full of satisfaction. When faced with the reality of losing that freedom, the brothers easily agreed to take a vacation.

But vacations weren’t meant to last multiple seasons. As much as Ingmar dreaded returning home, he scoffed at needing to find a permanent place to stay here, in this bizarre land that played by its own unpredictable rules. He and Idal had been blighted by Blossom’s damned “magic” the moment they stepped paw here - Idal with ridiculous feathers, and Ingmar with the antlers of a clumsy prey animal. Disgraceful. During their first winter here, when Ingmar’s rack had dropped off, he prayed every night that the branching bones would not grow back. But of course, to his horror, spring rolled around and the palm-shaped bows returned. What would the court say when they saw such strange appendages? Would the antlers follow him beyond the veil? A second frosty season rolled around . . . the antlers grew light, fell to the earth . . . and Ingmar snarled to himself as he realized a full year had passed without the brothers designing a plan to go home. Trapped here again, bored shitless, the effort of relying on himself exhausting the spoiled royal heir to his very core.

Although they’d stuck close together during their first months, Idal and Ingmar gradually drifted away from each other. One would think there would be more urgency to find their kingdom again, to stay by the familiar face of their sibling, but this was not the case. After all, the merle-painted men had never faced repercussions for anything they did. Ever. If Ingmar misbehaved, the whipping-boy took his punishment. If Ingmar impregnated a chambermaid by accident, she was sent away from the castle so as not to disgrace him. He had never been hungry, or lonely for company, or punished for his actions. Why should he worry about anything, even in an exotic continent? Ingmar had never learned fear. But he had plenty of disgust to spare. Disgust and stubbornness. The russet-toned lady who approached him seemed like an angel sent down to relieve Ingmar of his deadly boredom and apathy - finding him by chance in the forest with an invitation ready on her sultry lips. Smug, Ingmar did not hesitate or question her intentions; he accepted her proposition eagerly, relieved to have some outlet for his frustrations at last. Sleeping with the spice-hued beauty would have been excellent enough - but two females at once? Such a treasure only happened back at home, when Ingmar specifically requested it.

Without Idal to slow him down, Ingmar set off at the specified time, marching resolutely toward the specified place. He did not rush his travels; he trusted the she-wolf to be waiting with her partner. The afternoon winter air breezed by his muzzle with the crisp scents of frost, rotting leaves, dry bark . . . and then the delectable smell of femmes in heat, a sour-sweet flavor that reached toward the back of his throat and made him salivate like a mindless animal. He recognized the perfume of the earthen-woman from before, her signature laced with mint and other herbs . . . but the second scent . . .

Broad shoulders spattered in shadow shifted backward so that Ingmar could puff out his chest. Teeth revealed in a glittering smile as he made his appearance, marching over the carpet of forest debris as if it were a velvet walkway. There stood the grand lady who’d invited him, lovely as a sparrow perched in the branches . . . and there was the slut who’d thrown herself at his paws last winter, her ivory coat contrasting against the warmer fae like snow on a hill. The white damsel lifted her lips at him in a sneer, trying to play coy. Ingmar had to chuckle at her performance. Did she really think she could set him off? Had she truly not known about the playdate her friend Kahlan had set for them?

He dipped his head toward the sunshine-eyed wolfess, ignoring Kirastasia for a moment. “Miss Kahlan, you did not tell me your friend was almost . . . pretty.” Kira gave an indignant hiss, furious that Ingmar pretended not to recognize her. Still feigning indifference toward the porcelain whore, he strode forward to swipe his tongue up the bridge of Kahlan’s muzzle in greeting . . . cutting Kira a wicked sideways glance just as he reached between the autumn she-wolf’s eyes. “Thank you again for the invitation. I could not have asked for a more pleasurable way to spend the evening, nor for more beautiful creatures to spend it with. Let us take good care of each other, yes?”

The fury radiating off of Kirastasia was almost palpable, as if she were a white fire blazed to life. Unfortunately for her, Ingmar saw her as nothing more than a jealous little girl; standing at ease he towered over both her and Kahlan, and could easily rest his chin on either fae’s brow if he chose. Which he did, nuzzling tenderly between Kahlan’s ears before starting to groom them, one at a time, tongue swirling around their bases and teeth nipping teasingly at their edges, tugging just enough that the tiny pain would send shivers down Kahlan’s back. “I would hate for anyone to feel left out of this exciting game. Perhaps you two should warm up, and I can keep watch?” Another small bite at Kahlan’s right ear, and then Ingmar took one step away, cruel blue eyes glinting at Kira in challenge. The ivory dancer did not keep him waiting. With a possessive growl she crashed her muzzle into Kahlan’s, tongue diving in for an open-mouthed kiss. As if in encouragement, Ingmar began grooming the nape of Kahlan’s neck . . . teeth testing the flesh beneath her fur . . . his body turned so that his tail could slide across Kira’s jawbone and down her throat.

➸ Handsome Warrior, Cruel Prince

↝ Prince of a Distant Land | loves only himself | brother of Idal | xathira ↜