Page 38 of Caged Kitten

Fintan

Well then, this was… new.

After centuries of rule-breaking and mischief, I’d finally received my comeuppance—Mother would be thrilled. Father, on the other hand, was very likely furious that a band of insignificant supernatural bounty hunters had kidnapped the last in line to his throne, Prince Fintan of the Midnight Court, Duke of Vega and Earl of the Lyra Constellation.

How they’d done it was beyond me.

Probably while I was out cold, drunk on bourbon and sex with that wily little nymph minx who had been, of course, nowhere to be found in the harsh light of day. Honestly, this hangover was more of a bitch than usual. Obviously they had dosed me when they’d slapped the cuffs on, then the collar. Seated at the center table in the middle of an empty cellblock, all by my lonesome, not a squabbling inmate or faux-macho guard in sight, I rubbed at the leather strap around my aching neck with a wince. It wasn’t the first time a collar had found its way around my throat, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this was different. This wasn’t for a night of scandalous kink—this was for real.

I seldom faced anything real these days. Given my lot in life, nothing reallymattered—unless you were the heir apparent, aka my pompous older brother Rollo, who was probably shitting himself right now because Father must have sent him into the mortal realm to fetch me. Hundreds of years had crawled by doing as I pleased, when I pleased, and to whomever I pleased.

And now this.

Honestly—found guilty of making fae deals with mortals. If those fuckwits were stupid enough to deal with me, then that was their fault. I mean, surely, they listened to the legends: never hand over your name to one of the fair folk. Ever. It was so very simple. Yet six belligerent idiots at that Manhattan club had done so, brazenly, without a care for their futures, all because I’d asked. I hadn’t even been clever about it; my courtly entourage might have been sniggering over my shoulder the whole time, but acquiring those names hadn’t been my finest work—nowhere close. It had been… simple. Too simple. Boring.

Everything was so boring these days.

Except for that nymph. My, my, could she suck a cock—

The realization hit me like a mace to the temple.

Oh, for the love of all the stars in the galaxy…

That sneaky wench had been the bounty hunter. And I’d just let her into my suite. Shooed the royal guards away, my posse of sniveling courtiers liquored up and dead to the world in the adjoining room.

Well, served me right for being so fucking stupid, I suppose.

But, at the very least, my foolishness had finally—finally—livened things up a little. Sure, the walls were dreary in Xargi Penitentiary, the bed hard and the jumpsuit starchy. No one to serve me here, to wait on me, to cater to my every need, but hadn’t I secretly longed for the chance to stand on my own two feet?

Well. Thought about it, dismissed it, never shared that pathetic, whiny, childish desire with a soul. Not with my bedmates. Not my kin. Certainly not my parents. For my role, my life, had been set in stone from the second I popped out of my mother, and, tedious as that life had become, nothing could ever change it. It was written in the stars, or whatever nonsense they told the lesser fae of our court. We royals were destined for…

For…

Oh, fuck, I hadn’t a clue what I was destined for. Not the throne. Not an arranged marriage like my sisters, their station cementing political unity with allied kingdoms. Nothing.

Just… Prince Fintan, duke of some bullshit star and earl of a constellation no one gave two fucks about.

Huzzah.

I drummed my fingers on the metal tabletop, lips pursed, gaze jumping from one vacant cell to the next. The little rooms circled the common area of the block, smelling faintly of body odor and whatever cleaning chemicals the servants used on the toilets. Some had stronger scents. The dragon stood out, most impressive shifter of the lot, all brimstone and flame, and the demon’s cell smelled vaguely of death and rot and Hell’s ash.

Then that witch. Fiery red hair and sapphire marbles for eyes, so passionate in her defense of me, so valiant as she hurled herself into the fray—

I would bed her tonight. Guards or not, I would have her, bless her with all my sexual prowess. She deserved it, of course, for leaping to the aid of a prince.

And from the way she had studied me upon my arrival, unable to tear those marbles away, blushing whenever our eyes met, she would so thoroughly enjoy herself.

Mind you, this first time she would have to do most of the work. Possibly spend the entire time on top, riding me to her heart’s content. Pain dripped from my every pore, the unstylish collar severely diminishing my healing capacity. I’d never been in a fight before. I had started many in my time, but someone had always stepped in before my rival dealt the first blow: a palace guard, my private security, one of my siblings—even my courtiers were primed to interject, noble fae of prestigious birth getting their asses kicked, savagely in some cases, all for my smart mouth.

Today was one of many firsts. The most I had suffered in the past was a set of bruised knuckles from getting a few licks of my own in before someone dragged me away, like a royal was made of glass rather than stardust. My eldest brother had always been the true warrior. Rollo had legions under his command, thousands of warrior fae relentlessly devoted to him, ready to ascend to the kingdom’s elite fighters once he took my father’s throne. The brothers between us had some garrisons to their names too, but they had other specialties that made them valuable.

I had titles.

Names gifted to me by my father as if I truly were a war hero, when really, they were but a formality. I knew it. He knew it. The entire fucking court knew it; some even giggled when the court crier warbled them out. Father pursed his lips. Mother looked away. Rollo rolled his eyes. I drank.

But now I had real bruises. A busted lip. A bloody nose. A black eye.

Thrilling, really.

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