Fiendish Prince: Dark Kingdom, #1

By Aron Lewes

In a twisted kingdom, slaves toil on "human farms," where their blood is harvested for their vampire overlords. One such overlord is Oskar, a fiendish prince and torturer. Prince Oskar always gets what he wants, and when he sets his eyes on Adeline, his cousin's latest captive, he decides to make her his mistress.

 

Caught in the clutches of the wicked prince, Adeline despises Oskar for the cruel fate he's forced on her. As their tumultuous relationship unfolds, Adeline grapples with conflicting emotions of hatred and an inexplicable attraction. Can she see through the veil of darkness surrounding Oskar and discover the truth behind his actions? Or can he not be redeemed?

 

Fiendish Prince is a dark fantasy with forbidden romance and damaged vampire princes.

 

Content Warning: Strong violence

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aron Lewes
• Release date: Oct 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223360537

Book preview

Chapter One: Wolfsbane Novak

Seven shackled women , same as always. Their metal chains clink as I escort them to the dreary audience chamber of Castle Harsfyr. The sound of their rattling chains is oddly satisfying, like a lullaby of steel. I don't want to think there's anything pleasant about this situation, though. These women are doomed, like all the women who came before them.

I shove them into the room, because force is expected. Cruelty is part of the job. I've always thought the audience chamber of  Castle Harsfyr looked like some sort of unholy church. Pristine stained glass windows clash with bronze statues of demonic beasts. Smoke and spicy incense put the room in a haze. Violet flames flicker on claw-shaped candelabras, and stone gargoyles wink from their ornate perches.

The prince and king are here today. Good lord, I was hoping for one, not both. I want to laugh when I look at Prince Oskar. With his pale, clay-like skin and pointed ears, he could almost be one of the statues. While his father claims the throne, Oskar has been demoted to a bed of plush pillows in the center of the room. His slender body is wrapped in a velvety red robe, and his hair is longer than the last time I saw him. It's almost down to his shoulders now. His head is slightly tilted, and he's huffing on a pipe. If vanity was a man, it would be Prince Oskar.

Wolfie! Oskar raises his pipe as he greets me. How is my favorite cousin? I haven't seen you in awhile.

He's right. It's been a week, if not longer. I try to avoid him as much as I can, which means staying on The Hunt as long as possible. During the harvest, I rarely stay at Castle Harsfyr for more than a day at a time. Despite my royal lineage, I'm little more than a slave to my uncle and cousin. They're despicable and I despise them.

It looks like you've brought a fine crop this time! exclaims the king, my uncle. Bring the ladies forward so I can get a better look at them.

King Isaak was my father's younger brother—the father I've never known. He was murdered by Isaak when I was six years old, and I've been my uncle's servant ever since. He would disagree, of course. He says he treats me well, and I'm like a second son to him, but Isaak is no father to me. I would love to see him rot.

Silently, solemnly, I obey my uncle's command. I push the ladies closer to my most hated relation.

You never answered my question, Wolfie! Oskar says. How have you been?

My name is Wolfsbane, not Wolfie. And Oskar can go to Hell.

I answer simply, I've been well.

Good, I'm glad to hear it. How was The Hunt? Oskar studies the shackled women as they shuffle toward my uncle. His dark blue eyes are practically oozing with lust, but Oskar already has two women on his lap, one on each knee. I have no idea if these women want to be on his lap, but I would assume they have no choice. Oskar slips a hand beneath the skirt of one of his lap-sitting damsels. I can see the subtle sorrow in her eyes as my cousin caresses her thigh.

It's ongoing. The Hunt isn't over yet, I tell him, but I'm sure he already knows. We're only into the first week of The Hunt, and it lasts for a month. Four times a year, at the start of every new season, I invade human lands and bring a fresh crop of stock to our human farms. My work is brutal, but necessary. If we don't feed, we deplete.

But it's been uneventful thus far? Oskar asks.

Mostly, I reply. The humans haven't fought back yet, but it's still early.

Oskar exhales upward, blowing smoke at the vaulted ceiling. King Isaak pulls a monocle from his pocket and observes the women I've gathered.

They're prettier than usual, says Isaak. That one is a bit old, though.

He thrusts a misshapen finger at one of the ladies, but she's forty, at most. I admit, however, I am not too adept at guessing the ages of humans. We don't age like they do. My uncle is one hundred and forty-five years old, but he looks no older than fifty. I'm fifty-one, but most humans would say I look like a man in his twenties. My cousin, who is currently sucking on his pipe, is twenty-three, looks twenty-three, and acts like a spoiled child. Oh, how I hate him.

I stare at my uncle's fingers, crooked as they are. Our elven genes might have preserved his youth, but he hasn't been spared from rheumatism. Blood helps, but it isn't a cure.

The violet maid could be a woman in her forties, I quietly remind my uncle. As long as she is of child-bearing age, she—

I like them younger. I can't help it, my uncle interrupts. Younger blood is fresher. It tastes better.

I close my eyes, because the smoke stings them. Isaak loves his incense, but it reeks and clouds my gaze.

Well... bleed them, Isaak demands.

Right. Get to it, Wolfie! Oskar chimes in. We haven't got all day. One of his ladies is suckling his neck, so I suppose she actually does want to be on his lap. Either that, or she's been ordered to show affection. Oskar never keeps his ladies for more than a few days. He bores easily. This will be the first and only time I see the ladies on his lap, as I'm certain he'll replace them by the week's end.

The shackled women look terrified, so I ask them as politely as I can, Will you line up in front of the pedestal, please? There's a goblet on the pedestal, and I assume they've guessed its purpose. Nevertheless, I tell them, I will be making a small prick on each of your wrists. It won't hurt too much, I promise.

One of the ladies is crying, and I admit, I feel terrible. If we were alone, I would wrap an arm around her and whisper a few consoling words. I hate to see a woman cry, even a human. Unfortunately, we're not alone, and compassion cannot be shown.

The first woman is young, possibly eighteen or nineteen. I give her an awkward smile as I raise her wrist to the goblet and prick her with my dagger. She winces, but makes no sound. I gently hold her hand as her blood drains into the cup.

"Red," I report to my uncle. That's the only word I need to say. For several weeks, King Isaak has been searching for a violet maid, a woman with violet blood. He needs her to complete a dark ritual, but I don't know the details.

Isaak pushes back his long, dark hair, and with a snap of his fingers, he demands, Bring it to me!

I drain several drops of the young lady's blood into the goblet. When there's enough, I release her wrist and take the goblet to my uncle, who gulps down her blood.

Prince Oskar crawls to the wounded girl and asks, May I?

The poor thing shivers, and doesn't say a word. Of course, Oskar doesn't wait for permission. He seizes her hand and drags his tongue across her wrist, lapping up the blood. He practically purrs with delight as he savors his tangy treat. When he releases her hand, he flutters his eyelashes and says, Thank you, dear.

The first girl steps aside, and the second one reluctantly slides forward. I cut a small slit in her wrist, a bit larger than a prick. I hadn't meant to cut her so much, or so deeply, but more blood drips into the goblet this time. My uncle looks satisfied.

Red, I tell him, as if he couldn't see the color for himself. I pass the goblet back to him and wait for him to drink.

This is more bitter than the first girl's blood, he reports. I knew it would be so.

The second woman was the old one, but she's hardly old; in fact, I would say she still looks rather young for a human. I suppose she's too old for my uncle. Still, until I bleed her, I can't know she's not the violet maid.

One by one, the girls step up to the pedestal and let me drain their blood. Each girl gives only a sample, but it's enough to satisfy the king's appetite for a day or two. Oskar is less easy to please. I'm sure he'll be feasting on someone before the day's end.

Seven women, seven reds. King Isaak looks dissatisfied, but I'm sure this was expected. Violet maids are extremely rare. I doubt he'll ever find one.

You are dismissed, Isaak says with a flick of his hand. Continue The Hunt tomorrow, Wolfsbane. Try to bring back pretty ones.

I exit the room with a bow, taking my ladies with me. I wish I could apologize to them, but I don't want to look weak. I can't look weak, not when I'm the leader of the king's army.

I don't want to be a leader in this wicked place, but there's no escape—not for me, and certainly not for the ladies I capture.

Chapter Two: Prince Oskar

I'm bored. I'm so very , very bored. Not even the breasts of the topless beauty beside me do anything to cut through my boredom. I'm struck with an overwhelming desire to smoke something, so I reach for a cigarette on my nightstand and light it with a match.

I, um... I've never been with a vampire before, the young lady says. I can hear a slight tremor in her voice, and it makes me want to laugh. She's scared of me, but I don't know why. I've never forced myself on any woman, nor have I feasted on one who hasn't begged me to bite her. She's here because she wants to be here.

Only the humans call us vampires. We prefer to call ourselves elves.  At the end of the day, I don't care about labels and words. If she lets me pleasure her, she can call me whatever name she prefers.

Between drags of my cigarette, I ask, Are you scared? It's a pointless question. Of course she's scared. I can hear it in her voice and sense it in her eyes. I can see her fear in the subtle tremble of her hands.

I just... don't know what to expect, she says, then she nibbles on her lip, and it's torture. I would love to bite and suckle those plump, red lips of hers, but as long as she's reluctant, I've been holding back. I want to be wanted, desired, needed. I won't force my kisses on a blue-eyed bitch who's barely earned her place in my bed.

What do you mean, you don't know what to expect? It's sex. You've had sex before, haven't you?

Of course she has. This woman, despite her fear of me, doesn't have the look of an innocent.  A moment ago, she couldn't wait to tear off her clothes and dive into my arms. She's spread her legs before, I'm sure of it. 

I just wondered if you were going to... bite me. Hurt me, the woman explains.

Holding my cigarette aloft, I lean into her ear and whisper my reply. Only if you want me to.

She answers me with a kiss. I put down my cigarette, eager to pleasure her, but we're interrupted by a knock on the door. This is the downside of being a prince. Something always requires my attention.

Give me a moment, I tell her as I slide from bed. If she was someone I truly desired, I would tell our interrupter to piss off and leave us alone. Frankly, I don't care if I bed this woman or not. She's inconsequential.

My visitor is my cousin, Wolfsbane. What a stupid name, Wolfsbane. I can never take him seriously.

Your father asked me to deliver this report, Wolfie says, holding up a slip of paper with too many words on it. It's a list of names from the harvest.

Couldn't you have given this to me later? I ask, snatching the paper from his hand. "At supper, perhaps? Did you have to give this to me now?"

I'm shirtless, my trousers are undone, and surely he can see the young lady in my bed. He must know he's interrupting our pleasure.

My apologies, he says. I couldn't tell you at supper, though. I'll be leaving before the end of the day.

I toss my cousin's silly report on my desk. I don't have any desire to look it over, not now, not ever. You're back on The Hunt so soon? I ask.

I am.

You know, I've been thinking about going with you, I tell him. On The Hunt.

I would rather you didn't.

Cocking my head, I ask, Why's that? Wolfie doesn't have an answer for me. Perhaps he's worried that I'll overshadow him? I have a tendency to do that. You know, Wolfie, you look like Hell. When's the last time you've feasted?

Just yesterday, Wolfie claims, but I know he's lying. If he ingested human blood as recently as yesterday, he wouldn't be so pale.

Really? I