H umans can deliver pleasure in ways unfathomable for us Fae. It’s the heat they are constantly in, pressed by the urge to procreate now, as tomorrow might be too late. Their fleeting, rushed existence makes them eager and intoxicatingly promiscuous.
Their hearts beat faster, their bodies are warmer than ours, and they are curious, always willing to experiment. Unlike the thoughtful and delicate Fae females, who have seen and tried everything in their long lives, and also lost a portion of their appetites in the process, human women are glowing with lust, the carnal heat of their desires hitting me in waves in the sticky air of my nightclub.
I send another girl who asked if I would like a lap dance away, the fourth one this evening, though my length strains with desire when I glimpse her perfectly rounded, bouncy breasts. The sight makes me growl. Curves. The other thing that made me fall in love with human women. Something in these spheres, in these proportions, awakens primal hunger in every male. I wonder if the other Hunters feel the same way.
Yet I discipline myself, as tonight is not about fun but work. My informer promised to be here around midnight with some valuable intel about my target.
The Anchor. The salvation for my people. The only hope for my realm—the Kingdom of Verdant.
I quickly realized the potential of my experience as a spymaster in this world and teamed up with Diaphonus at the beginning of our mission decades ago, yet my ways quickly drove him away. He found my dubious status here tasteless.
You need to be creative when you don’t have piles of magic at hand as he does.
So, I started working, taking odd jobs in the criminal underworld, where my skills were quickly noticed and praised as supernatural, my moral code and principles earning me the reputation of a ruthless, powerful, and reliable ally. Feared by some, respected by others, money quickly followed, and connections, too. Without planning it, I am now operating a small underground empire focused on transporting risky goods, espionage, and extortion.
The sole purpose of everything I do here is locating the Anchor that resides in this town.
Valter, my employee charged with following Diaphonus, finally joins me in the VIP section. Twirling an amber drink, he casually looks at the seductive tangle of supple flesh on the dance floor.
“And?” I ask, eyebrow arched, and the man knows he is abusing my patience. He drops a stack of high-resolution photos on the table before me, and I eagerly grab them, not bothering to conceal my curiosity.
Then my jaw drops. I can feel the Anchor’s pull even through the paper, her magic so raw and tempting for my abstinent soul. My fingers shake as I take in the delicate features and fleeting, melancholic beauty of the human female. The promising curl of tempting lips, heaviness of her breasts, and tiny waist, the casual ponytail swung over her shoulder as she warms up for exercise. I feel my pants getting tighter when the following picture shows the mouth-watering arch of her behind as she is bending over to reach her toes in a stretch.
I must remind myself that this is the Anchor and that this tempting body is only a package for the arcane force within her. A power I need to unlock and leash, even if I have to crack the mortal shell containing it. I trace my thumb over her face. It’s distracting that she is a beauty, yet my loyalty lies with my king and my people, and I will deliver her to them and let them extract her essence. Yet she should not suffer. Not only because, had the circumstances been different, I would easily fall in love with her, but because of my principles. Never in all the long centuries of my life have I caused suffering or raised a hand to a female or a youngling. Never have I forced myself upon anyone.
I curse softly when the following pictures show Diaphonus holding her, his face frozen in a mask of surprise and longing, just like mine. Did he also contemplate how things might have been if she were not the Anchor?
“He just walked her home after,” Valter’s impassive voice was somehow louder than the music.
“Tell me what you saw,” I demand, but he gestures to the pile of pictures.
“See for yourself, man. I can’t explain it. Some aggressive dogs appeared from nowhere, then, suddenly, puff! The beasts were gone. Disappeared into thin air. And before you ask me, no, I’ve been clean for seven months already.”
Diaphonus´ tricks. But why did he use magic to draw her away from this place? Why risk detection by the other hunters?
It’s time to visit my old friend.
But before that… the Anchor’s picture still in my hand, I gesture to one of the lap dancers. As soon as I unzip my pants, she knows what to do. Thrusting my cock deep into the wet heat of her mouth, I can’t suppress a smirk.
I have always loved hunting—especially stunning prey like this.
Celeste – The Anchor
T hree pills should do it. It’s what I usually take before visiting my mother in rehab.
It’s a beautiful November morning, the air clear and the birds weaving invisible nets in the spotless sky.
The street below my window slowly wakes up, like always on the weekend. I finish my coffee on my tiny balcony, hidden in the soothing emerald green of my plants, and go inside to dress.
The rehab is a cozy farmhouse a two-hour drive from the city. My father left when I was seven, yet he never stopped generously supporting us. My mother led a modest life and saved as if already knowing that her fragile mental health would drive her to addiction.
Navigating the road toward the rehab, I listen to loud, cheerful music, trying to exorcize the demons of the past. A pair of beautiful pearl earrings lie neatly wrapped on the seat next to me. A birthday present that would probably end up being given away to one of her friends, sold, or discarded. For some reason, my gifts are never good enough.
A couple hours later, I sit in the sun-drenched garden, listening to the same old stories of my mother’s eternal crusades against the world. Whatever happens, it’s always someone else’s fault, the entire universe plotting against her well-being.
She briefly asks how I’m doing but switches to rant about the rehab’s food before I can open my mouth to answer.
I listen and nod, counting the hours till I drive back and escape in the blissful oasis of my voluntary isolation. As the afternoon rays stretch and bathe the bench in liquid gold, I interrupt the monologue and bid farewell. Annoyed by my decision to leave, my mother snatches the blanket from her lap and disappears into the house. The earrings I bought her, unpacked and untouched, remain on the bench. I pick them up with a sigh.
