I am so angry with him, the arrogant, racist, elf arsehole! For a moment, I stand in the hallway, fists clenched, and call him all the worst names I can think of. I feel my house guardians shift restlessly in the ether, disturbed by my temper. What's wrong with him? No, forget that. I know what's wrong with him. He's older than Christ, had a borderline inappropriate attachment to his sister, spent several dozen lifetimes in exile with only a troll for company and is completely, utterly fucked up. Why am I even surprised? The way he looked down his nose at me contemptuously, I know it shouldn't hurt, but it does.

"Why did you even kiss me, you banjaxed wee bastard!" I yell at the ceiling.

Bits of colloquial Irish always come out when I'm cross, despite the fact I only lived in Cork until I was five. Frustrated, I spit out a long stream of Gaelic curses that would make even Nin Grey raise an eyebrow. I should be careful, sometimes, with witches, the curse can stick and become real in the heat of the moment. I check that I'm not pointing and find, to my inestimable relief, I'm not.

I bite my lip and try to stop trembling. He tells me it's the glamour, the disguise of blond hair, human skin and blue eyes, but I know he's lying. There was something desperate in the way he responded when I touched his face, the hitch in his breathing, like I'd broken some invisible barrier. I don't know where His Royal Pain in the Arse even is. I fled from him, from the censure of his gaze, the taste of him on my lips. Touching my mouth, my lips feel tender, almost swollen, my body still tingling, yearning. Bloody hell, I'm so turned on I can't think straight.

I know I'm supposed to 'bridge the gulf', but I'd naively assumed that mean a cultural and spiritual void between the races. A proud Son of the Earth, Nuada scornfully refers to the hole inside humans that can never be filled, while entirely overlooking the chasm inside his own being. Shouldering off my cloak, I sit on the stairs, following the train of thought. It all comes down to sex, life and death in the end. You can't separate that trinity. The union of the god and the goddess creates life as the wheel of the year turns, the cycle of birth, death and resurrection what keeps the world in balance. Nuada and Nuala's unscheduled deaths threw that mechanism out; the Fey are intrinsically linked to the earth, they are Her children. What if...? I know it's Beltane, but this is outrageous! I snort and shake my head, grimly amused.

So, all I've gotta do is shag the Prince ragless and hey presto, all fixed. Ridiculous. Nothing is ever that simple. Stop thinking with your ovaries!

Morose now, I prop my chin on my folded arms, lower lip jutting, and try to suppress the demanding throb between my thighs. I try to summon Ciarán's face to mind, my druid from Cumbria who always has grass in his hair, moorland mud on his boots and a secret twinkle in his eyes. Last Beltane, my coven gathered at a celebration on a private Lakeland estate, complete with woodland, a lake and a leyline running through the middle of the grounds. Ciáran tied a purple ribbon in my hair, crowned me May Queen with apple blossom, took my hand and led me into the woods. It's a lovely memory. I think of his large, rough hands, woodsman's shoulders and loud, unselfconscious laughter. I last saw him at Samhain, when we made insubstantial promises to visit each other more often. Ciáran... Celtic knot tattoo on his bicep, bringing me breakfast in bed wearing nothing but Homer Simpson slippers and a cheeky grin. I can't do it. There's nothing there now but Nuada's golden eyes, sculpted marble body and low, tenor voice shaping my name with an old-world inflection.

Shit....

Hanging my coat on the banister, I trudge upstairs, leaving my boots on the landing. Touching my index finger to the carved amber statue of Cerridwen on the landing window ledge, I sigh.

"I don't s'pose blaming you will do me any good?"

No answer, except from my restless house guardians, whom I silently bid return to their watch. Padding into my bedroom, I close the door with my heel and undress, throwing my clothes into the laundry basket. Pausing before the full length mirror, a froth of Victorian Gothic gilt that belonged to a great, great auntie somewhere, I examine my reflection critically. I'm thirty two, Celtic pale, freckled here and there, with runner's legs, a small waist and generous hips. I have a nasty scar across my lower stomach, hidden by my underwear, another under my hair at the nape of my neck. I'm tall enough that I find it hard to get things to fit properly in shops, but not tall enough to draw comments. I have rather a serious mouth, until I laugh, and light grey eyes. I also have the Adair glare – a temper glower inherited from Mum's side of the family. I tend to attract men who are bad for me, or older men I don't find the least bit appealing.

Running my hands down my body, my nipples peak inside my bra, images of Nuada training with his lance in the garden slipping through my mind. I need to get this out of my system or I won't be able to sleep, although I'm deluding myself if I think I can rest with His Majesty out there somewhere, unchaperoned. Flopping onto the bed, a queen size indulgence I found at an antique fair, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and growl with frustration. Head wedged between the pillows, I tuck a plush green throw cushion under my neck and stare at the ceiling. Running my knuckles over my stomach, lightly, I dip my fingers into my knickers, over the scar, and brush aside the soft hair. Parting the labia with my index and ring fingers, I circle the hood of my clit with the middle. Closing my eyes, I allow the memories back, conjuring up his tongue plunging past my lips as he kissed me, the radiating heat of muscle as he engulfed me in his arms, crushing me to his chest. Elves, it seems, run hotter than humans or half breeds.

My finger moves quicker, clit enlarged and sensitive, nerve clusters ablaze with need. Nuada, cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace, intently constructing a reliquary for the elemental seed, shirt open to the waist. Why does he have to wander around half-dressed? I moan, quietly, feeling myself moisten further, raising my hips. I think of how he looked at me when I returned from my evening run, tawny eyes devouring me from ankles up. A loud knock at the door brings reality crashing in, and I freeze, eyes wide, horrified as I hear his voice on the other side.

"Aisling."

Damn my house guardians! Why didn't they alert me? Why didn't I hear the front door or the wobbly stair that needs fixing? Why.... Shit! Swallowing, I try to calm my racing heart, unsure if he can hear it through the door. Stretching out my legs, I glare at the white gloss paint.

"I've nothing to say to you, Your Highness," I inject as much contempt into the title as I can. "You've made your position clear."

I hear him sigh, loudly, and the floorboards creak as he shifts his weight to the other foot. When he speaks, his voice is low, weary.

"I have offended you."

No kidding. I glare at the door again, willing the expression through the wood and into his thick, elf skull. He begins to speak, skirting round the words he can't take back; unworthy, impure, non-noble, human.

"I cannot give you what I... what you want," he says heavily, eventually. "I am conflicted, and that I cannot abide."

A small thud as he leans his forehead against the door. I think he expects understanding, perhaps even a pardon or an apology from me. Tough luck. I'm angry and my temper makes me really stubborn. I curl my lip and resume touching myself, the fact he is only ten foot away and could open the door at any moment increasing my arousal. I bite my lip, hard, letting only shuddering sighs out, and swirl a fingertip into my vulva. Silence for almost a minute. I can see the shadows of his feet under the base of the door.

"Aisling," he sounds haughty now, irritated. "What are you doing?"

The shadows slide apart, a tiny percussion on the wood telling me he has braced his palms against the frame. Involuntary, a moan bursts from me as I slide in another finger. I smile and sneer at the door as the floorboards pop, he snaps upright so quickly.

"Witchling," he growls. "Answer me."

There is something dark, sinister and aroused in his voice that makes me shudder deliciously. I pause, resting my still fingers on my engorged mound, listening as he inhales. He's not the only one with good ears. Can he smell me? I hope he can and it's driving him off the deep end, though I really shouldn't provoke him.

"Giving myself what you won't lower yourself to," I purr, without raising my voice. I know he can hear me. "And it feels good."

A sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. I don't suppose the ladies of the court are so frank. The thought amuses me and I chuckle, sliding my fingers back down, feeling my own wetness.

"I am a pure blood elf, Lord of the Unseen Realm!" he shouts suddenly, the door frame juddering as he pounds a fist. "Why do you tempt and goad me? My patience runs short!"

He's highly indignant, but I hear the doubt creep into his tone. He isn't sure he's right anymore. Listen to your blood, listen to your masculinity, to the inner God. I am the Goddess and I am calling you to the Wild Hunt. Time to lose that prejudice, Your Royal Smugness. Open the door, come to me.

"You're a man, Nuada!" I retaliate, self-assuredly. "And last time I checked, I'm a woman. I don't see why the shape of my ears makes such a big bloody difference! You may be Royal, you may be Fey, but before all that, you're a man. Or have you forgotten that you kissed me?"

The door crashes back with such force it bounces from the corner of my dresser, scattering jewellery and books. Striding into the room, eyes aflame, hair loose like flying silk, he is across the floor and has me pinned down in an eye blink. He is breathing hard and fast, lips an inch from mine, teeth bared, and for an instant, I'm afraid. I've prodded the leopard with a stick once too often. His gaze rakes me and I blush, but scowl back at him, challenge still in place. I won't fear you, I won't. Nuada pulls at my wrist, bringing my damp hand to his face and nuzzles the palm.

"No," he breathes harshly, with difficulty. "I have not forgotten."

He slips my middle finger into his mouth, rolls it on his tongue, all the while fixing his amber eyes on mine. Other hand snaking down my belly, he strokes me through the thin cotton of my underwear, grinning savagely as the colour flames in my cheeks. Hooking aside the material, he finds the swollen bud and describes a slow figure of eight as my hips buck a little. Oooh, the elf knows how to please a woman, though right now his thinking is more along punishment. His erection presses my hip, demanding. I shift my thigh, feeling him strain against me through his clothing. Pulling my fingers free, I cup his jaw and kiss him, my other hand working at the crimson sash binding his shirt. The Prince growls into my mouth, then his lips are at my throat as he unclips my bra and fills his eager hands with my breasts. I laugh, realising I had not expected an elf to be familiar with modern underwear. He steals the laughter with another bruising kiss as I drag his shirt off him, dipping his head to lap at a nipple, milk white hair trailing across my sensitised skin. I pull my nails down his back, lightly, and test the flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder with my teeth.

"Siren!" he accuses, my hands at his chest, caressing, shaping the contours of muscle, playing lower.

I pinch his nipple by way of response, nip his lower lip and find the fastening on his pants. Nuada groans as I wrap my fingers around him, fiery eyes screwing shut as I tease and stroke, pushing him over onto his back. He collapses into the pillows and I kneel above him, watching with satisfaction as his ribcage heaves. Wriggling out of my knickers, I straddle him, stroking him between my thighs, stroking myself with his thick shaft without allowing him to penetrate me. His chin tips back with anticipation and I stop, pressing my cheek to his, murmuring into his ear. Eyes bursting open, he looks at me incredulously, panting, wanton. Leaning over him, his hands at my waist, I open the bedside drawer and pluck out a condom. He seizes the opportunity to press his face between my breasts, breath hot and damp against my skin.

He hisses as I unroll the sheath over his length, causing me to smile. I've finished with foreplay, I want him inside me, now. Parting my legs further, I drop my hips and guide him, moaning with pleasure as he fills me. He gasp-mutters something in Elvish I don't understand and reaches for me, levering himself up so our faces are level. Kissing him, hungrily, locking my arms around his neck, I mould myself to him and begin the ritual dance in earnest. His arms close about me, irresistible, inescapable, lips at my collarbone, and we shudder and gasp in tandem. Suddenly, he rears and throws me down, hand shooting out under my head to stop it colliding with the headboard. Poised over me, braced on his palms, he smiles, such fierce joy in the expression. The Prince, after all, was raised to be dominant in all things. I gaze expectantly back up at him, winding a lock of his hair around my fingers. Looping my legs over his shoulders, he breathes more Elvish in my ear, which I do understand and laugh. Who'd have thought a noble Fey had such a marvellously dirty mouth?

Kissing the inside of my thigh, he grins wolfishly, and is inside me again. I growl and lift my hips to meet his thrust. The angle is different, deeper, so good, but almost painful. I yelp, involuntarily, and he pauses mid stroke.

"You wanted this," he reminds me, raggedly, eyes dark.

I discern the hidden question, has he hurt me, does it matter if he has? At one time, it would not have mattered to him, now it does. Shifting my pelvis so I am more comfortable, I snarl at him and drum my heels on his back, urging him on.

"Don't you dare stop!" my voice doesn't sound like me at all, husky, commanding.

He plunges deep inside in answer, a trickle of sweat winding down his spine, gleaming across that unearthly white skin. I constrict my inner muscles around him in waves, just for the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. There is only him, inside me, gliding, possessing, pleasing, stoking the flames ever higher. There isn't elf or mostly-human, just man and woman, our mouths are our chalice, our tongues our swords. Blood pounds in my ears, a sudden building tension in my vulva and clit. I smell musk, incense and my apple shampoo in his hair. His breathing comes in increasing gasps as he thrusts faster and I know he is about to climax. Nuada groans hoarsely and I feel him come. Tipped over the edge too, I clutch at him, back arching, overwhelming pleasure sizzling through me in a molten rush. I scream as I orgasm, so hard that the world tilts and I almost faint.

Dear Goddess, if I never get to have such mind-blowing sex again, thanks for the one-off spectacular.

Forehead on my shoulder, the Prince lifts his face, blows the hair from his glittering eyes and peers at me, languidly. "Satisfied, witchling?"

I nod emphatically as he eases himself out of me and I gather his hair at the nape of his neck, smoothing it from his cheekbones. Running a fingertip around the Celtic spiral scarification at his temple, I ask, archly, "Satisfied, Your Majesty?"

He surprises me by laughing, deep, ringing peals that bounce from the walls, and nods gravely. I've not heard him laugh before. I note with private glee that he is a tad unsteady on his feet as he strides to the ensuite to flush the condom. I feel empowered, consummately feminine. Stretching luxuriantly, I wait for him to return, shaking my dishevelled hair over my shoulders. As the afterglow fades, I begin to get anxious. I may have just made a huge mistake. He has been less volatile lately, but I'm under no illusion the wolf has sprouted a lambs fleece. Just as I am about to get up, he ambles back into the room, regal and confident in his alabaster nakedness. He scoops up his shirt, sash and trousers, then looks unsure of himself, dare I say it, almost shy. He's deciding if he wants to stay, or if he is even welcome. I wait quietly. This is his decision, and will be a good indicator of his state of mind. Stopping at the foot of the bed, he looks at me like I'm something good to eat, then drops his eyes respectfully.

"May I stay?" he asks, formally, spreading his hands, as if to show he's unarmed.

Realising this is the first time he's been without his lance, I scoot up against the pillows and hold out my hands.

"Come here," I murmur, softly.

Nuada drops his clothing, hops up and lounges next to me, kissing my knuckles, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. Tracing a fingertip down the valley between my breasts, he appears to be building up to speak. I wait for him to find whatever words he is searching for.

"I insulted you, for that I ask your forgiveness."

"Consider it given," I reply. The Crown Prince of Bethmora has apologised. You could knock me down with a feather. I can't resist adding, however, "For now."

He looks at me askance, black lips turning down, then realises I'm teasing and snorts, mildly peeved. Like any other man, he's getting post-coital sleepy, and yawns. This time, I don't dare laugh, acclimatising him to gentle mockery is going to take time. Determinedly, he pulls me into his arms, where I nestle, head on his chest, listening to his heart. The distaste for being touched seems to have evaporated. Skin to skin, satiated, I can sense the treasure chest of his mind, padlocked with silver.

'How long've you been alone, Nuada?' I ask silently as he touches my hair, almost hesitantly.

I feel him exhale, breath stirring the hair at the crown of my head. He doesn't answer immediately, but then; 'Far longer than any being should have to endure.'

I see castles and armed warriors, archers with longbows and mail surcoats. Silk banners in the breeze. I see my home city evolve from a tiny coastal fishing village into the largest sea port in the country. Impulsively, I hug him so hard his ribs creak.

'You don't have to be alone anymore.'

The Prince doesn't reply and I don't prompt him, but his arms tighten around me. I resolve to hold onto the moment for as long as it may last, and not hope for anything more. Presently, he relaxes, his breathing slows and he falls deeply asleep. I suspect this is the first time he has truly slept since his resurrection. I consider reaching for the bedcovers, but realise I'm warmed sufficiently by his body. Lulled by his beating heart, it's not long before I join him.

*********

When I first wake, roused by a sleepy blackbird heralding the approaching dawn, I wonder what the slow, relaxed tempo is. I realise it is Aisling's heart. She lies curled against my side, head pillowed at my shoulder, one lithe leg slipped between mine. Her face is obscured by an unruly magpie wing of hair, which I smooth back, watching as her eyes slide beneath closed lids as she dreams. Most of the ribbons have fallen from her hair, scattered across the bed linen. I look down at our intertwined bodies, at the slight swelling of her mouth, the sign of a woman truly ravished. She is beautiful, wily and determined; she called me to the Wild Hunt and when I resisted, broke me down. And such little effort it took. A millennium could not change my mind, but she did so merely by reminding me I am a man before anything else. I could not command, so was forced to obey the call of my blood, my loins. I should be angry, having broken my word to myself, but I am not. Instead, I feel at ease, another of my former life's prejudices shed. Inhaling her scent, I drift off to sleep again.

When I next wake, my arms are empty, which disconcerts me more than it should. I sit up quickly, only to see her hopping around the bedroom floor as she wrestles with stockings, a purple blouse half buttoned up. Her hair is damp from the shower, pinned messily atop her head, mobile phone, keys and identity pass on the dresser. She spots I am awake and smiles, like the sun breaking through clouds, perching on the end of the bed.

"Morning," she greets.

She is anxious, I see it immediately. The morning after the night before, when daylight makes complex what seemed so simple in the dark. Slithering forward, I embrace her, pulling her back against my chest, pressing my lips to her throat and brow. She turns in my arms to kiss me, lips soft, mouth tasting of spearmint. Sliding my hands under her blouse, savouring her warmth, her skin, I deepen the kiss, guiding her into the crook of my elbow to lay her on the mattress.

"No, I'll be late," she sighs, eventually, with considerable reluctance. Her cheeks are flushed, nipples hard beneath her blouse as she pushes at my chest. "Gotta keep up appearances with the BPRD."

Allowing her up, I throw myself back onto the pillows with a dramatic sigh. "Tell them you have been kidnapped by a Fey Prince, who means to keep you bound with pleasure."

Aisling stops and gives me a long, hard look. "Did you just make a joke, Your Royal Haughty-ness?"

Lazily, I meet her gaze and smile at her, gratified as she blushes. Your Lord has been summoned, caught and bound, my Lady, but the leash goes both ways. What will you do now? She shakes her head, chuckles and resumes searching for her heeled shoes. Why do human females insist on deforming their feet? I watch her, one hand curled beneath my head, the other draped across my stomach. She bends to retrieve a skirt, the morning light streaming through the paned glass outlining her buttocks and thighs. Recalling the previous night, her wicked mouth and supple flesh, how it felt to be inside her temple, I feel myself stir.

"Come here, Aisling," I purr, my voice deep and rough. "Tell them your train was cancelled. Tell them the sky fell upon your head. Tell them anything you please, but come back to bed."

She straightens, half turns to me in enquiry, the skirt dangling from her hand. Her mouth parts, eyebrows lifting as her gaze tracks from my face downwards. She moistens her lower lip, eyes glittering, and drops the skirt.

"Wrong kind of leaves on the line, chicken little," she murmurs, although the significance escapes me.

Then she comes to me and my selfish heart leaps with triumph. She may have won the opening sortie, but the war has just begun. To the victor go the spoils, and with her, how sweet it will be to take them. Stripping her of her stockings, which are like so much transparent silk, I kiss the arch of her foot. She giggles helplessly and wriggles her toes.

"Ticklish! Stop!"

A weapon for the arsenal, so much the better. I kiss the other foot until she writhes, swears and threatens to kick me in the face. She looks so indignant I cannot help but laugh. Such simple pleasures, so long denied me. Moving up to her calf, the sensitive skin behind her knees, I splay my hand on her flat belly, feel the subtle tension in the muscle there. Describing the curve of her hip bone, hearing her sigh, I rest my lips in the hollow next to it, just above her mound. Her breath hitches and she murmurs my name, tangling her fingers in my hair. Lathing my tongue across the ragged scar, I look up at her.

"What is this from?"

Aisling's eyes cloud, turning the colour of a winter sky. Her fingers move from my scalp to the shiny tissue.

"The pooka," she says quietly. "That's the reason there'll never be any more of my family line."

No children, nobody to carry on the traditions, to learn the secrets, to carry her family name. No more of the blood. Truly, we are the last of our kind. A dreadful thing. She sounds resigned, the sorrow old, kept buried, covered. I kiss the scar, take her palm, kiss that, and her wrist.

"Were it not dead, I would hunt it down for you." I am surprised by the ferocity in my tone, and discover I mean every word. Strange, indeed.

She smiles, mingled sadness, warmth and a trace of irony. "You would?"

I meet her gaze. "I was a champion, once."

She nods, curling her pink fingers around my white. "I know. 'Valiant Nuada of the silver lance, who subdued the Firbolg of blood, for love of the Tribe, for pains of Danu's children, hold thy shield over us, protect us all'."

The Book of Lecan, tales from before the Golden Army, before my heart filled with hatred for mankind. She has many old books in her study, some mundane, some spelled, but this book I have not seen. Where has she found this text? Of course – the BPRD.

"That time has passed." Do I sound bitter? Perchance. "Too much has happened."

Aisling shakes her head, minimally. "No, it's a choice. Fresh start, remember? 'Choose life'."

Again with the secret smile and quotations I do not recognise. I do not reply, and she does not press me. How often she does this, dropping tiny seeds for me to take up and discard or germinate as I will. Too many possibilities I do not want to consider at present.

"What I choose at this moment," I warn darkly, framing her waist with my hands. "Is how quickly I have you begging, witchling."

Desire chases the shadows from her expression and she reaches back, groping for the bedside drawer. How well I understand her caution; after all, humanity carries so much fluid-borne filth. I shake my head and catch her wrist, to which she frowns at me, surprised.

"You do not need the sheath, Fey carry no such disease."

A strange look crosses her face, which I kiss away, returning my attention to the temple between her thighs. I speak truthfully, which she verifies with a light touch to my mind, but I also want to feel her without a barrier of latex. Inhaling the scent of her arousal, thick, opalescent, intoxicating, I lower my head and set about implementing my choice. She will be begging, soon enough.