Sleeping Beauty (Not Quite the Fairy Tale Book 7)(8)

They’d all been right and in her haste, her arrogance, she hadn’t seen it. They weren’t ready. She had just killed the King.

No.

Aurora didn’t even stop to think about the consequences of her actions; what would happen to her was of no bearing. She didn’t - couldn’t - lose him.

The silence was sudden and she felt like the floor had opened up underneath her feet when the heart monitor failed to pick up anything.

He was dead.

No.

To her surprise, her hands were steady. She gently moved the body, lying it down on the floor, before pumping in rhythm, her palms on his chest, counting out loud. She could barely see through the tears, but at least her hands knew what to do.

Then, her lips went to his, intending to breathe some life into his lungs, but she froze the instant they touched.

It was strange; an electrifying, disturbingly strong force kept her there, as concrete and domineering as gravity. She’d felt something of the sort once, when she’d whispered the words which had cursed Prince Aiden, turning him into a Beast.

Magic.

That explained it. She hadn’t failed because she’d done anything wrong; the King was under a curse.

Dammit.

She opened her lips a little, intending to use her second wish; Fay descendants had a godmother and a godfather, from whom they could exhort one bidding. She’d childishly wasted her first when she’d felt jealous, betrayed, but there was no questioning that this was what her second was for.

The words didn’t pass her lips; instead, she froze.

At first, the lips under hers moved a little, then she felt a bitterly cold hand at the back of her neck, threading though her hair and pulling her closer. Then finally, there was a breath on her lips.

Confusion, shock, disbelief faded as she got lost in the kiss of her King.



Someone had thrown him off a cliff, a horse had trampled him, and shat on him, for good measure. His eyes and tongue swam in acid, and his balls had been cut off. That was the only plausible explanation he could come up with; nothing other than the worst kind of abuse would have made him feel like this.

Everything hurt: fingers, toes, elbows, dick. Everywhere burned. His heart was held tight, not quite free to beat properly.

Rupert didn’t scream. He deserved pain.

Everything came back to him instantly. A ball. A silver plate. A joke. A curse.

His fault. Ultimately, Maleficent had done most of the damage, and his wife was responsible for the rest, but it was all his fault.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw nothing at first. Everything around him was black. Eventually, he could see a silhouette. He wasn’t alone.

“When?” he’d meant to say, but what came out of his dry, aching throat was an indiscernible grunt. He tried again, and more or less managed, this time around.

“Year three thousand, one hundred and five of the new era, sir,” a sweet, charming voice replied.

A woman.

Why was a woman there?

“You’ve been asleep for a while.”

A hundred years, exactly.

This made no sense. None whatsoever. He should be dead, according to the terms of that damn curse.

But he wasn’t. Running every word Maleficent had said through his mind, he reasoned that his friend must have found a way around the curse over the course of the last century.

If he’d be able to, he would have exhaled in relief but his lungs weren’t cooperating; instead, he coughed out so hard it felt like his lungs would come up through his nostrils.

Damn, he was rusty. Always one to push himself, he tried to stand up and failed miserably. His legs were in no condition to help him, uselessly refusing to carry him, but a solid form stopped his fall.

A slight and rather weak form. It stumbled back under his weight. It smelled fresher, sweeter than just about anything else he’d ever scented. It definitely was a woman. He thought of Maleficent first, but the voice was completely different from her sarcastic trademark tone; he knew no other woman – none who would have survived a hundred years, in any case.

“Who are you?”

“Aurora,” she replied, and his heart contracted in his chest. “Aurora Stephenson,” she specified, as a soft fabric touched his sensitive flesh, covering him. “It’s become quite a popular name these last three generations. Use my shoulder to lean on, we need to walk just a few steps…”

He followed her slowly, tentatively. To distract himself from the ineptitude of his limbs, he tried to discern more about the strange woman in front of him. His vision had cleared up enough for him to catch her coloring and the outline of her form. She wore something white, and her hair seemed fair.

“Stephenson. Like my advisor?”

“Very much so. Your first advisor became your Regent in your absence. The title has gone from him to his son and from his son to my father. I’m his great-granddaughter, sir.”

He grimaced at the thought of a woman related to the mousy little man who looked like something out of the wrong end of a dog.

“And we’re alone,” he remarked.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes sir. I wasn’t exactly authorized to revive you.”

That made him raise an eyebrow.

“It’s kind of a long story… If you’d step into the tub, first, we’ll run through a hundred years of politics while you bathe.”