The Crown Prince's Fated Mate: M/M Gay Paranormal Romance Read online

  The Crown Prince’s Fated Mate

  Gay Mpreg Fantasy Romance

  J.B. Black

  The Crown Prince’s Fated Mate by JB Black

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  THE CROWN PRINCE’S FATED MATE

  Copyright © 2020 J.B. Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Plotting to kill the king, he never expected to fall for the prince.

  Myrddin knows the price. All magic users in Aelion belong to King Ulric. When Aelion's soldiers attack, the young wizard sacrifices himself, but even as the king binds him by blood, Myrddin has only one goal: regicide.

  All Myrddin needs is one shot, and he'll send the kingdom to its knees. Rising through the ranks, he becomes High Wizard. King Ulric trusts him.

  The prince does not.

  Prince Artair once adored his father. Now he sees him for the monster King Ulric is. Playing at frivolity, Artair bides his time, taking women and men alike to bed, but none of them can touch his heart.

  When the new High Wizard is a handsome man near his own age, Artair cannot resist. However, his usual games fall short. The magical blood which lost Artair his father's love burns at every compliment Ulric pays Myrddin. Envy threatens to swallow him whole.

  Does he loath the wizard? Or want him for his own?

  Chapter One

  Myrddin - like many magic users in his country - had no recollection of his parents. Aelion had only one place for magic users. They lived and died in service of the king, and any child they conceived found themselves in the academy where they would be tethered and trained. However, unlike every other magic user in the school, Myrddin did not grow up in the academy. Born to what he could only assume was a wizard, Myrddin never met his mother or his father, but a rogue druid from a foreign country managed to kidnap a group of children - Myrddin included - and bring them out of the country.

  Unfortunately, Myrddin had a sense of responsibility, and when Aelion’s king waged war and conquered the village where the druid had brought the children, Myrddin threw himself forward, forcing his foster father Tamlin to flee with the rest of his adopted siblings before allowing himself to be dragged to the academy. Discouraging loyalties outside the crown meant magic children were few and far between. Most magic users wouldn’t get within a hundred leagues of Aelion, but now and then, someone unknowingly stumbled into the country. Most managed to leave. Others found themselves seduced and left without knowing a child had been left behind.

  At ten years old - far older than most, Myrddin stood before the king. Bloody and exhausted, the young wizard glared up at the man.

  The sorcerer - bound and chained to the king as Myrddin would soon be - protested, “He’s too old, your majesty.”

  “He’s young enough to fix,” King Ulric retorted. “Bring the contract.”

  Squirming, Myrddin lifted his chin, but he held his tongue. His permission wasn’t required. As much as the king called it a contract, the paperwork was nothing more than a curse. They would cut his finger, dropping blood onto the parchment, and from then on, he would belong to the king.

  Even if it killed him, the young wizard swore he would kill the king. He would find a way. Draw himself close to the bastard and cut him down. His magic churned in his stomach, but with knights and the sorcerer and at least a pair of wizards close by, he could do nothing. They would die to protect the king - their contracts required it.

  “Father?” a small voice called, and slipping into the room ahead of the servant carrying the cursed parchment, a young golden-haired boy raced up to the king.

  Immediately, the man’s expression changed. From cruel slaver to doting father, the king lifted the boy onto his lap. “Artair! What are you doing here? You should be in your lessons.”

  “I finished early, Father,” the prince announced. With a bright smile, he hugged his father tightly. “You’ll have to get me new tutors soon. These ones are too slow.”

  Ulric laughed. Ruffling the boy’s hair, he gestured for the parchment to be brought forward. As the servant handed the paper to the sorcerer, Artair’s eyes finally caught on Myrddin. Compared to the clean, well-fed prince, the young wizard knew he looked a mess. His dark curls tangled with blood and dirt upon his head. Torn clothes compared to rich fabrics. They belonged to different worlds, and anger curdled in the wizard’s belly. This boy too would have to die.

  “Who is that?” Artair asked, pointing at Myrddin. “Is he my new playmate?”

  Shaking his head, the king chuckled. “You’ve never seen a wizard be bound, have you? You are in for a treat. Watch closely, my boy.”

  “Sire…” the sorcerer frowned, obviously distrustful of the wizard, but Ulric believed his contracts would save him. Trusted that the wanting of magic users could not overpower the curse he placed upon them. “Give me you hand, boy.”

  Myrddin glared up at the sorcerer. Bringing his forefinger to his teeth, he bit into his flesh and thrust his hand forward, smearing his blood upon the paper. “You did not decide this,” he announced.

  Everyone stared at him. The sorcerer gaped in horror, and the warlocks sputtered, but Ulric recovered quickly. Smirking, he tilted his head. “Cocky little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I am going to be the most powerful wizard this kingdom has ever seen,” Myrddin proclaimed, willing it to be true just as his foster father always told him to. Warlocks had their runes and potions. Sorcerers whispered sweet words and dealt with demons, but wizards willed the world. That’s what Tamlin always said. “You need me.”

  Something dark and dangerous sparked behind the king’s merciless gaze. “We shall see.”

  With a wave of his hand, Ulric dismissed them, and the sorcerer led Myrddin away. He would go to the academy. Learn everything he could, and when he found the boundaries of the contract, he would undo them all - sidle up close and slit the king’s through with a quill if he had to do so.

  Watching the whole affair, the prince huffed softly, and before the door closed, Myrddin heard him say, “That wasn’t very exciting.”

  ***

  Myrddin trained, learning faster and performing better than any of his peers despite having entered the academy late. By the end of his eleventh year, he outpaced every pupil in the academy, including those set to leave to join the warfront. Year by year, he gained, mastering spells and skills beyond even the most powerful magic users in the kingdom.

  When he turned fifteen, the academy had nothing more to teach him, so they sent him into battle. He cut through armies with a single spell. Fire and lightning rained from the heavens, and he culled the legions of their enemies like wheat in a field.

  By eighteen, he stood as the Battle Master. The highest position in the magical forces save one. Only the advisor - a magic user who served at the king’s side - held more prestige, but the man in question - called the High Sorcerer - grew weak and tentative with age. Few magic users managed to survive so long under contract. Most died before touching thirty, and their numbers dwindled every year despite attempts to retrieve more magical children from the land they stole. People questioned if their enemies knew. None of them suspected Myrddin.

  “Wizard,” Sir Hector called.
The knight - gray in his beard and wrinkles about his brown eyes - marched through the tents to stop Myrddin as he prepared for tomorrow’s battle. “You’ve been called back to Aenshenge.”

  Black brows furrowed. “The capital? Why?”

  Hector shrugged, running a large hand through his blood and sweat crusted hair. “The High Sorcerer lost his head last week. Maybe it’s your turn.”

  Humming softly, the wizard sighed. “Have I permission to borrow the battalion for a portal?”

  “Fuck no. I’m not wasting their energy getting you back to whatever gallow or pillow the king decides to chuck your pretty arse,” Hector growled. “You’ve got magic. Send yourself.”

  The wizard would miss the rough and unspecific orders Hector gave. As long as he had free range over his magic, he could save and kill as he deemed necessary. Freedom to portal with his own magic allowed him to forewarn and portal a number of magical children and their families away from the next few sites where Aelion would attack before he stumbled out of a portal in Aenshenge.

  Multiple transportations exhausted him, but with at least a few more dozen saved the chains of Ulric’s contracts, Myrddin smiled to himself as he leaned against cold stone. In the tight alleyway, he caught his breath, letting the hum of anti-magic warding thrum in his veins.

  “I haven’t seen you about before,” a low voice drawled.

  Opening one eye, Myrddin glanced at the man in question. Sharp crystal blue eyes stared at him. Pink lips twisted into a saucy smirk, but the face - though almost a decade older - looked enough alike the child for Myrddin to recognize the prince immediately.

  With a sigh, he pushed off the wall. “You shouldn’t go wandering about in backstreets, your highness. It would be unpleasant if you stumbled across an assassin.”

  Artair laughed, low and loud and every bit his father’s son. “No enemy magic user could portal into Aenshenge.”

  Letting a dagger slide into his hand, Myrddin pretended to inspect it. “Are you certain about that?”

  Despite the insinuation, Artair pressed closer, he used the broadness of his body despite being the same height to blockade the wizard against the stone. The golden-haired prince didn’t even seem to care that he’d placed a dagger at his own throat.

  “All in black from neck to toe - is that thin body of yours as beautiful as your face?” the prince leered.

  Rolling his eyes, Myrddin scoffed, “Do you make a habit of forcing your father’s slaves into your bed?”

  Artair reared back as if slapped. “I would never -”

  “So you never approach someone who recognizes you as the prince and take them to bed?” Myrddin pushed, stepping forward to switch their positions and crowd the prince against the wall. “You don’t flirt with every magic user, maid, and stableboy who comes your way? Do you really think they bend over for you because they like you? Stupid boy,” the wizard scolded, clucking his tongue. “Lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me. By blood, you decide who lives and dies. They don’t have the right to say no.”

  Growling, Artair pushed Myrddin back, forcing some distance between them. “How dare you make such vile accusations! I am your prince!”

  “Really? That’s your response?” Myrddin shook his head. “Not that you wouldn’t do such a thing, but you are the prince. I suppose it must seem that I’ve forgotten considering I haven’t presented my ass for you to fuck.”

  “You loathsome little -”

  “How boring,” the wizard announced.

  He summoned a staff, knocking the prince onto his back. Spinning on his heels, he sauntered out of the alley and headed to the castle. If the prince decided to follow, Myrddin wouldn’t stop him, but he had no intention of delaying any further. Whispers suggested Artair no longer served as the apple of his father’s eye. His popularity with the common folk intimidated the cruel monarch, so Myrddin had little fear that the prince could use his words against him. Not without admitting that he had approached the wizard with such an intention.

  Magic and mortal never should mix. That - above all - was the law of Aelion. By Ulric’s rules, magic users were little better than horses and dogs. Animals trained to be used, but to fuck one - to flirt or fancy one was a sickening immorality.

  A wave of the crest on his tunic chest allowed him to pass the guards, and when he entered the throne room where the king and his advisors stood around a map of the kingdom, Ulric glanced at him. At first, the man’s eyes landed on him and slid back to the map, but his mind seemed to catch up, and his eyes rose. That same spark of interest and something cruel and dark burned inside them.

  “Wizard Myrddin - or should I say Battle Master Myrddin?” Ulric greeted with a sharp grin.

  Bowing, Myrddin held the king’s gaze. “Whichever pleases you, sire.”

  “Then High Wizard.”

  Though he had suspected the reason for his summoning, the title still caused the wizard pause. “I would be honored, your majesty.”

  “Wonderful. Now - High Wizard Myrddin, I have heard you have a particular talent for seeing what my mortal generals miss.” Ulric gestured at the map. “Tell me, what would you do next?”

  Stepping forward, Myrddin studied the board. He recognized the majority of the troops, but the sheer breadth of it startled him. Every border had an army attached. Nothing about Ulric’s approach was systematic. This wasn’t the beginnings of an empire. It was a petulant child grabbing every toy in his reach.

  “May I?” the wizard asked, gesturing to the map.

  He kept the request vague, but Ulric answered, “By all means, move the pieces to the battle formation which you’d suggest.”

  His magic remained firmly under the king’s thumb. Any movements constrained Ulric’s words. Instead of magic, Myrddin reached, moving each piece by hand and rearranging them as he saw fit. The leering eyes of the old, lecherous advisors fell to his ass. One even at the audacity to adjust himself. However, the king kept his eyes on the pieces. A man who saw magic users as beasts wouldn’t see reason to take one as a lover. No, that would make his assassination far too easy.

  “There.” Myrddin stood, settling his cloak around him once more. “You’ve spread your men too thin. Our enemies to the south haven’t the strength to respond presently, so we can minimize the men holding the line there. To the west, we run the risk of catching the attention of a forest spirit.”

  One of the old men cleared his throat. “Don’t you creatures call it a god?”

  With narrowed eyes, the magician huffed. “If it can be killed, it isn’t a god.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ulric agreed. “Your reputation is well-earned.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  Ulric’s eyes stayed on the board. “The rest of you, see that this is done.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” they spoke the same words in practiced unison, bowing before they left.

  When Myrddin stepped back to follow, Ulric’s sharp gaze pinned him in place. “Do you recall when we first met?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “You told me you would one day be the most powerful wizard in my kingdom,” Ulric reminded him.

  Forcing himself to drop his gaze, Myrddin nodded. “I did, sire.”

  His pinched features aged him, but for all the foulness of his personality, Ulric wasn’t an ugly man. Wrinkles lined his eyes. Gray stole all color from his hair, but his eyes were as blue as his son’s. Bright and clear as a summer’s day. Where the younger held lust behind his pride and arrogance, the elder held fury. Everyone stood beneath him. Muscular though neither tall nor unusual in his frame, Ulric likely was once a handsome man. His affairs suggested the noble women of the kingdom agreed.

  Disgusting. For all his denial, Tamlin whispered the truth in Myrddin’s ear. Ulric had magic in his blood. He had married his fated love just as any magic user dreamed, and he had killed her with his wayward cock. Not that the man would admit it. Mortals didn’t have fated loves. They didn’t die f
rom affairs. Broken hearts never killed a mortal wife unless poison or a blade became involved. To admit his wife’s magic and his own would be to confess to the loathsomeness of his deeds and the contamination - by his rules - of his line.

  When Ulric’s lips stretched into a vile smile, Myrddin swallowed the bile churning in his throat. Whatever it took. Anything to get close enough to slit the man’s throat.

  “I thought you nothing more than a cocky, half-starved pup, but I see you’ve made good on your word. You are my High Wizard.” Those blue eyes traced over his form. “However, I wouldn’t say I need you.”

  Forcing a pleasant smile, Myrddin raised his gaze to meet the king’s. “You will, sire.”

  Whether the king intended to respond or simply dismiss him, the wizard would never know as once again the prince interrupted. Striding in, the blond glared immediately upon seeing the black-haired man.

  “What is that doing here?”

  Ulric chuckled. “That happens to be my new High Wizard.”

  “Wizard? I thought you preferred sorcerers?” the prince retorted as he crossed to stand beside his father.

  Though of the same height and frame, they carried themselves differently. One was a young buck - prideful but untested. The other oversaw conquest from the battlefield and now a throne with more victories than years to his name. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs - their faces differentiated them. Ulric had a sharper nose. His eyes narrowed into slits with a heavy brow compared to the slanted tilt of Artair’s. The prince’s lips were fuller, and his teeth sharper as they glinted white as snow. He had a touch of his mother. Something not entirely human in his form and grace. What had made for a beautiful child made for a slightly too handsome man. No wonder some distance grew between them. Ulric’s face hid the nature of his blood, but Artair’s features screamed it.