The Mosquito’s Sting, an MM fated mates hurt/comfort romance (Warlock’s Bond: Book 1): Some Bonds Aren’t What They Seem, page 1
Copyright © 2024 Alyk Thorne
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Illustrations copyrighted by L. Blackwell 2024
ISBN-13: 979833752879
Cover design by: GetCovers
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
To Mark and Darren,
Who always had faith in me
And to my partner,
Who's with me through it all
(Note: Map will expand as trilogy continues)
CONTENT WARNINGS:
Mature themes of sex, violence, gore, generational trauma, dysfunctional family systems, implied sexual assault, implied rape, emotionally intense scenes, loss of a sibling, loss of parents, isolation, angst, racism, and genocide
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
CONTENT WARNINGS:
CHAPTER 1
RUIN
CHAPTER 2
RUIN
CHAPTER 3
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 4
RUIN
CHAPTER 5
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 6
RUIN
CHAPTER 7
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 8
RUIN
CHAPTER 9
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 10
RUIN
CHAPTER 11
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 12
RUIN
CHAPTER 13
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 14
RUIN
CHAPTER 15
TOBIAH
CHAPTER 16
RUIN
CHAPTER 17
YARIS
CHAPTER 18
RUIN
CHAPTER 19
YARIS
CHAPTER 20
RUIN
CHAPTER 21
YARIS
CHAPTER 22
RUIN
CHAPTER 23
YARIS
CHAPTER 24
RUIN
CHAPTER 25
YARIS
CHAPTER 26
RUIN
CHAPTER 27
YARIS
CHAPTER 28
RUIN
CHAPTER 29
YARIS
CHAPTER 30
RUIN
CHAPTER 31
YARIS
CHAPTER 32
RUIN
CHAPTER 33
YARIS
CHAPTER 34
RUIN
CHAPTER 35
YARIS
CHAPTER 36
RUIN
CHAPTER 37
YARIS
CHAPTER 38
RUIN
CHAPTER 39
YARIS
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
“Humans aren’t the hornets of the world. We’re the mosquitos—subtle, devastating, and more dangerous than anyone gives us credit for.”
—Warlock Jasper Ulthgard the Fifth, bonded age 19, died age 31
RUIN
“…and all of that said, what do you think? Can you help me, my… uh… lord?”
The man standing in my third-floor study is about as interesting as shit on my shoe—I want him gone and forgotten as soon as possible. And he stinks. He doesn’t look important since he’s the most average out of the most average of men, but in a cruel twist of fate, he is important. He is very important. He controls the north ports or… something. I think. I honestly can’t recall at this moment.
I twitch and reach for my wine. I’m seated at my ornate oak desk. It has elaborate, swirling patterns on it that show off the impressive rank of my station. I had been in the middle of charting the palace wards when Shatterjaw, the captain of my guard, escorted Duke Rellia into my sanctuary and I’m really wishing she hadn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I clear my throat and unceremoniously gulp down some wine, clutching the glass like a lifeline. “What… exactly would I be helping you with, exactly?”
Sometimes acting stupid discourages these pesky nobles, but he just looks a bit affronted, his hazel eyes sparking a fire.
“As I just explained,” he says curtly, clearly meaning that to be a jab. “I believe that my husband is entertaining inappropriate guests. I was thinking that you could track him or something and come up with a list so I can—”
“I’m stopping you there,” I say sharply and put down my glass with a resounding clink. My desk is full of grey warding tiles and there’s hardly any room left, but there is enough for my wine to make that especially disgruntled noise as it contacts the oak wood. “Do you know who I am?”
He’s not an idiot and suddenly stops, hesitant, but not hesitant enough.
“The… Grand Maestro?” He makes it sound like a guess.
I nod, but there’s no real warmth or affirmation in it, just pure irritation. I don’t usually care about people not addressing me by title—gods forbid they do—and I even despise having any sort of dick measuring contest, but it’s Spring and I have real things to attend to. Cleaning up affairs—which is the implication here—is so low on my list of priorities that it’s absurd that they still come to me.
“Yes. I am. Grand Maestro Shadowsunder. Do you know what that means?”
“Uh… you do magic?” He guesses, hesitating even more now.
“I do the best magic, Your Grace,” I say curtly. I’m really not this rude—not to normal people at least. But I do… enjoy going off on the wealthy, entitled, self-important pricks I find myself unfortunately surrounded by each day. “Which means that my job is to make sure the kingdom doesn’t fall, and the crops are healthy and that the wards are strong enough to withstand an attack should His Resplendence be in danger. That’s what I’m doing right now. And you’re interrupting me because you want me to do a cheap tracking spell that any warlock from here to Archketh could manage for… oh… I don’t know… two fucking silvers?”
I stare him down and he looks pissed, but, after a moment, he at least has the dignity to look somewhat ashamed. His small frame is illuminated by the candles burning in the large study and the setting sun coming through the window beside him. The oranges, purples, pinks, and dark blues make the room look a little more mystic somehow. But that’s just the room. Not him and his pettiness.
“I… just trust you, Maestro,” he starts smoothly, obviously trying to flatter his way out of this shit show. “And—”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble and reach for a blank piece of paper. The only sound is my pen scratching out an address as he shifts, looking more and more uncomfortable and, frankly, he deserves it. After a moment, I hand it to him. “Go here and ask for Reinn. He’s the best tracker in the kingdom. Now leave before I turn you into a fucking toad for disrupting my afternoon.”
It’s an empty threat—that’s not my warlock power and never has been. In fact, I only knew one warlock who could transmute anything, and he died several years ago after an accident with transmuting a barn. But Duke Rellia doesn’t know that and neither do any of the other stuffy nobles. It’s good to see him pale and then flee like a demon out of the hells.
I groan and lean back in my chair, looking at my charting in despair. I had really been making progress, but now I’ve completely lost my trail of thought.
“Shatterjaw,” I snap to the captain of my guard. “I can hear you laughing, even though you’re trying to hide it. You’re doing a piss poor job.”
Shatterjaw snorts and steps up next to me, leaning her hip on the desk. She’s been with me since I started my station as Grand Maestro and we have an understanding of sorts. We’re casual, but not too casual, and I like it that way. I think she likes it too.
She’s short and compact, like a wild predator cat, perhaps a small mountain lion. She’s all grace and strength and on the occasions that I’ve seen her toned muscles, I’m thankful I’m not on the receiving end of her ire—most of the time. Her hair is a thick, deep blue-black and she likes to keep it in battle braids that twist away from her face. Enchanted beads thread through her braids, gifts I’ve insisted that she and all my guards have, just in case. There’s only been a few attempts on my life, but the thought of any of them being hurt turns my stomach so I insist on the beads.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she grins, her wonderfully dark eyes laughing as she doesn’t look sorry at all. They contrast beautifully against her russet skin and she is, in many ways, a very stunning woman. However, the thought of even flirting with her makes me ill—she’s like the older sister I never had. “He was so insistent, and His Resplendence has a guest, so… you know. I couldn’t bother him, Your Grace.”
I groan dramatically.
“When did this become my life?” I whine, mostly to myself. “Catering to dukes and nobles, going to pointless parties, dressing up like a stuffy asshole each day, and—” I can’t finish that thought. It’s always too much. “—and… gods. I didn’t think I’d live this long.”
Shatterjaw is silent for a moment and tugs at her raven black braid, a nervous tic I picked up on years ago. The multicolored beads shift, blues, purples, pinks, reds, and golds glittering in the light of the setting sun.
“Well…” she clears her throat. “You were bonded to a demon especially early, Your Grace. Perhaps that’s why you’re alive.”
I scoff.
“Shatterjaw, the longest living warlock made it seventeen years before the magic was too much and he exploded. No, literally, he exploded. Guts everywhere. Like a poorly timed firework.” I cringe, thinking of that particularly gruesome fate and then shake myself. “Seventeen years for me was four years ago.”
I try not to have this conversation with… anyone really, but it just bothers me the longer I live. Warlocks get about fifteen years out of their demon bond before they die. Most bond between 18-20. I tethered to my patron at 8. Still not sure how that happened or why. My patron is very quiet.
What’s annoying about living past your expiration date is that you don’t make future plans. It just seems pointless. So, instead, I’ve lived on as Grand Maestro and done whatever His Resplendence wants. It’s getting… tiring. Do I really want to spend the rest of my short life here in this tower, making charts, warding tiles, and being… bored? No, really, it’s all utterly boring. It wearies me to my very core.
What a complete fucking waste.
“Yes, well,” Shatterjaw shifts, watching me closely. She is always too perceptive. “I’m glad you’re still here, Your Grace.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” I say and stand up and stretch. I have about half a foot on her, which puts me just about at average height. I need to move around a bit before I sit down again. Shatterjaw has made sure I’ve been eating, but I’ve been up and charting since early morning and it’s nearly dinner time. I need a break, however brief.
Shatterjaw huffs and crosses her arms.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she says mildly and I grin at that. I like poking at her.
My study is on the third floor of my wizard tower, and it sits at the edge of the palace grounds. I move over to the small balcony and sigh as I look at Avaughn. I’m high enough that the palace itself doesn’t impede my view of the capital city. The sun is setting, but I can still see the rooftops of the city below. Avaughn is a trek down the mountain, the palace itself further away from the common people as a security measure. Avaughn is made of stone carved out of the mountain that we rest in and so is the palace. I can’t hear the city, but I imagine it’s noisy as people hurry to pubs or homes or shops. I wouldn’t know. I’m rarely allowed to leave the grounds and that’s always for something His Majesty needs, rather than a desire I have. I’ve been here six years and I still haven’t really enjoyed the night life.
The palace has crystal lights that I enchanted my first week here. One of the other warlocks must have turned them on because their pale white light is cutting through the shadows in the gardens and on the lake. Ordeshian architecture is very square and low to the ground, and I have to admit that it is beautiful. I hate going to the palace itself so I’m glad I have my own stone tower to hide in.
“Who’s the guest?” I ask and shift to look at Shatterjaw. She’s positioned herself in the corner near the door, watching me.
She shrugs.
“I’m not sure. But I think they’re an elf.”
I’m taken aback by that.
“An elf? Here?”
She nods slowly, her lips thin.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you’d spend the evening in, Your Grace.”
I look around at my messy study. Bookshelves line the walls along with an alchemy lab on the western wall. I ran out of space in the bookshelves, so documents and books are scattered haphazardly across the floor, on the couch, on my desk, and even a stray book in my fur tree pot. I’ve been stuck here for weeks because there’s only one of me and wards are a very precise thing. I’d like to go out. I’d like to meet the guest. I’ve only met an elf one other time, and I don’t wish to speak about it. He was so tiresome that I swear every time he spoke, my eyeballs bled in objection. But their knowledge of magic is far superior to my own and they don’t require a demonic patron like humans do. It’s utterly fascinating.
“Did this elf spook you?” I ask carefully, curious.
She looks away and stares out the window for a moment, weighing her words carefully.
“He seemed… cozy with… His Resplendence.”
I swallow, my mouth going dry. I have a lot of feelings about His Majesty and they are complicated and don’t bear repeating. But if this elf likes His Resplendence, that is indeed a red flag. I wonder if I’m to be paraded in front of him, just like I usually am to all important guests.
I look down and notice Pennbrooke, Shatterjaw’s second, cutting through the blue poppy garden and approaching the tower. He has pale alabaster skin like me and is a dark brunette with hazel eyes. He’s not as playful as Shatterjaw and takes himself much too seriously if you ask me.
He’s also huge, well over a foot taller than me.
I frown, wondering what he wants but we’ll find out soon.
I retreat into my tower and start cleaning up my mess. Well, sort of. It’s more like shoving everything into semi-neat piles and hoping for the best.
“You know,” Shatterjaw clears her throat. “You could always ask for more shelves or something.”
I roll my eyes.
“It’s fine. The important thing is that I know where everything is.”
She sighs and then straightens as Pennbrooke knocks and lets himself in.
“Your Grace,” he bows. “Prince Miguel is looking for you.”
Whatever good mood I had drops out from under me. I’m instantly sweaty and lightheaded. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks and hoped that maybe I wouldn’t see him the rest of the year. But he has some weird obsession with me and makes me… makes me do things I’d rather not. But I know if I don’t submit, then he’ll take it out on my guards, like he did the one time I told him “no” and he broke poor Greentree’s leg. He hasn’t crossed any hard lines, per say, but he likes to touch and grope and make sure I know that I’m “his.” He likes to own me and my time, and it sends a shiver down my spine because I know it’s leading up to something horrible.
“Uh…” I can’t hide my shaking. “I… what does he want?”
It’s a stupid question. I already know the answer.
“Well, Your Grace, he will be annoyed if you don’t go to him, but, fortunately, His Resplendence has summoned you,” Pennbrooke offers a small smile. “The prince told me to bring you about half an hour ago. I… delayed.”
I don’t know why my guards love me so much, but I’m embarrassed when my eyes burn. I don’t deserve them. I let out a shaky sigh and realize that Shatterjaw is offering me water. She watches as I drain the cup and then nod.
“I need to change,” I say, looking down at my casual wear. “Then I’ll be out.”
I move semi-confidently forward, a plan forming in my mind. I’ll just tell His Resplendence that I’m behind on warding and should not be disturbed at all. I wanted to meet the guest, but the more I think of it, the more my stomach turns at the idea that he likes His Resplendence. His Majesty has been… kind of fair to me, but he has a certain reputation for being cruel and rigid. When I first started working for him, I thought perhaps that was overblown, but I quickly realized I was wrong.
I’ve learned the hard way and know better now.
I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, and he doesn’t know shit about magic, so he’ll believe any excuse I give him. I hope. Then Miguel can fuck off again.
My room is in the attic—a fully furnished attic with two wardrobes, a standing mirror, a big king-sized bed with crisp blue linens on it, a desk under the window with a stunning view of the mountain side, a harp that’s there for some unknown reason because I can’t play, and then a lavish bathroom. Everything is in earthen tones, and I like it that way, but it’s not particularly dark. The fading sunlight streams in through the window brightly enough that I don’t have to light a crystal lamp to see.
