Moonlit Dryad's Surrender to the Fae King's Thorn

I am Lirael, an eighteen-year-old dryad bound for life to the ancient oak that stands at the glowing heart of the eternal forest. The tree’s massive trunk pulses with soft golden sap beneath its silver bark, and I feel every heartbeat of it as though it were my own. Tonight the moon is full and heavy, bathing the glade in liquid silver. I have prepared the tithe as always: a crystal vial filled with the oak’s concentrated magic, shimmering like liquid starlight. My slender fingers tremble as I cradle it against my bare breasts.

I wear only the living garments my tree provides—thin strips of supple bark and emerald leaves that cling to my curves, barely concealing the swell of my breasts or the smooth mound between my thighs. The night air is warm, perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and the rich, loamy scent of moss. My long hair, the color of new spring leaves threaded with tiny white flowers, spills down my back and brushes the sensitive tips of my pointed ears.

Then he appears.

King Thorne steps from between two ancient yews as though the shadows themselves birthed him. He is tall, powerfully built, every inch the sovereign of the fae wilds. His skin is a deep bronzed green, etched with living runes that glow faintly gold. Antlers crowned with thorns rise from his brow, and his emerald eyes burn with centuries of hunger. A cloak of night-black leaves and living briars drapes his shoulders, yet it does nothing to hide the massive, unmistakable bulge straining beneath the fabric. The outline of his cock is obscene—thick as my wrist, ridged, and already leaking a bead of luminous pre-cum that soaks through the cloth.

My knees weaken. A shameful pulse blooms low in my belly, slick heat gathering between my thighs so suddenly that I have to press them together. This has never happened before. The tithe is sacred, solemn. Yet the moment his gaze locks on mine, raw, devouring, my solemn duty fractures beneath a wave of pure, aching need.

He stops three paces away. The air between us crackles.

“Bring me the tithe, little dryad,” he commands, voice deep as thunder rolling through the canopy.

I sink to my knees on the soft moss, heart hammering. The vial feels impossibly heavy as I lift it toward him with both hands, head bowed. My nipples have tightened into aching peaks beneath their fragile leaf covering. I can smell my own arousal—sweet, green, like crushed fern and honey—and I know he can smell it too.

“Look at me.”

The order is velvet-wrapped steel. Slowly I raise my eyes. His face is beautiful and terrifying. Sharp cheekbones, full lips parted to reveal the tips of fangs. Those emerald eyes drink in the sight of me on my knees, and the bulge beneath his robes twitches visibly, growing even larger.