Mate’s Behind Masks

Critics of News

Dyhnael POV

Fucking this maid was my favorite part of my day after being the damn king.

All those endless council meetings, petty lords squabbling over borders, and the weight of the crown pressing down—none of it mattered once I had her alone in my chambers.

I'd dismiss the guards with a glare, bolt the heavy oak door, and there she was, waiting on her knees like the obedient slut she was trained to be.

Tonight was no different.

I stormed in, my boots thudding against the stone floor, c**k already straining against my breeches from the mere thought of her tight little body.

“Strip,” I growled, my voice low and commanding as I unbuckled my belt.

She scrambled to obey, her fingers trembling as she yanked off her roughspun dress, revealing those perky t**s and the smooth curve of her hips.

No undergarments, of course— I'd forbidden them weeks ago.

Her p***y was already glistening, shaved bare just how I liked it, begging for my attention.

I grabbed a fistful of her brown hair, yanking her head back to make her look up at me.

“Missed your king's c**k, didn't you?”

She whimpered a yes, her lips parting as I shoved my breeches down.

My thick shaft sprang free, veins pulsing, the head slick with pre-c*m.

Without another word, I slapped it across her face, smearing her cheeks with my arousal.

“Open wide.”

Her mouth stretched around me as I thrust in deep, f*****g her throat with brutal strokes.

Gags and slurps filled the room, saliva dripping down her chin onto her heaving breasts.

I held her there, nose buried in my pubic hair, until her eyes watered and she choked.

Only then did I pull out, strings of spit connecting us.

“On the bed. Ass up.”

She crawled onto the massive four-poster, presenting herself like a b***h in heat— knees spread wide, back arched, p***y lips swollen and dripping onto the sheets.

I climbed behind her, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

My c**k nudged her entrance, teasing for just a second before I slammed in balls-deep.

She cried out, her walls clenching around my girth like a vice.

“f**k, you're soaked,” I snarled, pounding into her relentlessly.

Each thrust made her none existing ass jerking, my hips slapping against her skin with wet smacks.

I reached around, pinching her c**t between my fingers, rolling it roughly as I railed her.

“c*m for your king, slut. Milk my cock.”

Her body shook, p***y spasming as she shattered, juices squirting out around my shaft.

But I wasn't done.

Flipping her onto her back, I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other shoving her thighs apart.

I drove back in, watching her t**s bounce with every savage plunge.

“Gonna fill this cunt up. Breed you like the w***e you are.”

Her moans turned to screams as I chased my release, balls tightening.

With a roar, I buried myself to the hilt and erupted, hot ropes of c*m flooding her depths.

I stayed lodged inside, grinding deep, making sure every drop stayed put.

Panting, I leaned down, biting her neck hard enough to mark her.

“Good girl. Now clean me off.”

She slid down eagerly, tongue lapping at my softening c**k, sucking away our mixed fluids.

This was power—raw, unfiltered.

And tomorrow, I'd do it all again.

Forcing myself upright, I looked at the maid with all the exhaustion of a man who had tolerated enough contact for one evening.

“Leave me. Your job is done here.”

She bowed quickly and rushed out as if grateful to escape my s****l assault on her body.

At last.

A shower.

Silence.

Maybe ten blessed minutes where no one asked me to marry, smile, greet, or pretend I gave a damn.

I had barely reached for the buttons of my shirt when my mother’s voice struck through the family link like a whip.

‘My office. Now.’

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Because peace in this castle was a myth created to entertain children.

Groaning, I dragged a hand through my dark blond hair, pushing the strands back from my face before straightening my clothes. I grabbed the nearest bottle of perfume and sprayed enough over my neck to wash away the lingering scent of the maid.

I hated servants touching me.

Hated the way every woman in this place looked at me like I was a prize horse waiting to be mounted for breeding rights.

By the time I stepped out of my chambers, my patience was hanging by a single bloody thread.

I made my way through the corridor toward my mother’s office and shoved the doors open.

As expected, I was not alone.

My three younger brothers were already there.

Tariq.

Khalil.

Yasuf.

And at the far end of the room sat our mother behind her dark mahogany desk, legs crossed, chin lifted, looking every inch the queen she technically still was.

A title she refused to surrender.

Because I had no queen.

No wife.

No chosen royal bride.

No fated mate.

No woman at my side worthy enough in her eyes to permit her to finally step down and disappear into retired bliss with my father—her second husband and my infuriatingly carefree stepfather.

So instead, she remained.

Hovering.

Controlling.

Judging.

Breathing down my neck in every decree I attempted to make.

Mother lifted her pointer stick and tapped the giant screen mounted to the wall.

The nightly news played in front of us.

Every channel.

Every commentator.

Every smug bastard in this kingdom discussing one thing:

the rejected royal ball.

The camera flashed images of common women interviewed in the streets mocking our invitation, complaining over travel costs, dresses, transportation, and the inconvenience of attending.

A laughingstock.

My family.

My authority.

My crown.

Reduced to public entertainment.

I let out a slow breath before speaking.

“They will all attend,” I said firmly. “I will make it a mandatory request if I must. Clearly our people are forgetting their responsibilities to the crown.”

My jaw clenched.

“Tell me how the stocks are doing.”

Tariq adjusted the ledger in his lap.

His light blond hair shifted over his forehead as his sharp green eyes skimmed the contents. Slimmer than me, quieter than all of us, dressed in dark red modern royal attire that made him look more scholar than prince, he had always been the one trusted with economics.

And from the grim line of his mouth, I already knew I would hate what came out of it.

“The market continues to dip,” he said. “Transportation, retail, food chains, and tourism all show decline. The people are cutting nonessential spending. The kingdom’s confidence in the crown is visibly weakening.”

Wonderful.

So not only did they mock us.

They no longer trusted us enough to spend money.

My tongue pressed against my cheek.

Before I could answer, Khalil leaned forward.

Third born.

Captain of our military bases.

Tall, broad, built like a tank carved by violence.

Piercings lined his face.

Tattoos crawled over every inch of exposed skin.

His long blond hair, dyed purple at the ends, hung over his military jacket as he tossed a report on the desk.

“The military budget is draining us dry,” he growled. “The damn Princess of the Claws Kingdom keeps sending attacks along our borders, and every retaliation costs more than the last.”

The room grew heavier.

War.

Economic collapse.

A failed public event.

And a mother who still looked at me like I was somehow the greatest inconvenience in her day.

Queen Mother remained silent.

Her blond hair was tied high in a severe ponytail.

Red lips.

Red shadow.

Red modern Victorian gown.

She looked like blood disguised as elegance.

And judging by the narrowness of her eyes, none of our answers pleased her.

I did not need a queen by bloodline.

I did not care if she was born royal or dragged from a damn alley.

I needed a wife.

A crowned woman beside me.

Because only then would my mother finally release this throne enough to let me breathe.

Every decision I made she oversaw.

Every command she dissected.

Every weakness she magnified.

Like now.

And I was becoming more than fed up with this suffocating bullshit.

“Then increase decrees on the three taxation charges,” I ordered. “That will provide a bonus to those who attend.”

That was when Mother finally struck.

“And would this bonus,” she asked silkily, poison wrapped in velvet, “be placed toward the letters I intend to send the royal families whose daughters are eligible to marry?”

There it was.

Her real agenda.

Not the economy.

Not public favor.

Not morale.

Royal daughters.

Royal brides.

Royal alliances.

I straightened.

Ready.

“No,” I answered without hesitation. “With war at hand they can be invited with a basket of your choice. If the other royal families truly cared for our land, they would have spoken to me already.”

The second the words left my mouth, Mother’s stare sharpened into a blade.

The room felt it.

She hated being opposed.

Hated being denied.

Hated anyone—especially me—stepping over the lines she had spent years drawing.

She had been born a Beta daughter to the royal family of the East.

Raised not to lose.

Raised to dominate every room she entered.

Then she married my father and gave this throne four sons.

And now she expected those sons to move like chess pieces in patterns she approved.

As firstborn, it was my duty to serve kingdom first, royals second.

I would not sell my neck to some polished princess just because my mother wanted retirement.

Silence stretched.

Tense.

Sharp.

Then Yasuf cleared his throat.

Youngest.

Always quiet enough that people underestimated him.

Always observant enough to see what the rest of us missed.

We all looked his way.

“He has a point, Queen Mother,” Yasuf said calmly. “His people deserve something to rejoice over after such a long season of war and foreign aggression.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“Perhaps two balls instead of one would be efficient.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed.

Yasuf continued.

“The royals can be invited first in secret. Once the economic changes take effect and the kingdom settles, then the common celebration may proceed.”

His gaze slid to me.

“Dahynael has yet to find his fated mate, after all.”

The room went still.

Mother remained glaring.

But slowly…

a smile pulled at my mouth.

Because hidden inside Yasuf’s polished suggestion was exactly what I needed.

A private royal gathering for diplomacy.

A public ball for obligation.

And more importantly—

two chances.

Two chances to end this cursed conversation about my bachelor crown.

Two chances to find the woman fate had denied me for far too long.