A Faerie Fated Forever by Mary Anne Graham

to hit something, he growled at the early afternoon sunshine streaming through the window before he patted his hand around the mattress.
    “Damn,” he said when he felt the wet spot.
    He didn’t remember the dream from last night, because he very deliberately drank enough whiskey to erase any memory of the nightly horror show. He didn’t remember it from last night but the wet spot told him the tribulation took him anyway. What good did whiskey do when the images never left him?
    In the new version of the nightmare he gazed through shrubbery to spy on Heather, reduced to peeping his need to see her even if only secretly. Across the hedge, Heather lay naked in the arms of a man whose face he could never see. Each time, each night, he tried to force himself to walk away. Each time, each night, his will faltered before the exotic feast of her breasts and the delicate pink flesh between her thighs covered by the wild spectrum of brown curls. So he watched her writhe and flush in passion and grow more and more aroused while the bloody thief touched and stroked, fondled and planted himself within the wench who belonged to him and only him.
    Throbbing with desire that raged far beyond any physical craving, needing to join with her and willing to do it any way he could, he'd flip up his kilt and take himself in hand. He tugged and pulled and stroked himself as he gazed upon his love's need tended by some lucky bastard. As she reached her summit, she moaned, “Ohhh yes, my husband.”
    The word would make Nial scream in horror. Then the naked man would stride over to the hedge and pull it back to display him standing and stroking the tarse too close to eruption to halt the explosion. So he'd come in helpless streams of ecstasy while Heather and her bloody husband pointed and laughed.
    Drunk or sober, exhausted or fresh from a day of leisure, he endured the bloody torment every night.
    Disgusted with himself and life in general, he rang the bell.
    His squire entered gingerly, carrying a tray. “Was last night any better, sir?”
    “Hell no. The same. Just the same,” Nial grouched as he flipped back the covers and strode unsteadily over to the side table where the squire sat the decanter and glass.
    “Sir,” the young lad’s voice barely exceeded a whisper, “perhaps you need some food. Let me fetch some bread and cheese at least. This,” he said gesturing to the glass in his laird’s hand, “is no way to begin a day, laird.”
    Pulling on his kilt, Nial looked up, bearing the expression that showed how badly he wanted to hit something. He growled his reply. “No. Get out. Now.”
    “Yes sir, yes sir,” the squire said, escaping on running feet.
    Not able to bear being in the same room as the sheets that bore the proof of his disgrace, Nial threw on his kilt and stalked out the door. As he passed the bedchamber two doors from his own, he wondered again where Calum had gotten to. He hadn’t seen the man since the night his future ended and no one else had either. He went outside to train with his warriors, and winced in acknowledgment of their dismay at his arrival. These days, the men he trained frequently bore cuts and bruises from his unintentional brutality. He had to hit something, and his warriors were available. His eyes landed on Blake, a stalwart soul who'd appeared today bearing two black eyes and he paused. No, he couldn't put them through it this morn. They hadn't healed from the string of yesterdays. Anyway, they weren't responsible for his idiocy. Why didn't he turn on himself?
    Since he couldn't train, he’d just end up at the hidden loch again. He trudged towards it, conscious of the warriors flashing happy smiles at each other. He arrived, remembering that the last time he ended up here he broke down and cried like a woman. Thankfully, no one saw him. His former refuge had become his altar of despair. He sat on his hill and remembered Heather in the loch. He recalled her beauty and her grace and his