Masquerade of the Cursed King excerpt for gamers

Five years. Five
years had passed
without so much
as a visit or
even a letter.
Heat welled in
Eleanor's belly.
She'd thought
Erick had
forgotten about
her. The
heartless jerk.

Yet there he
stood at the
gate, chatting so
casually with a
group of
soldiers. His
wild chestnut
hair sparkled in
the morning
light, swept back
from his tan
face.
Frustratingly
beautiful.
Enthusiastic head
bobs and bursts
of laughter made
him seem like the
boy who used to
toss her up in
the air but he
wasn't. He was
all grown up and
thick muscle
bulged in his
neck and strained
the thin white
shirt he tucked
into his
trousers. His
knuckles rippled
under the fabric
in an all too
tantalizing way
but not where she
wanted them. Just
a few inches from
the very nice
bulge at his
center. If she
could just slip
into his mind,
she'd quietly
persuade him to…
Earth, what was
wrong with her?

Her inner thighs
suddenly felt
sticky and she
wished she'd worn
a more
conservative
costume or at
least underwear.
She tugged on her
skirt but it
wouldn't budge
below mid-thigh.
At least her eyes
didn't glow with
lustful elven
light.

He shouldn't see
her like this.
Would he
recognize her?
Was he here for
her? A bubbly
wave swelled her
chest. Traitorous
body. She
shouldn't hope
for anything but
freedom from him
and this cursed
place.

Some other duty
probably drew
Erick here. Her
escape attempts
had never before
warranted his
personal
attention.

He donned a gray
military shirt
and buttoned the
front. A guard's
uniform. He
couldn't be
Erick. Thank
Earth.

She exhaled,
though she hadn't
realized she'd
held her breath.

"I know. Could
they take any
longer?" the huge
man in front of
her complained.

The line had
grown to twenty
people long.
Similar grumbles
leaked from their
minds and melded
into an
irritating
high-pitched hum
at the back of
Eleanor's skull.
She wished she
could block out
their thoughts.

The sun had risen
behind her an
hour ago and
already chased
away the slight
chill left over
from night, yet
the heavy iron
gate still hadn't
lifted.

She needed to get
on the pass and
over the Santarra
Mountains before
her mother caught
up to her. Earth,
she'd made such
good time. If she
could get past
this checkpoint,
she might make it
to Gildon this
time.

Eleanor adjusted
the straps of her
cart on her sore
shoulder. She'd
pulled the
crate-sized cart
all the way from
west Biston. The
leather straps
had rubbed
blisters that
oozed and stuck
to the thin
fabric of her
bodice. Gross.
With all her
fidgeting, her
blonde wig caught
on the straps'
buckle. How
stupid. But she
couldn't tie the
fake hair back
without revealing
her pointed ears.

Eleanor ducked
down to fix it,
unseen. He
couldn't see her.
She should be
okay. Lots of
people stood
between them. But
her heart
pounded.

"Here, let me
help," the man
behind her
blurted. His gaze
flitted down her
body, pausing at
the low-cut
bodice that
squeezed her
small breasts
together.

Earth, she wished
her cleavage was
why he stared.
"No thank you,"
she muttered and
swatted his hand
away.

The large man in
front of her
turned around.
Bearded face
lengthened, he
examined her the
way a child
admires sweets
displayed behind
a bakery window.
Her whole fist
could probably
fit in his mouth.
Judging by the
tools in his
cart, he must be
a blacksmith. He
inhaled her
pheromone and his
eyelids drooped.

She'd just taken
a bath but the
morning sun
heated her skin.
Already, her neck
dampened. Soon,
everyone would
stare-or worse.
Earth, what was
taking so long?
She tugged her
wig's tangled
locks loose and
peeked around the
human blacksmith.

Although the
group of soldiers
broke off and
headed south, the
Erick-look-alike
guard still
didn't open the
gate. He tugged
on gloves despite
the warm August
morning air. The
guards who had
kept her prisoner
wore gloves like
that all year
long. Warnings
whispered in her
head though the
gloves were
probably standard
issue.

"That scent…" the
blacksmith's deep
voice rumbled.

Eleanor quickly
blurted, "I sell
perfumes." She
motioned to her
wooden cart where
tiny bottles
glistened,
nestled in a
cotton grid.
She'd bought the
whole setup,
costume and all
with a portion of
her tuition
savings. The rest
of her
hard-earned coin
was hidden in the
base of the cart,
just above the
axels.

The blacksmith
shifted to hide
the growing lump
in his pants. "I
ain't smelled a
perfume like that
before."

"It's a family
recipe," she
lied.
Unfortunately,
that scent
plagued her. Her
elven pheromones
never turned off,
due to her mixed
human and elven
blood. A common
affliction in
hybrids. The rare
couplings between
humans and elves
sometimes
produced worse
deformities. Some
hybrids died from
them in the womb
or before
adulthood.

Whatever the
blacksmith said
was drowned out
in the screech of
the gate.

The lone guard
cranked the chain
that lifted it.
His biceps jerked
and trembled. The
gate had to weigh
as much as five
men.

Earth, those
thick arms could
easily hoist her
up and squeeze
her tight. The
thought beaded
her nipples and
heated her eyes.
If she had the
time, she'd enjoy
his hard body.
Eleanor swallowed
the saliva that
threatened to
dribble down her
chin and squeezed
her eyes shut to
hide the light
that burned in
them. She
shouldn't want
him. He looked
too much like
Erick.

When he locked
the crank in
place, nearly
everyone in line
cheered, excited
for a different
reason.

Eleanor's eyes
cooled enough to
open without
light bursting
out. Only elves'
and hybrids' eyes
glowed when they
were aroused or
enraged. A sure
giveaway as to
her identity.