The Dark Elf's Secret Twins

THE DARK ELF’S SECRET TWINS CELESTE KING PROTHEKA PUBLISHING Copyright © 2023 by Celeste King All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Sigh up for my newsletter at https://www.subscribepage.com/celesteking Join my Facebook group here! DEDICATION This book is dedicated to Kaylee, Emily, Taylor, Jordon, Melanie, Jamie, Jennifer, Hannah, Donna and the whole “Project Protheka” family. Thanks for believing in the world. CONTENTS Books in The World of Protheka The World of Protheka 1. Lykan 2. Cyra 3. Lykan 4. Cyra 5. Lykan 6. Cyra 7. Lykan 8. Cyra 9. Lykan 10. Cyra 11. Lykan 12. Cyra 13. Lykan 14. Cyra 15. Cyra 16. Cyra 17. Lykan 18. Cyra 19. Lykan 20. Cyra 21. Lykan 22. Lykan 23. Cyra 24. Lykan 25. Cyra 26. Lykan 27. Cyra 28. Lykan 29. Cyra 30. Braythe Preview of The Dark Elf’s Secret Son Sienna Ris Sienna Ris BOOKS IN THE WORLD OF PROTHEKA Orc Warriors of Protheka Series Mates of the Burning Sun Clan Series Dark Elves of Protheka Series Thoruk’s Prize: A Monster Romance Naga’s of Protheka Series Minotaur’s of Protheka Series Demon’s of Protheka Series Vampires of Protheka Gargoyles of Protheka THE WORLD OF PROTHEKA 1 LYKAN I hate this shithole. The melody from the jinrayaha fills the air, reverberating off of the walls of the theater. The steady, subtle hum of bodies packed into the space is almost like an undercurrent to Ris’ song. The breathing of the patrons, the whispered conversations, and the clinking of glasses meld with the music to become a part of the song. While the music is pleasant, at least most of the time, there’s nothing else that’s redeemable about this godsforsaken theater. “Hey! You, in the corner!” A drunk dark elf stumbles up, the collar of his tunic loose and gaping and his eyes glassy from the amount he’s imbibed. I grind my teeth, fighting the urge to put the male out of his misery and knock him out. Instead, I stare him down, my lips twitching with the effort not to snarl. The male at least has the good sense to hesitate as he takes in the look on my face, but I guess the liquor wins out, and he straightens himself with as much haughtiness as he can muster. “That rodan took over my favorite table!” he says, gesturing at an equally-drunk male lounging lazily at a table near the center of the audience. Inwardly, I want to tear my hair out, and maybe chuck this male across the room. Outwardly, I remain impassive, collecting myself before responding. “That’s too bad. Guess you’ll have to find a new one.” The male blinks, clearly shocked, before his lips twist into an ugly sneer. “Are you stupid? I said–” “That you were just going,” I growl, taking a menacing step forward. The male’s face lightens about ten shades, and he sways as though he can’t decide whether to shit his pants or pass out. I suppress the smile that threatens to twist my lips, holding the male’s gaze. After a tense second, the male huffs, stumbling back toward the crowd and melting into the sea of people. I relish any opportunity to remind these assholes that I don’t work for them. I’m here solely to keep the peace and make sure everyone stays in line when it comes to the staff and what they owe to the bar. This whole affair with the theater is little more than a vapid excuse for showing off. The patrons waltz in here as though it’s their own personal, private estate, preening as though the talent of the chivdouyu on stage or the work ethic of the employees is single-handedly attributed to them. They demand drinks and service from human workers that are as scantily clad as permissible in a theater outside of the Red District. The music is only an excuse for sordid pageantry and drinking, with more of the patrons coming in to ogle the women and get wasted under the guise of “refined activity” and “networking” than to actually pay attention to any of the talent here. Thankfully, the crowd at this time isn’t as bad as it is during the prime late-night spots, but that’s little comfort in the grand scheme of things. I settle back against the wall by the bar, scanning the crowd for the umpteenth time this evening. A flash of dark hair and iridescent, gauzy fabric catches my eye in the crowd. Cyra’s hips swish beneath the nearly-sheer fabric, preposterous expanses of smooth, olive skin on display as she leans slightly over to place a new drink in front of a patron. The muscles in her legs ripple as she stands up straight again, those ridiculous shoes clicking softly against the floor as she makes her way back to the bar. Heat curls around the base of my spine as my eyes trace her, images of bending her over flashing unbidden through my mind. I growl softly, fighting the urge to readjust myself in my pants. Fucking Cyra. The woman is too godsdamned bossy for her own good, especially for a human. She’s constantly shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong and getting herself into trouble, and then she has the gall to act like I’m the self-important asshole of the two of us. She leans against the railing overlooking the audience, her profile visible as her eyes linger on the stage. Her dark brows pull down over her thickly-lashed eyes, as though she’s concentrating on the set Ris is playing before her shoulders go rigid. Cyra scans the crowd and then glances back at the bar, the dim lights of the theater gleaming off of her cheekbones before her eyes land on me. A bolt of electricity races through my body, and