Once Upon a Dream Read online

  Once Upon a Dream

  Sierra Simone

  Once Upon a Dream

  Sierra Simone © 2021

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Dangerous Press LLC.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Once Upon a Dream

  American Witch

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Music Box Girl

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Epilogue

  Red & White

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Want More Midnight Dynasty?

  Once Upon a Dream

  Lush. Evocative. Romantic. Enter the sensual world of modern day fairy tales with three novellas by USA Today bestselling author Sierra Simone.

  Music Box Girl

  A Twelve Dancing Princesses Story

  Every night they dance. Every night he follows.

  Ex-soldier private investigator Cal Dugan has been hired to follow Tamsin and her ballerinas to find out where they go at night. He didn’t count on Tamsin’s courage or her passion. He didn’t count on the way she twists him up inside.

  He solves the riddle of their disappearing act, but he’ll never reveal Tamsin’s secrets, no matter the cost.

  American Witch

  A Princess and the Pea Story

  Morgan wants to start fresh, but a mystery man at the masked ball lights her up from the inside. His hands, his touch, his scent--they're all too familiar, all too real. He’s always been her weakness, but can she deny him when every part of her is on fire for him and only him?

  Red & White

  A Snow-White and Rose-Red Story

  All that art student Scarlett wants to do is wait out a howling snowstorm and kiss her best friend senseless, but all her careful plans fall apart the minute a near-frozen bear stumbles through the door.

  Except he's not a bear—he's very much a man—and there's only one way to warm him up from the cold...

  American Witch

  1

  “There’s no reason to be nervous. I’m an excellent matchmaker.”

  I narrow my eyes at the tuxedoed man sitting across from me. “I’m not nervous,” I reply. “I’m regretting letting you talk me into this, that’s all.”

  Mark Tintagel, former murderer and present-day monster, simply stretches out his feet and smiles at me. We’ve been driving for long enough that the New York City lights are far behind us, but his dress shoes still manage to gleam somehow. Along with his eyes, which are a dark and dangerous blue glittering out from the dark.

  “I say this as your friend,” he says in a voice that could almost be called amiable if I didn’t know whom it was coming from. “But you really do need to fuck someone. For everyone’s sake, obviously, but not least of all my own.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, and the silk and tulle of my masquerade gown rustles. Behind me are fairy’s wings. In my lap is a mask. All of it is green and gold, gossamer-thin, gossamer-soft.

  All except—

  I shift in my seat so I don’t have to think about it. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  Mark gives me an exasperated look, and even in the barely-lit backseat of his limo, it’s unfairly handsome on him. “It has everything to do with me. I can’t even spend a quiet night in my own club when you’re there too, because all the sensitive subs flee into my office like terrified gazelles, and all the pain-sluts stampede toward you, even if they’re scheduled with other clients. You see my problem.”

  “The submissives like it,” I say, and then amend myself. “Well, some of them like it.”

  I’ve played at Mark’s club in D.C. for years, primarily as a Domme, but on one distinctly memorable occasion as a submissive.

  (I say distinctly memorable, because the person I was submitting to at the time was Maxen Colchester. Yes, the Maxen Colchester, the war hero and president. It’s a long story.)

  Thankfully for me and the erstwhile president, Lyonesse is known above all else for its secrecy, its utter discretion. Yes, it’s also luxurious, yes, it caters to a vast array of kinky needs with bespoke equipment and even more bespoke club submissives and Dominants. But truthfully, it’s the privacy that makes it the best club on the Eastern Seaboard, and possibly on the entire continent. What other club could boast presidents and princes among its members? Celebrities and countesses? Senators, as I once was, and vice presidents, as I am now?

  I turn and stare out the window where the glowing mansions have begun peeking through the trees. I’m no stranger to wealth, but Bishop’s Landing is more than your ordinary, “well, of course I own a boat” wealth. It’s the kind of wealth that gets Great American Novels written about it; it’s Wharton wealth. Gatsby wealth.

  And the mansions flashing past us are Gatsby mansions.

  I close my eyes and try to lean back on the headrest, and then remember I can’t, on account of my elaborate updo and the damn fairy wings. And then I’m forcefully reminded—again—of the less conventional parts of this costume.

  Why did I let Mark talk me into this again?

  “My point remains, Morgan. You need to get laid. And taking out your sexual frustration on my submissives clearly isn’t helping you scratch the itch.”

  Oh yes. That’s why. “I’ll admit,” I say, still staring at the sprawling houses outside, “it’s been a rougher dry spell than usual.”

  “Given the state of Blanche’s ass last week, I’d say that’s an understatement.” Mark leans forward and braces his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Hands that have thrilled and killed. “Tell me, old friend, about what’s been holding you back. You’re beautiful, you’re rich, you’re the vice fucking president...”

  I don’t answer. I’m painfully aware of the Secret Service car behind me, of the eternally-buzzing phone in the silk-covered clutch next to me.

  “Ah, is that it?” he asks. “Are you worried about taking a lover because of the potential scandal?”

  “I’m not afraid of repeating my brother’s mistakes, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  “Hmm,” Mark muses with a curling, monster’s smile, “but which brother? Current stepbrother president? Or former real brother president? Are we having Freudian feelings? Jungian feelings?”

  “Stop psycho-analyzing me.”

  Still the monster’s smile. “Then stop terrifying my submissives.”

  “Fine. It’s not about Embry—or Maxen. And it’s not the vice president thing either. Are you happy?”

  He leans back again, a satisfied look on his face. “Nearly. I still want to know why, and I want to know why you came to me for help. Not that I don’t enjoy playing Emma for my friends.”

  “Emma was famously bad at matchmaking.”

  “And still you came to me. Why, Morgan, if you didn’t trust I could help you?”

  This—this is the heart of it. This is why I’m in a limo tonight headed for Bishop’s Landing and a masquerade so lavish and exclusive that it already had a security detail my Secret Service people could lia
ise with. This is why I’m in a costume that I didn’t choose, being stroked and caressed in places that can’t be seen by silk so expensive even I’d have trouble affording it.

  I debate telling Mark the truth, and then I decide it doesn’t matter. He’ll see it eventually anyway. That is the problem with Mark Tintagel, if you really want to know. He sees too much. Especially when it comes to what people secretly want.

  “I knew you’d—” I clear my throat. Fuck, this is hard to admit. And it shouldn’t be. But here I am anyway, trussed up in the silk and tulle a stranger sent me in a box yesterday. “I knew you’d find someone suitable.”

  “So, you did trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is still not an answer to my original question, Morgan.”

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glare. “I think you already know, and you just want me to say it out loud.”

  A slight hook to the corner of his mouth lets me know I’m right.

  Mark and his fucking head games.

  “This conversation is over,” I pronounce. “I think I’ve already humiliated myself enough for one evening.”

  At that, Mark raised an eyebrow. “What, by wearing what your future paramour sent you?”

  Heat—half embarrassed anger, half something else entirely—curls in my chest.

  “Yes.”

  Last week, I had finally admitted to Mark that I’d like to find a lover and did he know anyone—someone discreet, someone of any gender but with absolutely no connection to politics? He’d studied me in that cold, former killer way of his, and then proclaimed that he had just the person in mind.

  And then came the invitation to the Constantine masquerade. Next had come the dress, the wings, the mask. The delicate, hand-sewn underthings. All shipped to my residence on the Naval Observatory grounds in a box the color of emeralds—the same color as my eyes—and shipped not from Mark, but directly from an atelier on behalf of my date.

  As a Domme, I couldn’t remember the last time a lover had requested I wear anything for them—it was I who did the requesting, it was I who set the scene, selected the costumes, and tread the stage. But I couldn’t muster too much unhappiness about it because everything had fit perfectly. Exquisitely.

  When I put on the dress, when I was all pale skin and black hair and green silk and gold wings, I looked like the ethereal woodland fairy my ex-husband used to tease me about being.

  Morgan le Fay.

  Even after everything—the divorce, the loneliness, the regrets—the memory still brings a smile to my face.

  So no, I couldn’t be wholly upset by the costume. It was and is objectively perfect.

  And the masquerade as a location for my blind date is actually a stroke of genius, as much as I was initially reluctant to admit it. Other than Lyonesse itself, there is no more perfect venue for anonymity than the Constantine estate—not only because all the guests will be masked, but because it’s also one of those rare, exclusive gatherings where a sitting veep will be one of the less interesting guests anyway.

  Also, I’ll have plenty of chances to escape if I feel like Mark has set me up with someone I can’t stand.

  So, if I’m not actually embarrassed or fearful for my privacy, then I suppose Mark was right all along, and I am nervous.

  Fuck him for being right again.

  As if he’s reading my thoughts—which he probably is—he takes hold of my hand. The limo turns down the long, curved drive leading to the Constantine’s Georgian mansion, and the fresh glow of lights sends glimmers dancing off my dress and wings.

  “I will take you home the minute you want to go,” Mark promises. “Understood?”

  We’ve been friends a long time, him and me. And in him, I’ve always recognized something of a kindred spirit; I may not be a monster, but I’ve been called a witch more times than I can count.

  I muster a smile back at him, feeling like a girl going to her first dance and not a forty-two-year-old world leader. “Understood.”

  The front of the massive house is decked with flowers and lights, and guests in masks are laughing their way up the stairs. “How will I know whom I’m supposed to be meeting?” I ask Mark as our limo finally rolls to a stop. Mark had kept the name of my date a secret, claiming that it went against the spirit of a masquerade to reveal such things too early.

  “I think your date is arriving much later than us,” Mark says, tying a simple black domino around his head. With his sun-bronzed skin and dark blond hair, he needs little other ornamentation to look dashing and dangerous as hell. “Until then, you are under strict orders to enjoy yourself.”

  Now I finally do glare. “You know I don’t take orders.”

  Mark just laughs at me, his eyes dropping down to my dress, to the ridiculous wings spreading behind me. “Oh, is that right?”

  I’m ready to deliver a scathing retort when Mark’s bodyguard opens the door for us, and it’s time for us to get out. “Thank you, Tristan,” I say as the silent ex-soldier hands me out of the car.

  He’s got the same lightly suntanned skin as Mark, but dark, dark hair and beautifully tragic features cut right out of a Victorian fairy tale. And when he helps Mark out of the car as well, I don’t think I imagine that Mark keeps his hand in Tristan’s for a beat longer than necessary.

  “Here,” Mark says, producing another domino from his pocket. He hands it to Tristan. “This is for you.”

  Tristan’s face doesn’t change, but I can sense the discomfort rippling through him. “I’m not dressed for a masquerade, sir.”

  “You’re in a suit, and that’s good enough. Plus, you’ll have a mask. What else do you need?”

  “I was given to understand the Constantine security was sufficient for tonight, and that you would not require me inside—”

  “Then you were mistaken. I require you inside very much. Whom else will I dance with?”

  Even in the velvet evening, with only the lights from the house pouring onto the drive, I can see Tristan struggle with a response to that. He flushes. “Very well, sir.”

  “Good boy. Meet me inside after the car is safely parked.” And without a glance backward, Mark takes my arm and leads me up the shallow front steps into the mansion, stopping at the front door to help me affix my gold mask. A faint breeze finds its way through the high slit in the tulled skirt of my gown and caresses the skin exposed by the deep V of my bodice.

  “He’s young,” I remark after Mark’s finished with my mask. “And thank you.” I almost wish I could stop and attend to some of the more invisible parts of my costume, which are both deeply uncomfortable and strangely stimulating, but I assume I’ll have time once we get inside and start circulating.

  “You’re welcome. And I haven’t fucked him, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.” He hands the doorman our invitations, and then we both proceed inside, trailed discreetly by my Secret Service detail. Neither Mark nor I pay them any mind.

  “Do you want to fuck him?” I ask.

  We move easily through the foyer, following the elegant strains of music coming from the ballroom. “I wouldn’t object to it, no,” Mark says. “Would you?”

  I think of Tristan’s pout-shaped mouth and his haunted eyes…and all those rippling, ex-soldier muscles. “Of course not.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I’m a woman of simple tastes—oh.”

  Oh.

  We have just reached the ballroom, and it is like something out of a movie, like something out of a poem. A play. A Shakespearean fever dream of glittering crystal, gilt everything, and tumbling roses of ivory and dipped gold. White wisteria and roses hang from the chandeliers, entire trees have been moved into the corners, and there are small alcoves carpeted in what appears to be fresh moss. The ballroom—already a cathedral-sized space, already richly adorned—is now a hymn to sumptuousness, to extravagant beauty.

  And the guests?

  I see swans and nymphs, pirates and nereids. A woman in a ful
l porcelain mask sails past us, her petticoats swishing as she’s chased by a man wearing a brightly checkered harlequin’s costume. As we descend the grand staircase down the ballroom floor, couples swirl in froths of feathers and eddies of silk. Some are in waistcoats, some in dresses, some in bodysuits, and everywhere are elaborate hats and headdresses trimmed with feathers, veils, bells, flowers. Several people have wigs with model ships and tiny birdcages lodged in the curls, and several others have opted for crowns or tiaras instead. The guests are dripping with jewels, all of them to a one. The crowd shimmers and sparkles even more than the ballroom itself.

  “You were saying about simple tastes?” Mark asks with some amusement.

  “Shut up.”

  “Ah, Morgan Leffey. Brought low like the rest of us by mortal pleasures.”

  “What,” I say, turning to him with an eyebrow raised behind my mask, “about any of my time in your club has ever made you think I don’t enjoy mortal pleasures?”

  “I didn’t say ‘didn’t enjoy’, I said ‘brought low’—oh, there is our hostess. Shall we go and make our gratitudes?”

  “Best to get it over with, I suppose.”

  Caroline Constantine greets us with queenly but gracious kisses, and then points out her youngest, Tinsley, out on the ballroom floor, radiant and dancing, perhaps forgetting for a moment that her mother’s gaze is never far. I watch Tinsley as Mark and Caroline talk, and for a brief and tired instant, I envy the young heiress. I envy her youth. I envy her innocence. I envy everything that separates us—not just time, but old sins, and incessant responsibilities, and the many lonelinesses that creep in with age…the lonelinesses that not even friends and pretty subs can keep at bay.