He wrapped an arm around her instead, holding on tight. The pangs he’d experienced earlier must have caused some sort of residual damage in his chest. Left cracks. Something. Because some long-buried instinct resurrected, rising to the surface. Need...more of...her. Must protect...
She lifted her head, and he knew. She hadn’t been dejected; she’d sought comfort from him. From him. “Well. No matter,” she said. “One down doesn’t mean all down, right?”
“Obviously,” he said, having no idea what she’d meant. Kaysar could not stop himself. He traced two claw tips gently over her cheeks and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, careful not to nick her skin. “Which of Lulundria’s plethora of abilities have you exhibited?”
Eager, she jumped up and down a little. “How many is a plethora?”
“I’m not sure. More than a dozen, less than a throng?” New urges fought for dominance. To hear her babble more nonsense. To deepen her excitement. To knead her softest places and see her eyes glaze. To push her against a tree and tear off those skintight pants. Things he’d never fantasized about doing to others.
How was she affecting him like this?
“Every fae has a glamara, their strongest ability,” he explained. “But some also travel great distances in seconds or mesmerize with a glance. Others cast illusions. And on and on and on the list goes.”
“You are fae.” Chantel retained her clasp on his tunic and searched his eyes without reservation. Most people averted their gaze within seconds, unwilling to stare into the abyss. A shame, he used to think. He’d paid a high cost for the seething pools of hatred, and he enjoyed showing them off. Now? He thought he might be unnerved. “What can you do?”
“More than a plethora.” He cupped her cheeks. “Say you’ll come with me to my home. I’ll see to your protection, I swear it.”
Her good humor faded. “I’m sorry, Kaysar, but I want to return to my home as soon as possible.” She extracted herself from his hold, and he could do nothing but let her. “I’d love it if you helped me find another doormaker, though.”
Help her return to the mortal world? No. She would come to his palace. Where she could leave anytime she desired, once she learned to flitter. Which she could do, long before she recharged her glamara.
He stroked a claw over his arm, grazing his skin. Map. Sister. Calm. “The evil prince will hunt you. He might hunt you even now, Chantel. And he’ll find you. All royals employ seers. Those who peer into the past, present and future. But I can hide you from him and his seer. Let me. I was too late to protect Lulundria, but I’m not too late to protect you.”
His vow only bolstered her resistance. She shook her head, firm. “Fear won’t keep me from action. There’s no guarantee my glamara will ever fully recharge. I need a plan B.”
Laughably easy, Kaysar? “You no longer belong in your old world,” he cajoled. “Stay here. You’ll experience every comfort in my castle.”
Her shoulders squared, and her spine straightened. She elevated her chin as those forest-sunset eyes frosted over. “I don’t want to go to your castle—wait. Like, it’s a legit castle, with towers and dungeons and stuff? What defenses are—No. Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. I’m going home. My best friend and cat are worried sick about me. Pearl Jean does not need another illness, and Sugars has... peculiarities. I will return to them. Nothing will stop me.”
“You’ll never find another doormaker.” He would make sure of it.
“Are you a seer?” she asked, a little too sweetly for his liking.
Because he knew where she was headed with her line of inquiry. “No,” he grated, resentful over the answer. Over her insight.
“Then you can’t know whether I will or won’t find a doormaker.”
He worked his jaw. She truly meant to leave him. “You won’t succeed without my aid,” he warned.
“Maybe, but I’m still going to try. Will you at least draw a map in the dirt before we separate, and point me to a safe town?”
A map. Yes. Automatically, he scraped his claws deeper, using the blood to craft a swift crimson outline of the surrounding miles. When he finished, he extended his arm to her without thinking.
She peered at his wounds, pensive. Horrified?
His cheeks heated as silence stretched between them. Even the pixies had gone quiet, no longer whispering in the trees. With a growl, he dropped his arm to his side.
“Wait. I wasn’t done memorizing.” She clasped his wrist and maneuvered his arm into a brighter beam of light. The cuts had already woven together, but the blood lines remained. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the pond. This is the carnage we abandoned. Which means we’re here.” Her brow furrowed as she tapped a spot near his wrist. “This path seems to lead to a town, yes?”
She could read his blood-map? How was this possible? No one could read his blood-maps.
“Kaysar?” she prompted, peering up at him. A warm breeze twirled between them, swirling leaves and lifting a lock of pink hair.
She was too beautiful. Too soft. Too warm. Too singular. Kaysar bit his tongue until he tasted the metallic tinge of blood. “Even with a map, you won’t find a doormaker on your own. If you survive the forest itself, you might die at the hands of its inhabitants. You think the centaurs are bad? Wait until you meet ogres and trolls.”
“I have. They left me alone.”
Yes. Well. Of course they had. They’d sensed her connection to the Frostlines, and they’d heeded his rules. Not even a scratch on the royals. “Have you come across a goblin yet?”
She shuddered, as if she knew what horrors to expect from the ghostly fiends. “No, but I’m not calling off my hunt for a doormaker.”
Stubborn female. “Very well. I will accompany you.” He pieced together a new plan. Forget seduction at the castle. He would lead Chantel through the forest and into the Dusklands.
The journey would prove exhausting for her—because he would make it so, forcing her to rely on his knowledge and depend on his strength. Nights spent under the stars guaranteed she sought his body for warmth.
As soon as he got her in his arms, she would forget all thoughts of her former home. I will have my vengeance. All will be well.
“You’ll help me? Really?” she asked, suspicious. “For what price?”
Oh, they would discuss his price soon enough. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He looked her over with their coming travels in mind. “For now, you require shoes. And supplies.”
“And weapons of my own.”
This little dollop of strawberries and cream wished to wield weapons? When she quirked a brow in challenge, he merely replied, “Naturally. I will gather everything you need.”
“And the price for all of that?”
How much was she willing to pay?
He decided to push in the direction he wished to end and gauge her reaction. “Tell me, Chantel. Do you fear I’ll demand sex from you? Or do you hope I will?”
CHAPTER NINE
KAYSAR’S QUESTION HUNG in the air, a sultry caress against Cookie’s overheated skin. His whiskey eyes gleamed with some concentrated emotion. The need to kill her? To kiss her? Excitement or resentment? More anger than any person should be able to contain? Longing? Hope?
Insanity?
During their brief interaction, he’d displayed all of those things and more, weaving between the contradictory mess seamlessly. Sometimes, especially when he stroked those metal claws over his arms, he reminded her of a lost little boy...with dreams of burning the entire world to ash.
During those episodes, she actually felt a kinship with him. Weird, right? Proof she wasn’t quite there, maybe.
His voice was the vocal equivalent of kerosene, and his intensity a lit match. In a handful of minutes, he’d set her ablaze with a thousand different desires and fears. His every touch electrified her, as if she
’d been preprogrammed to react to him. His scent drugged. The greedy way he watched her, as if he’d never observed a more fascinating creature, bolstered her confidence. I can survive this.
What’s more, she’d kind of enjoyed chatting with him, despite their ups and downs. He’d offered information she’d desperately sought, and every so often, he’d made her feel gloriously safe. Even—shockingly—normal.
Did he truly wish to help her?
“Look. Sex is one hundred percent off our table.” For starters, she had never used her body as payment for anything, and she wasn’t starting now, probably. Second, sleeping with someone you needed was stupid. He might lose interest afterward. Or obsess. He was a killer, and she had enough trouble controlling her own dark side. She didn’t need to go and add his to the mix, muddying the waters of self-control further. “That’s never going to change.”
“Should I escort you about this realm for free?” He used his silky tone again. She didn’t know if the danger had passed or escalated. “I do have duties to attend to. I’m sure there are other damsels in distress I can save. Those who are more amenable to my requests.”
Oh, that burned. “Do you plan to proposition them all?” she snipped, irritated that he’d lumped her into the same category as the helpless maidens of lore. “If you’re ready to get realistic with your payment options, I’m ready to bargain. But ticktock, Claw Man.” She tapped the wristwatch she wasn’t wearing. “I’m only wasting two more minutes on this conversation. Then I jet.”
He executed a slow blink. “Did you refer to me as Claw Man?”
Yeah. So? “My teammates get nicknames, or they aren’t my teammates. We’ll need a uniform, by the way.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The word teammate implies we are equals. We are not. I make demands, and you obey them. That is how our relationship will work.”
Cookie bristled. “You can’t just decide you’re team leader.” The nerve! “My tough-as-nails, decisive manner and no-nonsense approach to battle inspires confidence in others. When I have a vision, I make fast decisions, and I never veer off track, mostly. I should be considered for co-captain at least.”
Kaysar was better suited as the muscle. The perfect meat shield. With him, she’d have the best chance of finding another doormaker. And also convincing said doormaker to aid her, free of charge.
“Clock’s about to run out, Kaysar,” she said, impatient to get this partnership sealed and the show on the road. Or to just get the show on the road. Either way, she was getting some action.
Behind him, the sky darkened as suddenly as if someone had flipped a switch. Lightning blazed, a flash there and gone, illuminating her companion’s impossibly sexual face and war-god body—her heart skipped a beat. Dang. He was beyond sexy-scary.
Thunder boomed, a sudden storm rolling in. The instant change in weather startled her, though she wasn’t sure why. This kind of thing happened in The Forest of Good and Evil, too. The designer must have lived here.
Yes, Mother. Video games did provide me with a proper education for my future.
Her companion’s anger—if that’s what he currently displayed—dissipated as icy raindrops descended. “Fate is trying to tell you something, princess.” He offered a tight grin. “Traverse the Forest of Many Names during a storm without my protection? Tsk-tsk. Do you want to die?”
“So it’s raining. Big deal.” Droplets splashed her face...the rest of her. In seconds, she was chilled to the bone. Teeth chattering, she said, “Rain or not, I’m finding a doormaker, and I’m not sleeping with you. And don’t call me princess.”
The day she signed on as Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty was the day she retired. Hero complex? No, thanks. She’d rather not be burdened with one of those.
Even as a child, she’d gravitated toward characters like the Mad Hatter and Maleficent. Actual role models who’d gotten things done.
“But you are a princess.” Amid another flash of lightning, Kaysar appeared a whisper away. She gasped as his hot palm seared her nape and his hard body pressed flush against her curves. “You are my princess.”
The claim and the contact thrilled her for all the wrong reasons.
Focus. “Did you teleport?”
“We call it flittering.”
“Flittering,” she echoed. Why did he have to be so deliciously warm? So wrong for her?
He “craved” Lulundria. Oh, yes, and this Drendall, whoever she was. Another princess? Whatever. Bottom line: Cookie wasn’t Lulundria. When Kaysar accepted the truth, he might revolt. Best to curtail all sexual thoughts and urges with him.
“I’m not your anything right now, Kaysar.” Good. She used a rational tone. “But I could be your partner, if you’ll give a little, working with me instead of against me.”
The reasonable request ticked him off. He peeled his lips from his straight, white teeth in a parody of a smile. “You’ll be pleased to know my price isn’t sex. That, you’ll give me for free. No, what I demand of you is a vow never to run from me. And Chantel? There is a steep penalty to pay if you break your word. Liars do not fare well in my presence.”
She gulped, a hard lump dropping into her stomach. And we’re back to lethal.
Did she need Kaysar’s help? Yes. Obviously. Maybe? She didn’t know anything anymore. But she wouldn’t lie or trick him into anything. Honesty mattered to Cookie, too. It was her thing, the line she refused to cross. How many times had her mother and father promised to take her to some event or another, getting her hopes up, only to bail?
She might suck at a lot of things, but she always kept her word.
“I’ll always be truthful with you, I promise.” The raindrops continued to fall, and she caught herself teetering closer to him. “That is why I won’t vow to never run from you. Never is too constrictive.” And had he really confessed his belief that she was a sure thing? “There should be exceptions.”
If he tested her vow, and she ran because she felt endangered, he would have the perfect excuse to harm her. Why set herself up for failure?
The look he gave her said, darling, please. “Unfortunately for you, I have no need to bargain. This is a Summerland shower, and it will last all night. You’ll do what I demand or you’ll freeze.”
Irritating man! He had no give. But spend all night in the rain? The droplets had begun to prick like needles. “Look. I always do what I say I’ll do. So, you either add some exceptions to your request, or I walk despite the danger. No,” she said when he opened up to protest. “Think about it. What if I need to run from you to save my life, for whatever reason?”
He did think about it, then nodded. “You make an excellent point. But there will be no exceptions.”
Argh! He was bluffing. He must be bluffing. But she wasn’t. When she’d told him she meant what she said, she’d meant what she’d freaking said. “Very well. I decline your offer. Thanks for the assist. Now, good day, sir.” She wrenched from his clasp and stepped around him.
Nope. Not around him. He moved with her, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “To pay for the supplies, you’ll give me an hour to show you why I demand you remain at my side.”
Finally! A concession. But was it a trap of some kind? His unholy glee said yes.
He looked beyond her and brightened further. “I’ll have a pair of shoes for you within minutes.” Then he vanished without giving her a chance to respond, leaving her in the chilling rain.
Okay. Message received. He preferred to discuss the vow thing later. Same. But, uh, where had he gone? Should she wait for his return? Or run while she had the chance?
A pair of boots versus her own agency?
Ugh. Maybe she could steal the shoes from him, then ditch? Could she ditch him without an opportunity like this? He wanted the woman he thought she was. He’d made that clear. She had leverage, but how much?
What other superpowers did th
e frightening centaur slayer wield?
Better question: What other superpowers do I wield?
Colder by the second, Cookie sprinted for an area shielded by a dense canopy of leaves. Along the way, her clothes gained a hundred pounds of water. Freezing mud splashed her bare feet. Her teeth-chattered with greater intensity and spread through the rest of her body.
When a continuous click of metal against metal rang out, she frowned. Kaysar’s doing? Was he crafting the shoes from swords?
Curiosity and misery got the better of her. She braved the storm, racing onto the field of slaughter, where the noise originated, her gaze scanning. There. Kaysar slammed a dagger into the lock that trapped the prisoners inside the cart. He’d removed his soaked shirt, his muscles bulging and flexing with his movements. Raindrops sluiced over his tattoos. Oh! The lines and dots created an intricate map she could stare at for days.
As he toiled, women dressed in threadbare rags mewled and begged for mercy.
Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. He’d decided to aid the others before procuring those shoes.
“Quiet,” he snapped, “before I add your tongues to my collection.”
Well. He wasn’t a good guy, either. But a good deed was still a good deed, right?
Did he really have a collection of tongues?
They seemed to think so. They hushed in an instant.
Hinges squeaked when the door swung open. He regressed into the shadows, allowing the prisoners to spill from the cart. Until—with superfast reflexes, he snatched a woman by her garment, yanking her to his side.
“Your shoes,” he said, his voice as hard and cold as steel. “Give them to me.”
The tearful woman squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, bending down to unstrap her sandals.
Oh, no, no, no. “Stop,” Cookie shouted, rushing over. “Keep them.” Steal an innocent’s property to save herself? Big nope. Not outside of a video game, anyway.
The owner of the footwear paused, hopeful as she glanced from Cookie to Kaysar.
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