He met Cookie’s gaze. The rain picked up, washing away the evidence of his earlier battle. “The woman will give me the shoes or I will take them. Which is it to be?”
The prisoner ripped off her sandals as swiftly as possible.
Cookie forged ahead. “I will go barefoot if I must, Kaysar. I’m not accepting those shoes.”
“Accept them or I’ll—” He pressed his lips together. “You will accept them. No other option is available to you.”
Okay. He clearly operated under the misassumption that she’d cave to his demands, if only he fronted long enough. To make him understand the depths of her stubbornness and the strength of her determination, she was going to have to call his bluff. And actually follow through if necessary. Bring it. “If you force this, I’ll leave you at the first opportunity.”
“You dare to threaten me with your abandonment?” he demanded, his lethal side making another appearance. “Me?”
All right, then. Time for that follow-through. “Forget the sandals,” she said, and humphed. He needed to learn a valuable lesson. Screw with Cookie and lose. But man, she thought she might actually miss him. Not his sterling personality, but the connection she’d felt when he’d wrapped his arms around her. An elusive sensation she’d craved for years. “I’m leaving with the others.” Perhaps the better choice, regardless of his next response. “Goodbye again, Kaysar.”
Head high, she followed after the females he’d sprung from the cart. Maybe her would-be protector would do the kind thing and call her back, ready for a genuine bargain. Maybe he wouldn’t. There at the end, his thunderstruck expression had been satisfying. The undercurrent of his rage even more so, despite the danger.
Did she actually want him to call her back? He might not be stable.
Well, so what? She wasn’t known for her rationality, either. And dang it, Kaysar was the best option to protect her from hidden and not-so-hidden dangers—because he was her only option. How could she navigate the world without another blood-map? How would she know the difference between a doormaker and an ordinary fae without his help?
Wait. Were any of the escaped prisoners doormakers? “Hey, guys, wait up,” she called, kicking into a jog, moving farther and farther from Kaysar—who didn’t call her back. The rain lightened at least.
No one waited up. They disappeared beyond a line of trees.
Still no callback. Whatever. She and Kaysar were parting. No big deal. Most people opted not to hang out with her at some point or another. Apparently, she was “abrasive.” Pearl Jean and Sugars were the only stickers. The pair she’d been unable “to unconsciously drive away,” as her therapist once said.
This was for the best, anyway. Why team up with a domineering, commanding male who might snap at any moment? Surely someone would let her tag along, ask questions and—
“Stop,” Kaysar bellowed, power crackling in his voice.
Oh, thank goodness. Cookie’s feet froze while her heart raced faster. Any woman still visible froze, too, as if too frightened to move.
“Return to me,” he commanded. “All of you. I agree to your terms, Chantel. I’ll fetch you another pair of shoes.”
He would? Shock hit her first, nearly knocking her on her butt. She’d won their private war?
“I believe I issued an order to the rest of you.” He bellowed again, but the crackle was missing, replaced by impatience. “Why is no one standing at my side? Shall I start hunting?”
In unison, the women raced for Kaysar, many exiting the line of trees. Wow. He spoke and everyone obeyed, as if the price of disobedience was too high.
Was it too high? Would he actually stoop to harming the women if they refused him? Cookie enjoyed a bloodbath as much as the next person, but come on! These prisoners had done nothing wrong.
As the ladies passed her, one muttered, “He’s king of the Nightlands and ruler of the Dusklands. Do what he says or die.”
Wait. He was an honest-to-goodness king, with a crown and a throne? He had mentioned owning a castle and claimed to own the land. His master-of-all-I-survey attitude certainly fit. But why leave out his title when he’d introduced himself?
As a king, he had more resources at his disposal than the average fae. He definitely had more power. What doormaker would have the stones to refuse his bidding, if ordered to help her?
She trudged back, growing warmer only when she stood at his side.
As she met his gaze, his irises blazed with satisfaction. Had she made a terrible mistake?
“You’re a king, huh?” Wait. “Do you have a queen?” Cheaters were liars who’d leveled up; they made the worst teammates. The worst everything.
His face scrunched with distaste. “I will never have a queen.”
“Commitment isn’t your thing, huh?” Very well. Cookie was going to do it. She was going to hitch her wagon to his.
“You may have your exception, as well,” he grated, ignoring her question. “You will not run from me...unless you feel I’m endangering your life. Me. I can protect you from any other threat.” He had a caveat of his own, apparently. “But. Before you run, you will tell me you feel as if I’m endangering your life. Only after I have confirmed that you are in fact in danger may you run. I’ll even give you a head start.”
“What do you want for the supplies then?” Since he wouldn’t be giving her that hour long tour to convince her to agree to his terms. Best they be clear.
“You will not naysay me again.”
Uh... “I’m going to need exceptions. But other than that,” she added before he could complain, “I agree to your terms.”
He traced his tongue over his teeth. “I must leave you here to source other shoes.” Rather than celebrating a mutually beneficial arrangement, he projected irritation. “You will stay here, in this exact spot. You will not move. These women will stand guard around you. If they flee, they die. If you are injured during my absence, they will die badly.” With that, he disappeared.
Cookie glanced at the terrified faces around her. What have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER TEN
“EXCEPTIONS,” KAYSAR GRUMBLED, materializing in his bedroom. “The audacity of the chit!” He stomped to his closet and grabbed the bag he used to cart around a severed head or organs whenever necessary. The magical, self-cleaning cloth couldn’t be ripped, even with his metal claws.
Did Chantel know how close she’d come to losing her head? “I bow to the dictates of no one.”
Since escaping the Frostlines, Kaysar had done what he wanted, when he wanted, with zero exceptions. Until today, when a former mortal dared to walk away from a powerful king she desperately needed on her side.
The wily beauty had certainly astonished him. She’d planned to leave him for good, jeopardizing her life and his vengeance, forcing him to capitulate to her demands or go to war with her. A choice between bad or worse.
But then, he’d given her an equally miserable choice. Help me destroy your husband or suffer. Not that she’d known it.
For some reason, the newly resurrected instinct to protect issued an increasingly loud protest. The princess must never suffer.
Protect and coddle Chantel—a Frostline—from his schemes? So she possessed the face of a doll from his most treasured memories? So she offered him a chance to be a savior at long last? Laughing a maniacal sound, he slammed his fist into the wall. Stone crumbled. Skin split, and bone cracked.
He was no one’s savior. Yet still the tug-of-war persisted. Use her. Protect her. Use. Protect.
He thought he might...admire her a little. Her stubbornness seemed to rival his own. She’d toed up to a pitiless opponent, consequences be damned. Despite her fear, she’d sought his embrace. Twice. But not with the hopes of luring him into bed, as others had done in the past, thinking to tame the unhinged king. No, she had pursued comfort. From him.
Tha
t fact might forever baffle him.
His conflicting objectives hardly mattered, though. Vengeance first. Chantel demanded a search for a doormaker? Very well. She’d get one. And she would despise every second of it. He would do more than make her uncomfortable. He would push and push and push until she reached her breaking point. She had one; everyone did.
Eager to return, Kaysar stalked through his bedroom, stuffing anything he thought she might need into the bag. As he riffled through his belongings, his mind strayed to Jareth. Would the prince balk when he met the stubborn beauty unwilling to back down from a battle of wills? Or rejoice?
I want you this much, he’d told Lulundria while stroking his shaft. How much more might he desire this one, a woman who appeared created from carnality itself?
Old bitterness merged with new. What if the prince took Chantel to bed as soon as Kaysar finished with her, too relieved by her return to care about her pregnancy?
Jareth, daring to enjoy her curvy little body night after night... The outrage!
He deserves no pleasure. Kaysar punched the wall again. And again. And again and again and again. Skin split. Knuckles shattered like glass. But his rage failed to cool.
Perhaps he’d keep Chantel for years.
Slightly mollified, he flittered to a treasure trove in the catacombs of his castle. Eternal torches illuminated a doorless room, casting muted golden light over a sea of gold coins, gemstones and weapons. A thousand maps hung over the stone walls. In the center of the chamber was a massive marble water fountain topped by a likeness of Prince Jareth’s dead mother.
In here, Kaysar kept the material goods he’d stolen from the Frostlines. Trunks filled with clothing they’d worn during special occasions. Invaluable family jewels. Swords they’d commissioned from the most skilled blacksmiths. He’d even taken furnishings, paintings and—his personal favorite—the urn containing Prince Lark.
One day, Kaysar would decide how best to desecrate the ashes.
What did Chantel require? She’d need clothes, of course. He shoved several gowns into the bag, unconcerned by size since fae garments magically fit the wearer, whoever the wearer happened to be. Although... She’d be too comfortable in these.
He wanted more than her misery—he wanted her dependent.
Kaysar removed the gowns and selected much lighter ones with nearly transparent material. Basically nightgowns. He grinned. Until the heat in his groin reignited, and his shaft hardened.
Spontaneous desire for the princess needed to stop. What did he care about a woman’s attire? Especially garments he planned to peel from her body as soon as he bedded her.
A groan sprung from him. Chantel...naked...
What color were her nipples? Did she have pink or sable curls between her legs? Would those emerald irises with their silver flecks go soft as he brought her to climax?
He pressed a hand to his aching length—wishing it was her hand.
With a growl, he blindly crammed something into the bag. What else, what else? This, this, and this. Yes, yes. This. Elderseed. He carefully set the large black brick-like object in the folds of a gown.
If someone mortally wounded Chantel anytime in the future, Kaysar now had the means to heal her right away.
What else? As he stalked across the chamber, the soles of his waterlogged boots squeaked. He should change into dry—Shoes. He’d almost forgotten. Where were the shoes?
He flittered to Eye’s bedroom, took a step forward, and paused. His seer lounged in a clawfoot tub before a blazing hearth, enfolded in a thick veil of steam. She’d piled her dark hair on her crown. In a reclined position, with her eyes closed, she presented a picture of total relaxation.
Envy scorched the cracks in his chest. “Give me your shoes,” he demanded.
Her eyelids popped open, and she screamed, scrambling to her feet. Water droplets slicked down her nakedness. Nakedness she attempted to cover with her hands before scrambling again, reaching for a towel.
He rolled his eyes. “You are of no interest to me in that regard.” Kaysar didn’t see people. He saw pawns and obstacles. “Where are your shoes?”
“Y-your majesty,” she sputtered. “How did you enter without—never mind. Now isn’t a good time for anything. You should leave. Please.”
He offered a cold laugh. “Aren’t you amusing today? Attempting to eject me from the bedroom I allow you to breathe in.”
Her fingers clenched on the edge of her towel. “Perhaps you should be nicer to me. I’ve had a vision about your princess.”
He acted without thought, flittering to her. So close the tips of their noses brushed together. “What did you see? Tell me.”
Words tripped from her tongue. “She is more than Lulundria. She is the skin she wears.”
He waited for her to say more. She didn’t. Confusion drew his brows together. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. I only sense this is similar to the heart issue. The skins are her, but they are also not her, both a part of her and separate from her, not yet fully formed.” She bent her head and rubbed her temple. “Chantel is still figuring herself out. She hasn’t chosen a path.”
“You speak nonsense.” Useless female. He moved away with a huff and shuffled through the room, searching for slippers, sandals or boots. In the closet, he found books. Hundreds of volumes stored in a private library.
He scanned the contents of every dresser drawer. Nothing. His fists turned heavy as fury collected there.
He raised his arm to strike something. The room didn’t have what he wanted? Very well. The room was coming down, to be nothing but a pile of stones. At the last moment, he spotted a shelf of varying footwear on the balcony outside and flittered over.
Grinning now, Kaysar grabbed a pair of bejeweled boots a portion of his brain recognized. Where had he seen them before?
As he readied to rejoin his princess, Eye called to him from inside the bedroom. “Your majesty, wait! You must see what I see.” She pushed a new image into his mind.
Like every instance before, a scene took shape, making him feel as if he peered at a painting come to life. Chantel, sprinting through the forest, panic etched into her features.
Hundreds of emotions welled up at once, none of them good. Muscles tensed, and bones vibrated. He primed his claws. “When does this occur?” he demanded.
“About five minutes ago.”
In danger? Or had she seized an opportunity to escape him, as boasted?
Whatever the answer, someone died today.
Temper redlining, Kaysar flittered to the field of carnage. Frigid raindrops sizzled on his skin, white-hot rage coating him. No sign of Chantel. The fae and mortal prisoners he’d commanded to remain noticed him and rushed over to plead for mercy.
“Be silent and step away,” he shouted. Immediate obedience. “Did someone attack?” He thought he scented—Kaysar belted a curse. Jareth.
As if he’d issued a summons, the prince lumbered to his feet a short distance away. Fresh blood coated his mouth. He shook his head, as if to discard a daze, and caught sight of Kaysar. Jareth, too, belted a curse.
Hatred slithered down Kaysar’s spine. “Hello, princeling.”
“She’s mine,” Jareth snarled as the women promised that they’d fought the prince to prevent him from following the princess. “You won’t touch her.”
“She is yours, yes,” he agreed. For now. The thought threw him, and not in a good way, but he quickly recovered, unveiling the smile he reserved solely for the Frostlines. A cruel twisting of his lips as much a warning as a promise. “But who do you think will bed her first?”
About Five Minutes Ago
COOKIE WIPED THE raindrops from her face. “Come on, guys. Can’t you give a girl a little space?” she pleaded. The moment Kaysar had vanished, the group had drawn a tight circle around her.
&nbs
p; They faced away from her, on the lookout for any possible threat. As if they could actually fight off a soft breeze, much less an attacker. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in months.
No one responded to her, the air ripe with apprehension. She could throw an elbow or two, forcing a portion of the group to back off. The others would only rally. Because they feared Kaysar would do as threatened and slay them all if harm befell Cookie.
She suspected he...might. The worst part? She didn’t know how she felt about it anymore. And she should. These women had done nothing wrong. They were innocents, and they didn’t deserve to die.
Idiot. As soon as the others were safe, she should ditch Kaysar without hesitation. It was the right thing to do. Maybe. Probably. Personally, she wasn’t afraid of him. Not really.
Sure, when he went all still and quiet, hissing his words, he evinced sheer terror in everyone around him. But, she sensed the danger wasn’t directed her way. His high-handed tactics sucked, but they weren’t a deal breaker. The pros outweighed the cons.
“Lulu?”
A voice both familiar and unfamiliar caused her to cross her arms over her belly. An instinctive, protective gesture. The Viking stood in the distance, his gaze locked on her. Big, blond and handsome, able to kill a woman at twenty paces with ice.
Her heart thudded with realization. He’d found her, exactly as Kaysar had warned. Here he was, the evil prince Lulundria must have despised.
Calm. Steady. He rushed over, and her guards tightened the circle.
Anger sparked, dousing Cookie’s fear.
He reached the outer wall of women. Though they fought him to the best of their abilities, he had no problem shoving them aside, two at a time.
Like Kaysar, he towered over her with muscles galore. His weight must be double hers. She would lose a physical altercation, no doubt about it, but she wouldn’t go down without a struggle.
“You wanna come at me?” Kill or be killed, winner takes all. “Okay, let’s do this.”
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