Unhinged One?
With those shouts, pandemonium reigned. Fae burst into motion, grabbing their things and flittering away, vanishing one by one. Others sprinted in the opposite direction.
Well. At least they hadn’t attacked. “You have a reputation, I see.”
“Perhaps I do,” he said, urging her forward faster than she wished to go. Not this again. “You would do well to remember their fear the next time you think to test me.”
“Is that a threat?” Why wasn’t she afraid?
“Merely an observation.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’ll kill me in cold blood?” Oops. A personal question.
He didn’t seem to mind, though. “Cold blood? I assure you, sweetling,” he said, with his first smile in forever. His steps slowed to a crawl. “My blood always boils white-hot.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WITH THE OUTPOST abandoned by shopkeepers and patrons alike, Kaysar procured the best room at the best inn, as well as any dish in the kitchen he and Chantel desired, without having to threaten, maim or murder anyone. A novel experience indeed.
His plan to keep his companion in abject misery until she called off her search for a doormaker had derailed. Temporarily. Letting her go hungry appealed less and less. Meanwhile, having to watch exhaustion settle deeper into her doll-like features bothered him more and more.
He didn’t know what to feel with Chantel. Which he didn’t understand. He always knew what to feel—murderous—and he always knew what to do. Hurt everyone.
She was a Frostline, yes, but she also wasn’t a Frostline. She’d never harmed or abused him. No, oh, no. Not his princess. She’d merely irritated him in a thousand different ways. And challenged him. And infuriated him. And amused and confused him and inflamed him as no other. But so far she’d earned none of his wrath.
Unlike Lulundria, she had no interest in Jareth. The prince “disgusted” her. A part of Kaysar believed she would understand and applaud his plans to destroy the Winter Court royals. The other part of him remained a jot...concerned about her reaction to being misled, if ever she discovered the truth.
At the moment, he sipped iced whiskey in front of a blazing hearth. Night had fallen, fierce winds howling outside. Not because of nature, but magic. The outpost was situated at the edge of his land, but operated on behalf of the Spring royal family. An allowance he made for their continued rejection of peace with the Winter Court. The owners manufactured frigid temperatures to ensure overnight guests paid extra for thicker blankets and a fire.
He’d chosen a suite with mahogany trim, gilt marble and mirrors everywhere. No matter where Chantel stood within the confines of the two-story room, he was able to watch her. His new favorite pastime. The sensual way she moved. The many expressions she revealed, none of her emotions hidden. Her body... He couldn’t get enough of it—or her.
The satchel rested at his feet. He wasn’t ready to remove or reveal the rocks he’d dropped inside it. As soon as she spotted them, she might comprehend his purpose. Part of him wanted her to, and he didn’t know why. Warn an opponent of the actions he took against them? Was he truly so foolish?
Her misery began anew tomorrow, no matter his feelings on the matter.
“Taking a shower,” she mumbled and sealed herself in the bathroom, the only area closed to his viewing pleasure.
He said nothing, letting her, his fingers tightening on the glass.
Earlier she’d eaten her weight in meat pies and lemon tartlets. Before that, she’d convinced him to use his “own money” to purchase a brand-new tunic. There’d been no need for pants, since he’d packed two pairs. Actually, he’d brought a tunic, too, but she’d wanted the one with roses and ivy embroidered around the collar, not the plain one he’d offered.
She’d pointed, batted her lashes at him and said, “I want that. Buy it for me?”
How could he refuse? With the garment secured behind an invisible blockade, he’d needed only to fetch a coin from his treasure trove and flitter back to insert the gold in the proper slot. Besides, he thought he’d begun to piece together Eye’s riddle and desired a test.
She is the skin she wears...
Chantel’s eyes had developed the golden starburst after she’d donned the bejeweled boots—boots he now remembered stealing from King Hador’s second wife. A woman obsessed with jewelry, who’d once visited Kaysar in his prison tower, curious to scrutinize the “whore” the king used on special occasions.
Kaysar had begged for help, and she’d sneered. Sneered. She’d also left him to rot. A mistake she’d later paid for. Dearly. Only a handful of years after his escape, he’d followed her through a market. He’d known Hador needed the greedy woman, because she came with a hefty allowance from the Autumnlands, with all payments ceasing upon her death.
Kaysar had sent half of her to Hador and the other half to her family. A memory he cherished. He’d kept the boots for sentimental reasons.
Would Chantel’s personality change with her garments? He would find out. Tomorrow. Tonight, he was too busy aching.
An hour ago, he’d showered and stroked himself off. Something he’d never had to do before. Even still, his wanting remained. When he’d dressed in a clean tunic and leathers, he’d barely gotten the zipper over his straining erection. Chantel’s lock of hair remained in his pocket, mocking him. Why had he wanted it? Why did he keep it?
He thought he might murder anyone who tried to take a single strand from him.
When the water shut off, he tipped his glass and drained the contents. Decisions had to be made, and fast. What would he do to Chantel tonight? Kiss her? Caress her? How would she react? Welcome him eagerly? Rebuff him? Must know.
No. Bad Kaysar. He should do nothing to her. She required rest. So he would not advance his seduction of her. Not yet. Even if he wished otherwise. Even if she begged.
He licked his lips and growled at the thought.
A single decision remained then. Should he lie beside her in bed or force her to sleep in this chair?
Again, one question led to others. How would it feel to hold someone in his arms without choking them or stabbing them repeatedly? Good? Better than good? Awful? He’d never spent an entire night with a woman. Or anyone. After sex, he’d only ever stayed long enough to get what he’d planned to get. Secrets. Information. Ammunition.
He despised having someone’s skin pressed against his. Usually. Too much did the sensations remind him of his time with Prince Lark and Hador. Then Chantel came along. Kaysar worked his jaw. They had traded touch after touch, yet he’d rarely harkened to his past. The wonder of her reactions and the shock of his own had kept those thoughts at bay. Which meant...
She had sway over him.
He gnashed his teeth, a habit he’d developed since meeting the princess. What was he going to do about her? About Jareth?
The prince hadn’t followed them inside the outpost—yet. Kaysar should be the one to remain in the chair, at the ready. On the other hand, shouldn’t he try sheltering his living Drendall up close and personal, his body acting as a shield for hers?
He masked a hoarse groan as Chantel exited the bathroom, accompanied by a cloud of steam. Though he hadn’t moved, she startled when she looked his way, executing an abrupt stop. Those magnificent eyes widened, driving him crazy.
“Um. Hi,” she said with a wave.
Kaysar barely stifled another groan as he drank her in. Blood pooled in his shaft. She wore the tunic, and only the tunic. Plump breasts crested by puckered nipples strained the material. Pale, slender legs stretched beneath a hem that stopped mid-thigh.
Breathing became impossible. He balled and opened his free hand, imagining kneading all her soft places. Her damp cheeks possessed a deeper rosy flush than usual. Was she aroused? Damp hair streamed to the middle of her back, the strands longer by the hour. Perfect for fisting.
Her lips parted under the weight of his perusal.
Will. Not. Kiss. Her.
She appeared fully recovered from their excursions, yet he sensed the depths of her exhaustion, and his chest ached. She’d been through much these past few days. Transported into a different realm. The development of unnatural powers. The attentions of a vengeful king.
With slow movements, lest he alarm her, Kaysar set the glass next to the satchel at his feet and rose.
“Get in the bed.” The command rasped from him. But what else should he say? No other words filled his head.
No, not true. Four others sprang to the surface. I’m sleeping with her.
* * *
COOKIE BURROWED UNDER the velvety covers, getting comfortable on the soft mattress. Fatigue owned her, one hundred percent. Or maybe ninety. Apprehension had a piece of her, too. But she had no fight left, too exhausted to think, much less resist Kaysar’s commands. She couldn’t even ready her best or worst defenses against his appeal.
Cookie wanted to cut herself a little slice of Kaysar.
After Nick, she’d considered herself invulnerable to romance, her heart locked in a stronghold, protected by dragons. Somehow, the enigmatic and ferocious Kaysar was scaling her towers, making her wonder and want and wish. What would a relationship with him be like? Or at least a roll in the hay?
Hunger abated for the first time in days, she should have no trouble sleeping. But each time her mind began its shutdown, a thought about Kaysar popped up, inviting others. She alternated between being too cold and too hot.
Her dark king remained near the hearth, breathing with force, as if he struggled with a choice.
“Are you planning to watch me sleep?” she asked, curious.
“Maybe.”
He’d been mostly quiet since they’d entered the outpost. Now, firelight bathed him, outlining his powerful body and illuminating the lines etched into his forehead. He was opening and closing his hands at his sides. An action he had performed before.
What thoughts tumbled through his mind?
“Kaysar?”
“I’m sleeping with you. Only sleeping.” He stalked across the room, stopping here and there to snuff out the lamps. As darkness thickened, she thawed, glad for the reprieve. “Tonight,” he intoned, “you rest, nothing more. So rest hard. You might not get another chance.”
A warning? Or a promise? She couldn’t tell.
He paused at the side of the bed, and she held her breath. Would he strip?
Clothing rustled. He unfastened his belt. Dang it. He was stripping, but she couldn’t see. Why hadn’t he left at least one lamp on?
The mattress dipped as he stretched out beside her, his drugging scent filling her nose.
Would he make a move, despite his claim? Did she hope he would?
Either way... “Don’t expect cuddles,” she warned. “I hate cuddling, snuggling, canoodling, and everything in between.”
“I would rather die,” he replied with a shudder.
“Good.” Right?
“Good,” he echoed.
Minutes passed, neither of them moving. Outside, a great wind blustered and a shutter slammed.
Remembering how amazing she’d felt in his arms, she inched toward him. Not to cuddle, just to...touch. Connection with another. At the last second, she thought better of it and rolled to her back. But the desire only magnified, until she tossed and turned, miserable.
When she could stand it no longer, she whispered, “Kaysar?” Was he still awake?
“Yes, Chantel?” The rough rumble caressed her ears.
“Try to survive this, okay?” She draped her body over his. He hissed in a breath as she rested her cheek over his heart. His racing heart. He wasn’t immune to her nearness. She burrowed closer.
“Chantel?” he said, the tightness of his voice rousing dread.
Ugh. Was he about to order her to move?
“Do your best to endure this, all right?” He tentatively wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
Oh. Ohhh. His heat lured her to total relaxation at long last, her muscles suddenly the consistency of jelly. The trials of the day faded. This. This was far better than tossing and turning. From now on, she never wanted to sleep any other way.
So much had happened to her these past few days, she’d needed an anchor in a storm.
“Mmm. You feel amazing,” she said, embarrassed that she slurred. Not just exhausted. Drunk on him.
“You feel...” He hesitated, toying with the ends of her hair.
Her eyelids grew heavy, attempting to slide shut as she awaited his verdict. She fought the deluge of lethargy with everything she had. Will squeeze every drop of enjoyment out of this.
“Necessary,” he whispered, filling the silence.
Sleep? Suddenly impossible. Had she ever been necessary to another person?
Longing as potent as newly popped champagne fizzed inside her, going straight to her head. Wait. Necessary? To a man she’d known a handful of days? No way. He didn’t need her, and she didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone, and that was that.
Why would she let herself need a man? Nothing lasted forever.
Needing a distraction, she asked the first question to fill her head. “Are you a terrible king? The way those people ran...”
Tension invaded their little haven. “Finally, you show interest in me, and this is what you seek to learn?”
Finally? He’d wanted her to get personal? An unexpected wisp of pleasure unfurled. One wildly invasive interrogation, coming up.
“You’ve spent the day with me,” he said, grumbling a little. “What kind of king do you think I am?”
Easy answer. “Cunning. Expectant. Difficult. Complicated. Liberal with orders. Quick with complaints. Unafraid of consequences.” Everything he’d been with her. Perhaps a bit...mad at times, too.
More than once but less than a baker’s dozen, he’d sliced his own forearm to ribbons, leaving a blood trail a mile long. Sometimes he’d muttered, “Study the map,” over and over like a mantra.
“I am all of those things and more, so of course there is no better king in the realm.” He sounded prideful, and it was amazingly sexy.
If exhaustion hadn’t ruled her, she might have done something about that sexiness. But only might. Despite the other reasons to remain platonic, one-night stands weren’t her thing. Or however-long-night stands. She and Kaysar wouldn’t be together more than a few weeks. A month or two tops. Maybe? Probably?
She’d grown up hanging out online with much older gamers. Too often, they’d bragged about their conquests, all man is god, woman is whore. If they acknowledged the woman at all. Most they’d dismissed as unimportant. Forgettable. No, thanks. Cookie had wanted—still wanted—more. To be essential to someone. If only for a little while. Even if she didn’t let the other person become essential to her.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thousands of years.”
“Ah. That wonderful age when you start counting in adjectives. I believe you’ve reached what’s known as decrepit.”
“I am not decrepit.” His tone suggested he currently pursed his lips.
“Denial is the first sign that you are, in fact, decrepit.”
The cutest little puff of air left him. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six very mature years.”
“Also known as infantile,” he said, and she chuckled. “Tell me how you spend your days in the mortal realm.”
“I play games.” She racked her mind for an understandable explanation, but her thoughts grew dim...dimmer. She began to drift off, even though she continued to fight. “Don’t want to sleep. Want to learn more about you...”
Her exhaustion won the war. A final thought wafted through her mind as darkness swallowed her w
hole. He might be a little necessary.
* * *
COOKIE SLEPT LIKE the dead. One second she knew nothing. The next she was blinking open her eyes, greeted by a wealth of sunshine. Groggy, she stretched under the covers. Had she ever been so wonderfully warm and pliant?
Ohhh. What is this? An ache here, an ache there. Arousal simmered inside her, a delicious heat unfurling between her legs. Well. Her mind might have shut off last night, but her body certainly hadn’t.
Perhaps she and Kaysar should—“Kaysar!” She jolted upright, fighting a sudden swell of panic. Where was her gorgeous guide? Because he wasn’t beside her. Or beneath her.
Her jaw dropped when she noticed the state of the room. Furniture was overturned and splintered. Fist-size holes littered the walls. Only the bed was safe. Had there been a battle she hadn’t heard? Or had he done this in a fit of rage?
Pearl Jean and Kaysar believed Cookie carried darkness within her. Looking at the devastation inside this room, she could say the same about King Kaysar.
So why wasn’t she afraid of him even now?
Without exhaustion coloring her thoughts and actions, the truth shone so brightly. The man hurt, and something inside her commanded, Soothe.
Her? When she couldn’t even soothe herself? Should she even try? Soon, they’d find a doormaker and say their goodbyes. Maybe. Hopefully. If not, she’d get herself home once she recharged. If she did. When she did.
She shuffled from the covers and padded to the bathroom, where she splashed her face and brushed her teeth. Despite last evening’s feast, she had no need to use a toilet. A wonderful and hopefully permanent development. Now that she considered it, she realized she hadn’t experienced an urge to go since her arrival.
As she reached for the leather pants Kaysar had left out for her, her reflection caught her attention. Her hair contained more brown than pink today. Her eyes were gray with green specks. Not exactly the attributes her parents had given her but closer.
Would she ever be plain ole Cookie again? Did she want to be?
Was she always meant to be a Cookie-Lulundria combination?
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