She tugged on the leathers and gave her reflection a final glance—whoa. Had her eyes changed color again? Leaning in, she tilted her head this way and that. From gray with specks of green to green with specks of gray again. But why? What had changed? All she had done was dress.
The leathers, then? She removed the pants and studied her eyes. Gray. Pants back on. Green.
Okay. So. Obviously the garment was responsible. But why the leathers and not the tunic? When she’d donned the top fresh from its pristine packaging, she’d undergone no changes. The pants were clean but used. Was that the difference?
What did this even mean? Would other used garments affect her appearance?
Wait. What if more than her appearance was affected? When she’d worn the boots, she’d developed that hard-on for jewels.
What happened if she mixed and matched her outfits?
Cookie donned her boots and called, “Kaysar?” They should have a conversation. She rushed out of the bathroom and skidded to a stop.
He sat at the bottom of the bed, fully dressed in a white tunic and black leathers. Their uniform? He wore it better, no doubt about it, gorgeous beyond imagining. In his hands dangled a pair of ugly but comfortable-looking slippers.
A kernel of sexual desire broke through her anxiety when he dropped the shoes on the bed and jumped to his feet, his big muscles flexing. He bowed up, preparing for battle, the gleam in his eyes as turbulent as the destruction around him.
He looked capable of any vile deed, and she...liked it.
“Someone dares threaten you?” He readied his claws. “Someone dies.”
She closed the distance to clutch his shirt as she explained what she’d witnessed. He evinced no confusion, only awe.
“I was right,” he said with a slow grin. “You are the skin you wear.”
Oookay. Cookie couldn’t look away as he traced his gaze over her form. She couldn’t catch her breath, either. “I don’t understand.” You are the skin you wear. Like, an avatar? “Explain to the rest of the class, if you please.”
He pinched a lock of her sable hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. “Tell me. Do you feel any different right now?”
Did she? “I don’t know. Why? Should I? Is this good or bad? Is this a fae thing?”
“Not a fae thing,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “A Chantel Cookie Bardot thing. I believe you’ll experience physical and emotional changes whenever you don clothing or shoes once owned by another.”
Was he right? Would she undergo more changes every time she, well, changed?
“I don’t want to be someone else,” she griped. She already contended with Lulundria. Throwing other people into the mix sounded like the perfect recipe for disaster.
Not yet ready to consider all the ramifications of this development, she switched her attention to a subject of equal importance. “What happened last night? Why did you Hangover our room?” She motioned to the damage to help him translate her meaning.
His features chilled and heated, the inconsistency bewildering. Perhaps even heartbreaking. He looked almost needy and lost. “Oh. That. I had a bit of an argument with myself. I won.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather luxuriate in my palace as your doormaking ability charges?”
“Positive.”
He pursed his lips and bent over to pick up the shoes he’d dropped. “These are for you.”
If ever he decided to share his reasons for tossing furniture, she’d listen. For now, she examined the gift. Thick rubber soles. Rounded toes. Plain. The fae equivalent of tennis shoes? Perfect for hiking.
“They have no jewels,” she remarked. “I’d rather wear the boots.”
He looked confused. “But the boots hurt your feet.”
“And they have jewels.” Comfort paled in the light of their beauty.
“Fascinating creature.” Amused, he dropped the shoes on the floor and offered his elbow to her. “Shall we break our fast and continue our journey?”
“We shall.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KAYSAR LED CHANTEL through the Forest of Many Names once again. As they wound through a maze of bushes, nearing their destination, they remained quiet. She carried the satchel, straining under its weight after a mere two hours of hiking. Already she wheezed her breaths. Her much-needed rest and a hearty breakfast had done little to aid her stamina.
He didn’t feel guilty about her growing discomfort. Or the new rocks he’d slipped into the bag.
Last night, as he’d held her soft body in a tight clasp, clinging to her as if she were some kind of lifeline, he’d had to remind himself of his mission. Fury had consumed him, and he’d erupted.
Vengeance first. Her comfort wasn’t and would never be his objective, no matter his feelings on the matter—a decision he’d made and accepted, even as he’d demolished their room.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend the next weeks at my palace?” he asked for the hundredth time.
“Dude. Get the hint. No doormaker, no luxuriating.”
A flash of anger. Very well. She would suffer the consequences of her refusal.
As always, he forged ahead. Sunlight spotlighted their path, the sound of rushing water growing louder with each step. No sign of Jareth. Had the poor princeling run into trouble?
Soft limbs and leaves brushed him, and Kaysar imagined grazing Chantel’s silken skin in such a way. He hissed with need. He must caress her.
So this is lust. Continual, desperate wanting. An inescapable needing. Insatiable, all-consuming hunger, capable of disrupting the best-laid plans. The sweetest, most excruciating battle he’d ever waged.
Had he been drifting through his life before this, only half-awake?
He scrubbed a hand over his face. He could have killed the princess a thousand different times this morning, and two thousand different ways last night. But she’d slept so peacefully, trusting him to see to her protection. He hadn’t wished to disturb her. In a mere handful of days, her life had been turned upside down and inside out. And yet she’d continued to find comfort with him.
He’d never wanted her to not find it.
He...liked her. If she had a problem, she complained about it, letting him know. He didn’t have to wonder or ask. Did she have any idea how refreshing that was? And her ability to transform into another because of her clothing—that, he thought he might love.
How he envied her. To become anyone, if only for a little while. To feel what they felt. To experience their greatest desires and later exploit them.
Wonderful. He was erect again. Obscenely so.
Thoughts of Chantel had hardened him again and again throughout the day. He’d been inundated with unfamiliar urges, requiring every ounce of his restraint to resist her. He wasn’t sure how he managed it.
Noticing a tangle of thorny vines ahead, he acted without thought, lifting Chantel off her feet and dragging her to his chest, then urging her to nestle her face in the hollow of his neck.
Another missed opportunity for her discomfort. With his arms banded around her, offering protection, the thorns wouldn’t scratch her. Now it was too late to switch positions. He’d have to see to her suffering later.
“You should always carry me,” she muttered against his skin.
Always. Holding her tighter, he pressed through the mess, shielding as much of her as possible. When they came out the other side, reaching the waterfall at long last, he exhaled with relief.
“Behold.” He motioned to the waterfall with a tilt of his chin. “The doorway we seek. The dividing line between the Nightlands and the Dusklands.” His home away from home.
“Wow,” she said, gaping as she settled on her feet. “This is lovely.”
Ahead, a ten-foot cliff with glistening stones poured pink-tinged water into a pond with t
wo sides separated by a rocky path. One side turned blue as the water crashed, while the other darkened to a rich purple. Pixies flew about, raining their sparkling dust in air perfumed with jasmine and lavender.
The rocky path cut through the center of the water, providing a walkable path to the waterfall.
Kaysar scanned the area, remaining on alert, as usual. Did he hear footfalls? “Stay here.” He bit out the command, hating to leave her. As soon as he did, she would find the rocks in the pack. Either she would deduce the truth or convince herself of a lie. Either way, she would react, and he’d have to deal with the fallout. Avoidable fallout. He had only to clean out the bag before he left.
His vengeance demanded he remove any obstacles. The truth was an obstacle. But...
His instinct. Protect...
Gnashing his teeth, he plunged his hand into his pocket to sift the lock of her hair between his fingers. Inhale. Exhale. He told her, “I’ll give you an hour to do whatever you’d like while I secure the perimeter.”
Then they would enter the Dusklands, whether she wished to or not, and her true misery would begin.
No excuses. No more wavering.
* * *
COOKIE SAID NOTHING as Kaysar flittered...somewhere else. Did he know he’d stroked her lock of hair as he’d spoken of leaving?
Developing an attachment to her? Oh, the very thrill of it. Until she recalled her newest dilemma. The tweaking of her personality, caused by clothing. So far, the ability tallied only two marks in the pro column. Potential for taking cosplay to a new level, and overriding negative emotions with positive ones through a simple wardrobe change. But both pros added a con, too. Overspending money she didn’t have on those cosplay outfits and encouraging emotionally unhealthy decisions she might regret later.
Kaysar liked this development, she could tell. Did he not like her personality without the tweaks?
Could no one accept her for her?
Sighing, she searched for a comfortable spot to unwind. There. A flat, dry rock next to the pond. A landmark she believed she recognized. In the game, there was a pond/waterfall doorway, too, and it led to a treacherous land brimming with traps and treasures. Were the two locations the same?
She lugged her satchel over and plopped down. Without Kaysar’s interference, she could finally examine her loot.
Trembling with anticipation, Cookie unfastened the bag and removed the item on top of the pile. A stunning emerald gown too sheer for hiking. Material crisscrossed over the breastical area for maximum cleavage, ensuring her navel would remain bare. What had Kaysar been thinking to grab this—uh, never mind. Men. Although, yes, it was perfect for cosplaying a concubine—or becoming one, if ever the urge struck—and it cost her zero dollars.
Okay. All right. Maybe the clothing ability wasn’t that bad. Cookie the Vixen might be able to do what Cookie the Jewel Collector hadn’t: win a kiss from a fae king. So badly she craved his mouth on hers.
What would Pearl Jean think of the man? Would Sugars hiss and scratch him, as he’d done to Nick?
Ugh. Why did it matter? Cookie and Kaysar were from two different worlds. They had no future. Not that anyone did.
She turned her attention to the second item from the bag. A pink dress with less material. The skirt appeared gossamer, as if paper-thin scarves had been sewn together, with slits here, there, everywhere. Love!
Next she found a tunic and another pair of leathers. Ugh. Enough garments. Where was the good stuff? She dumped out the rest of the items. Maps. Toiletries. A flask with—she unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Oh, wow. Her eyes burned and watered. So dizzy. A flask with the most potent alcohol ever.
When her vision levelled, she resealed the container and stuffed it in her back pocket for safekeeping, then resumed her investigation. Another diamond choker. A double-looped ruby necklace. A plethora of rings with stones the size of walnuts. An emerald armband. Mine, mine, mine.
Oh! She found two daggers with bejeweled handles. A black brick of...tree bark? Rocks he’d collected on their hike? Thirteen, to be exact, each weighing a pound or more. But why had he added the rocks? A fae custom, maybe? Magic?
Her sixth sense—Lulundria—told her, No. The rocks served no purpose...except to weigh her down and wear her out.
The words echoed, her heart doing its you are on the right track leap. Suspicions whirred. Weigh down. Wear out. She remembered Kaysar’s reluctance to visit the outpost, to buy comforts she’d desperately needed. His outright denial of the outpost’s existence. Nothing we need here. His high price to flitter rather than walk. His suggestion that she never remember Lulundria’s memories. His hatred of Jareth...whom he considered Cookie’s husband. His war with the man.
Confusion gave way to anger. Had Kaysar kept her miserable on purpose? Had he made her miserable? How many times had he accidentally led her into a briar patch? The few times they’d stopped to rest, some kind of critter had attempted to bite her. Her. Not him. Every. Time. As if she’d been purposely led to the animal.
But why would he do this to her? Just to strike at the Viking prince? Or did he not wish to find a doormaker and simply wasted Cookie’s time until she capitulated to his demands and signed on for a temporary vacay in his palace? Because both explanations fit both sides of him.
Her nails sharpened into little claws, her own personal thorns. A shock as much as a delight. But why had Kaysar allowed her to discover the rocks? Had he forgotten them? Not likely. Did he think her too foolish to uncover his ill intent, once she’d rested?
Cookie zoomed her gaze to the lingerie—sorry, the gowns he’d provided. They offered no protection against sharp limbs or bugs. Or weather. Another method of controlling her?
He absolutely wanted her miserable.
She couldn’t believe she’d ever considered the possibility of sleeping with the prick.
She practically dislocated a shoulder as she tugged off the boots. “Pretend you desire me? Make me carry rocks? Fine.” She stood and stripped with more force than necessary. “I’ll make you desire me. You’ll be as hard as rock with no outlet,” she muttered with clenched teeth. The fool had given her an arsenal to use against him. Sexy clothes and scented lotions.
Cookie would take him to the brink and leave him there.
Motions clipped, she gathered her bundle of toiletries. A girl should look her best when she dished her payback.
In the water, she used the fancy soap, scrub and oil, the sweet perfumes complementing her unique scent. When she finished, she dried off and peered at the two gowns. Pink or green? If her outfits affected her personality, it mattered. She had a pretty decent mad going right now, and she refused—refused!—to cool off.
Justice would be served hot.
Her tasks aligned. Wind him up, let him down, and get the heck out of Dodge. After she’d made his body as uncomfortable as hers, she would snatch up her things and bail.
You couldn’t team up with someone you couldn’t trust.
With more and more similarities popping up between Astaria and Rhoswyn, Cookie could figure out the Dusklands terrain on her own, thank you.
Maybe you shouldn’t play with the killer’s affections?
Please. She still wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, there was no one else’s affections she’d rather play with. The idea of kissing Kaysar, of revving his engine and leaving him wanting more, excited her in ways she craved. Or Lulundria craved? How could she know? Did it even matter anymore?
She darted her gaze between the two gowns. The green. Something about it called to her...
For once, she didn’t startle as buttery material tightened on her curves. Though she waited, expectant, she noticed no change in her mood or mindset. Did that mean anything? Or nothing? Breathing deep, she donned matching jewelry.
“Chantel?” Kaysar choked out from somewhere nearby.
He had returned.
Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted her gaze and discovered him mere feet away. She looked him over and cut off a whimper. Blood splattered him from head to toe, and it was a good look for him.
Sexy good.
But then, she looked sexy good, too.
A spring of simmering confidence poured through her, and Cookie imbibed of its waters deeply. The dress’s doing? Oh, who cared? Self-assurance had fused with her bones, gifting her with a core of iron.
She smiled slowly. Coldly. “Tough day at the office, dear?”
He perused her, his eyes blazing and his jaw clenched.
A bead of water dripped from the tip of her sable locks to her nipple—a nipple drawing tighter as he watched, enthralled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He swallowed. “I found no sign of Jareth, only a band of centaurs who followed our trail. Naturally, I slaughtered them.”
“Naturally. And I’m sure I’ll love to hear all about it...after we’ve chatted about your treatment of me and you’ve apologized sufficiently.” Not that she’d change her mind about bailing.
The pile of goodies scattered at her feet captured his attention, specifically the rocks, and he stiffened. “Well.” Resigned—relieved?—he refocused on her. Wait. Had he wanted her to know and actively sought this standoff? The notion gave her pause. “You have questions, I’m sure.”
At least he wasn’t playing dumb. “I do.”
He looked her over again, radiating a mix of satisfaction and fond remembrance. “You selected Princess Tatiana’s dress to face me, rather than a garment previously owned by a royal concubine. How intriguing. I recall Tatiana well, now that I see her clothing drizzled over your luscious flesh.”
Luscious? Sometimes he said the sweetest, hottest things. Other times he cut to the quick. “Do tell.”
“Tatiana was Jareth’s third betrothed, celebrated by many for her unflappable stubbornness. No one expected me to win her from the prince. But I did.”
And he expected to win Cookie from the prince, too? By exhausting her? “Tell me why you did this to me.” Let him defend his rationalizations.
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