The gowns meant to punish Chantel only punished Kaysar.
She drew his gaze—compelled it to return to her. The sight of her struck him like a blow.
At the moment, she snacked on the breads, cheeses and fruits he’d confiscated from the centaurs, a contingent of mercenaries Jareth had paid to attack him.
Kaysar had fetched the food for her before his bath, relieved the misery portion of their relationship was over. He’d had no thirst for it, anyway. He liked the idea of working together to oversee his goal.
What to do about the doormaker, though? He owed her a way home, so he should deliver. Something an honest partner would do. But he didn’t want Chantel leaving Astaria. Ever. Which meant he had to convince her to stay with him before he presented her with a doormaker. But how? What else did she need from him?
When no answers were forthcoming, Kaysar stomped from the pond. He shook out his hair, flinging water in every direction, then dressed in the clean tunic and leathers Chantel had “gifted” to him.
Upon his return with the food, she’d told him, “You said everything in the bag is mine, and I carried nothing of yours. Rather than let you traipse about naked or in dirty clothing, I’ll gift you with a shirt and pants.” She’d beamed the sweetest smile at him. The same smile she’d beamed before she’d punched his face. “For a price.”
When he’d balked, both affronted and savagely turned on, she’d only smiled wider, a temptress no man had the strength to resist. “Do you think I’ll demand sex,” she’d asked throatily, “or do you hope I will?”
How he’d hoped! In the end, she’d merely requested information about “the bark.” The elderseed. When planted, it grew enchanted trees. When ingested, it healed any injury and strengthened any fae exponentially for a short period of time. Her eyes had widened with excitement as he’d explained, and she’d muttered, “Just like the elderseed in the game.
“If I eat the elderseed, I’ll power up, right?” she’d asked. “Will I recharge enough to open a doorway?”
Of course her mind had gone there. “You won’t,” he’d replied, and it was the truth. “Creating vines and opening a doorway come from two different sources of power. The glamara merely utilizes the vinemaking as a bridge from which to manifest. The elderseed will fuel any ability but your glamara.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked, drawing him back to the present. She motioned to the picnic she’d set up, rubies sparkling on her throat, biceps and fingers. “I saved you half...after I ate the original half.”
“No, thank you.” No, thank you? He frowned, confused. When had he taken lessons in gentlemanly comportment? “We should go.” They would enter the Dusklands as originally planned. He would put his ear to the ground and seek a living doormaker he probably wouldn’t find. Chantel would be satisfied with his efforts. At least for a little while. He could use the time to learn her better. To win her affections.
“Very well.” From her perch on the ground, she gathered her belongings. As soon as she finished, he offered her a hand. With a sigh-worthy smile, she fluttered her fingers over his. “How kind of you. Ohhh. Look at us. So polite to each other. It’s like we’ve both become new people.”
Her softness. Her warmth. Struggling to rein in his sharpest desires, he tugged her to her feet. Guilt seared him when he anchored her satchel to his chest and the heavy weight strained his shoulder.
Disregard. They moved forward from now on, not backward.
Kaysar laced his fingers with hers, marveling at the differences between them. The smallness of her bone structure compared to the largeness of his. The paleness of her silken skin next to his darkness. The delicacy of her pink nails, with her black thorn claws retracted, pitted against the sharp metal tipping his.
The guilt conquered more territory, and he scowled.
As he squired her across the path that divided the pond, stepping from one mossy rock to another, she made the sweetest little noises. Blood continued to rush to his groin, his shaft nearly ripping free of his leathers.
“I’m surprised Jareth hasn’t found us yet,” she said.
“I expect your husband to—”
“Uh, he isn’t my husband, thank you very much. This perma-bachelorette isn’t getting hitched.”
“You are a Frostline. He is a Frostline.” Would she change her mind if she remembered Lulundria’s love for Jareth? The idea nearly stopped Kaysar cold. He didn’t like the thought of Chantel kissing and touching the prince. Ever.
“Wait.” She yanked her hand from his. “Are you in a relationship with someone? I mean, I know you aren’t married, but what about a girlfriend? A mistress? A harem?”
Did the thought leave her frothing with jealousy?
He grinned at the mere possibility and flittered behind her. Kaysar molded his body to hers, just the way he liked, crowding her. The instinct demanded it, and he obeyed.
As he slid his hands over her hipbones and clamped down, she held her breath. When he applied pressure, pressing her against him, she didn’t try to escape—no, she melted closer.
She loved her pleasure.
He nuzzled his cheek against hers, a gesture of affection and gratitude. Unstoppable. “I have no girlfriend. Nor do I maintain a stable of mistresses as Jareth does.” He rasped his words, delighting as goose bumps broke out over her arms. He would never choose to permanently bind his life to another. Become responsible for another’s well-being? Give the Frostlines something else to steal from him?
Though, he shouldn’t allow anyone, especially the Frostlines, to keep him from taking something he wanted, either. The incongruity would bother him tomorrow, after he’d secured Chantel.
“In the eyes of the fae,” he said, “you are wed to Jareth, which is why he hopes to take you from me.”
No one takes her from me! His rage blazed, ever at the ready.
A breathy puff of air suggested he squeezed her a little too tight—or that she enjoyed being squeezed a little too tight.
Just like that, intrigue overshadowed his anger. He nipped her earlobe, rewarded by the softest mewl. What would she do if he tilted her head back and sucked on her hammering pulse? If he slid his hands lower?
If he licked her skin. Kneaded her breasts. Tore off her clothes and—
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “You can let me go now.”
Do not shout a denial. She wasn’t like anyone else, and he couldn’t treat her as such.
Wait. Sounds in the distance. He canted his head, listening, honing in. Jareth had found their trail. Was about five minutes away.
Kaysar cursed. The Frostlines ruined everything.
“We’re about to have company, sweetling.” With a furious huff, he flittered in front of Chantel, clasped her hand once again and tugged her forward. “Come.”
“Jareth?”
“No doubt.”
As he stalked forward, she followed. At the other side of the pond, he navigated the slippery stones with ease. Cool mist dampened the air, reminding him of the first time he’d ever ventured here. He’d been a boy then. Only fifteen. He’d spent a fruitless year searching for his missing sister, then another year learning the various royal courts and preparing to conquer the wild Nightlands most other fae avoided, hoping to find Viori there. He’d been sick from yet another brush with poisonvine when he’d collapsed near the water.
Upon glimpsing his reflection—seeing Viori’s eyes hidden within his own—he’d sung himself to health, exactly as he’d sung himself to health in the tower. The way he’d sung to Viori each night. The melody had quickly turned into a scream of pain and misery, and he’d broken into sobs. It was here, on this very bank however long later, that he’d decided to halt his search for his sister. To cease splitting his focus. To fixate on the only thing he could give his precious Viori—proper vengeance.
“Once we go through
the water,” he told Chantel, “I won’t be able to flitter. No one can flitter in the Dusklands. The ability is neutralized by a mineral in the ground. However far we travel, remember we must travel it all over again to return.”
“Ten-four. I’m happy to report the same is true in The Forest of Good and Evil.” She nodded, her excitement seeming to catch fire, burning through the charming shyness the dress had highlighted. The clothes might influence her, but they didn’t control her. “Don’t worry. I won’t be an anchor dragging you down anymore. I’ll be an asset. You’ll see.”
Her ability to torment the prince outside of Kaysar’s bed remained unconfirmed. Her ability to aid Kaysar in other ways did not. An asset to him? Shockingly yes.
Danger approaches. Almost upon you.
Even with the crash of the water, Kaysar caught the prince’s footfalls. Jareth had quickened his pace.
He considered his next move, tossing a glance over his shoulder. His only goal at the moment? Keeping Chantel, his key, safe.
In a sprint, the prince burst through a wall of foliage before vanishing, reappearing halfway to the waterfall. Still sprinting, seeming to fly over the rocky path, already swinging his sword.
Kaysar flittered in front of Chantel, a dagger clutched in each clawed hand. He lifted and crossed the weapons, creating a metal V. His gaze clashed with Jareth’s as the male’s sword tip grazed a straight, shallow cut from the end of his nose to the underside of his chin before meeting the daggers. A clink and a sting registered.
Blood trickled into his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue.
Chantel gasped and clutched his tunic from behind, fueling the rage directed at Jareth. The prince dares to frighten my princess?
A single punch dislocated Jareth’s jaw. A kick sent him careening into the pond with a splash. Jareth flittered to land, materializing on the other side of the pond, where he dripped water and violently forced his jaw into place.
Behind him, pixies darted through trees, landing on limbs to witness the festivities.
Kaysar and Jareth glared at each other from their respective sides. This intrusion grated. Kaysar hadn’t yet secured Chantel’s affections, and he resented the prince’s interference. He didn’t want the male looking at her. Much less speaking to her, reminding her of a past she hadn’t lived and didn’t wish to remember. Lusting for her mere minutes after Kaysar had kissed her—perhaps an hour before he kissed her again.
He flicked his tongue behind his teeth. Jareth had been unable to keep his hands off Lulundria. How much less would he control himself around Chantel? The woman whose touch had elicited indescribable pleasure in Kaysar. The man who’d never before known passion. If she affected him, how much more must she affect those like the prince?
How much more would the prince affect her?
Foreboding choked him. The odds were stacked against him. One way or another, Chantel would learn the truth about Lulundria’s murder. How would she react then? She hadn’t forgiven him for his other misdirections, but she’d agreed to help him anyway. He sensed she didn’t offer such clemency often or easily. Now he...feared. Could she ever pardon him for his part in the death?
Would the truth propel the prince and princess back together?
A risk Kaysar might have to take. Not knowing was a burden he couldn’t bear. Like the rocks, he needed Chantel to know what he’d done—to understand and stay with him anyway. He required this as much as air.
“Did you come to say goodbye to your wife, Jareth?” He threw the words across the water, unwilling to back down.
“I’m not his wife,” Chantel retorted behind him. “If I’m ever eager for another ice dagger stabbing, though, I’ll be sure to give the prince a call.”
First she had denied being Lulundria. Now she claimed the woman’s injuries as her own? Were the females merging? Cold sweat beaded Kaysar’s brow.
“You misunderstand what you remember, princess.” Jareth glared at Kaysar, his blue eyes frosty. He cast his next words to Chantel. “I would never purposely hurt you.”
“Go spin your lies somewhere else,” she snapped, and Kaysar reached for the lock of hair he’d transferred to the pocket of his new pants.
“I would never purposely hurt you,” Jareth repeated. “But the king would. He arranged Lulundria’s suffering, pushing her into my ice.”
Kaysar could have stopped the prince. He could even refute the male’s claim with more carefully spun truths. And Chantel would probably believe him. For a time. Instead, he remained quiet. Let’s get this over with.
If Chantel fled him, he would...he...didn’t know. For the first time in too many years to calculate, he didn’t have a next move.
Aiming the tip of his sword in Kaysar’s direction, Jareth bellowed at Chantel, “The king is a madman. You realize this, yes? He looks at maps that aren’t there. And his song.” He shuddered. “You’ll believe your head is about to explode. You’ll pray it does. He kills without mercy and attacks the Winterlands on a whim. His evil knows no bounds.” He swung his gaze to Kaysar once more. “Deny it, your majesty. Lie to her.”
Kaysar was many things, but he was not a liar or a coward. “I deny nothing. Yes, I pushed Lulundria into the path of your ice. No, I didn’t care that she was injured. Actually, that isn’t the full truth. I required her pain. I planned to heal her immediately afterward, becoming her hero. She would have fallen straight into my bed. But she fled me.”
“You did what?” Chantel dug her claws into his back.
In a secret part of him, he perceived the tiniest flicker of shame. And he resented it. He had done nothing that hadn’t been done to him. “If you consider the variables, this is actually an extension of the crime you’ve already almost forgiven me for. Therefore...”
Despite his logic, her anger persisted. “Obviously, our partnership is over. For good and for real this time.”
He silenced a denial. Breathe in. Out. He’d done her wrong. He’d admitted it. Now he owed her more than an apology. He should offer some kind of appeasement. Yes, yes. What could it hurt?
But what was he to offer? The last female he’d attempted to appease was Viori. “I... I’ll do better from now on. I’ll try, at least. No one will ever try harder. I’ll give you more jewelry. A sea of it.”
“Good for you, but no, thanks. Scratch my name off your roster. You go after innocent bystanders. That means you’re no better than the one who hurt you.”
Was she right? Was she wrong? He didn’t know! “What if I limit my targets from now on?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”
Different impulses warred. Face her. Pin her against the rock wall. Touch her hair. Touch all of her. Kiss her until she forgot what he’d done. Beg for another chance. Just one more.
Who am I? Kaysar de Aoibheall did not beg for anything. Ever. But he had promised to be better for her, and he always kept his word.
“Come to me, Chantel,” the prince called, extending a hand in her direction. “Let me take you from this awful place.”
Kaysar glared at the prince, telling Chantel, “You wonder why I target him, sweetling? Allow me to share.” To Jareth’s credit, he held Kaysar’s stare, even as he flinched, because he knew what was coming. “Lulundria’s darling Jareth once watched with a smile as his father cut out my tongue. I was only twelve at the time. Too young to heal from such a severe injury.”
Chantel gasped with horror.
“I grew a new one only because of my glamara.”
He couldn’t see her face, and she didn’t retract her claws, but her expression must have softened, because Jareth shouted, “You’re wavering?”
“Maybe? I don’t know, okay?” she retorted, and Kaysar’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “It didn’t happen to me, but I want to punish you for your reaction.”
Kaysar floundered, some unknown emotion ravaging him
. This woman...
Jareth tried again. “He made you think your own husband was a monster out to kill you.”
“Tsk-tsk. You know there’s more to the story, Jareth.” Chiding tone. Deepening rage. Unwavering determination. Chantel deserved to know everything. “You witnessed your father and your uncle locking me in the tower after the removal of my tongue. Did you know they took me from my five-year-old sister, leaving her without a protector?” His voice hardened, and his insides roiled. “For a year, I remained chained to a wall while you enjoyed freedom. Your uncle visited me every day. Your father preferred to wait for special occasions.”
Jareth closed his eyes. Opened them. For a moment, he looked ready to vomit.
“They. Did. What?” Chantel plucked her claws free and patted the punctures. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Kaysar. I am. But.” The claws pierced him once more. “I’m so furious with you, too. I want to scream and rail at you. And I want to hug you.”
Had there ever been a more fascinating creature?
“I need a moment to deliberate which reaction to embrace.” Claws out. “I mean, what you did to the royal family is justified. But what you did to Lulundria and me is terrible. I should slap you.” In. “But I get it. The royal family sliced open your heart. Now you bleed all over them.” Out. “I want to hug you harder. You know what? I’m not resisting the urge anymore. I hope you’re ready for me.” Quaking, she flung her arms around him, clutching him from behind. Her scent muddied his thoughts. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she repeated softly.
The gentle hold nearly broke him. The understanding finished the job. “You’ll stay with me? You forgive me for my crimes?”
“I forgive some of it. Most of it. Maybe. I mean, I forgive-ish. I’m fifty percent there, bordering on forty-nine or fifty-one. The number teeters depending on reasons.” She sighed. “But stay with you? I don’t know. I don’t trust you. How can I?”
“I won’t use you again,” he vowed in a rush. Oh, how he’d needed her forgiveness; he just hadn’t known it until this moment. That she’d offered to clear half his crimes against her... A weight eased from his shoulders. The foreboding and anxiety he’d carried since meeting her began to evaporate. Trust could be earned.
Heartless Page 17