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.
That 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?”