Bile rose, singeing Kaysar’s throat. Prince Lark lifted the head as if it were a war prize. No, a child’s toy. He kicked it a good distance away, then flittered. An ability to teleport from one location to another. An ability Kaysar had yet to develop.
The other two royals followed the prince within seconds.
A hoarse bellow exploded from Kaysar then, the pixies taking flight. He sucked in a mouthful of air and fought to center his thoughts. Forget the atrocity he’d witnessed. Emotions could be dealt with later. With the right buyer, that diamond collar could provide a month’s worth of meals for his sister.
Kaysar performed a visual sweep. About twenty feet of wildflowers separated him and the collar, with no obvious rocks or stumps littering the path. Ignoring his trembling, he hooked the bow over his shoulder, and drew in a deep breath.
Go! He sprinted out of the tangle of branches. Halfway there...
Bending down and reaching out...
A hard arm coiled around his throat, yanking him against a harder body. Though he struggled, his captor twisted his arm behind his back, trapping him further.
“I thought I smelled someone in the shadows.” A husky chuckle fanned hot breath over his forehead. “So who do we have here, hmm?” Prince Lark smacked his lips against Kaysar’s cheek. “A naughty thief planning to steal Winter Court property?”
When the king and his son reappeared a few feet away, panic surged.
The king frowned. “We can’t have a witness spilling our secrets.”
“A shame to waste such a pretty face.” Prince Lark rubbed against Kaysar. “Give him to me. I’ll ensure he stays quiet.”
No, no, no. Left with no other recourse, Kaysar concentrated on his glamara. When his throat heated, he spoke. “You will release me.” Calm, steady. “You will walk away and forget me.”
The king paled, and the princes tensed. But none of the trio obeyed him. They exchanged glances instead.
“Did I detect a thread of compulsion?” King Hador raised his brows, as if impressed.
“I think you did.” Prince Lark expelled a breath, then ran the lobe of Kaysar’s ear between his teeth. “Don’t you know? To command a royal fae, your glamara must be stronger than his, no matter what ability you wield.”
Icy cold invaded Kaysar’s limbs.
“Let me kill him instead.” An evil grin lifted the corners of Prince Jareth’s mouth. “Like Uncle, I need practice.”
Smiling with a sick kind of glee, the king unsheathed a dagger. “Sorry, my boy, but I owe your uncle a treat. I’ll take no chances, however.”
Horror threatened to drown Kaysar. He erupted into motion, bucking, straining. The bigger male had no difficulty gripping his chin, prying open his mouth and aligning a blade against the side of his tongue. Once again, the princes laughed and laughed and laughed.
The king began to saw, removing his tongue. Searing pain, utter agony. Black spots flashed before Kaysar’s eyes. Blood clogged his airways. So dizzy. When his knees buckled, the prince let him go. He crashed into the ground, black dots weaving through his vision.
He tried to crawl away. Must return... Viori. But darkness swallowed him.
One year later
A CLINK-CLANK OF METAL. A high-pitched groan as unoiled hinges ground together. Then, a continuous thud of footsteps as Kaysar’s tormentor ascended an eternity-long but too short staircase.
A ragged inhalation stabbed his nostrils and cut his lungs. Heart banging like a hammer, he slinked back and pressed against the wall, where shadows engulfed him. Bare flesh met frigid stone, and he hissed, his chain rattling ever so slightly, adding a new note to the ominous melody.
Lark was back.
The prince could have flittered, appearing directly in the room, but he preferred to draw out his approach and build anticipation.
Kaysar darted his gaze, focusing on inane details. The sun had begun to fall. Muted beams of light streamed through the only window, illuminating the highest room in the highest tower of the Winterlands Palace, the crown jewel of the Winter Court. Here, Kaysar had some of the comforts he’d longed to give Viori. A built-in bed with a goose-down mattress. A freestanding tub and access to fresh water, a true luxury. But oh, how he despised this place.
He’d suffered every moment of his capture. Prince Lark and King Hador had abused him however they’d pleased, whenever they’d pleased, keeping Kaysar confined with the diamond-studded collar he’d once hoped to sell. A length of chain stretched between the collar and the wall, the links impenetrable. The royals fed him only enough to exist.
In the beginning, he’d felt like a trapped animal. He’d fought his circumstances with the full force of his might. When all the rage, hatred, guilt and shame had finally reached a tragic crescendo, his mind had...broken. In the aftermath, he’d discovered only the hatred remained.
Every minute of every day he seethed with the desire—the consuming need—to slaughter his enemies. The screams he would elicit. Oh, the screams. Then, his hunt for his beloved Viori could begin.
His chest constricted. Was she all right? Had someone found and helped her? Had someone harmed her? In his worst nightmares, he imagined her dying of thirst days after he’d abandoned her in those vines.
A tear escaped, sliding down his cheek.
Thump-thump. Kaysar stiffened as the prince’s footsteps drew closer. Today, he launched his escape. If he failed...
He couldn’t fail.
He wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand and hummed a soft melody. Vibrations raced along his tongue—a tongue now in the process of regrowing. Lark had no idea. But he would.
Kaysar smiled as he imagined blood pouring from the prince’s every orifice.
Another clink-clank of metal. Another serenade of hinges followed as the door swung open...and Lark appeared, consuming the space. Pale curls disheveled, pointy ears on display. Blue eyes glassy. He wore a wrinkled white tunic and leathers, a pair of daggers sheathed at his waist. The scent of sour wine and sweat tainted the air.
“I don’t think you’re going to like what I’ve planned today,” the prince said with a grin.
Hate him. Hate them all. Lark and Hador had taken so much from Kaysar. His sister. His freedom. His honor. His sanity. Even his future.
They take no more.
Laughing, always laughing, the prince stalked forward, removing and dropping his shirt along the way.
The hatred collected in Kaysar’s throat, singeing him. He shouted, “Stop.”
Lark...obeyed. The prince’s brow furrowed with confusion. He resisted the immobility—but he didn’t take another step.
Then. That moment. Kaysar tasted victory and only craved more.