“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 whole. 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?
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.