Why couldn’t she accept the life he offered, as is? Why did she have to want more, too? He’d given her everything. New gifts. Weapons. Jewelry. Weapons made to look like jewelry. A framed map of the Dusklands, her kingdom. But she wanted what he couldn’t give. Unless he could.
Part of him screamed to let go of his vengeance. To end the Frostlines at last. To say goodbye to Viori. But how could he? How, how, how?
You know I’ll always protect you, yes?
To break his promise to the little girl who owned his heart...to lie to the one who deserved his every truth...
Until he knew what became of Viori, he could not, should not rest.
“In case you were wondering, your most recent strike against me is truly diabolical,” Jareth said from his post on the dais. He popped a small croquette into his mouth. Croquettes were not on Kaysar’s approved menu for the captured prince. Obviously, someone was dying today. Or tomorrow, after he’d dealt with the upcoming visitation. “Letting me watch you self-destruct? I’m positively teeming with misery.”
“When your opinion is wanted,” he grated, “I’ll rip it from your throat.” Where was Chantel? Still redecorating bedchambers?
He scanned the “new and improved” throne room, loving the erotic statues positioned around the walls, like soldiers having sex in front of every occupant. The most sedate florals accompanied them, framed in gold at their sides. The whimsy of her eclectic tastes charmed him.
“—majesty?” a farmer said. “I-is this gift satisfactory?”
The fearful, hopeful question pulled him from his musings. He realized he’d been petting Chantel’s lock of hair over his forearm.
He swept his gaze over the group who’d brought two chests of elven spices, cured in the marshes. “Perhaps you should tell me if this gift is satisfactory. You are the ones who selected it, after all. So, do it. Tell me. Did you choose an unsatisfactory gift for the queen you wish to act as your champion?”
“I... You...” The farmer looked at his companions for support, who merely peered at the floor. “Your majesty—”
“The gift is more than satisfactory,” Jareth announced. “The finest from your fields, I’m guessing.”
“Yes, yes. The finest from our fields,” the man rushed to agree.
Kaysar flicked his tongue over an incisor. Jareth kept doing this, kept interrupting and making a nuisance of himself. “You truly believe this?” he asked the prince. He didn’t wait for a response. “You will agree to receive their punishment or reward, whichever I decide is deserved.”
“Agreed,” Jareth said with a nod. “I will take their punishment or reward.”
The farmers shuddered with relief before filing out of the room as fast as their feet would carry them.
Kaysar forced himself to relax. Stroking his chin, he told the prince, “How magnanimous of you. Once, you wouldn’t even speak up to save a servant girl you desired. Now you risk your life for strangers.”
The royal flinched. “You want to discuss this here? Very well. I was as much a prisoner as you were. Do you think you were the only one abused? Do you think I hadn’t tried to escape and failed? Do you think, even for a moment, that I wasn’t saying and doing exactly what was expected of me as I worked to strengthen, hoping to break out? That day in the field, I hoped to save the girl from a fate worse than death. I knew my family would kill her regardless of what I did or said. I picked a more merciful path for her but—” He pressed his lips together and bowed his head, as if his shame weighed heavy on him.
“Well. I didn’t know your intentions were so pure,” Kaysar sneered. Perhaps Jareth spoke true, perhaps he lied. Either way, it was done, and he deserved to suffer. “You despise Hador so much, yet you associate with him before your citizens. You laugh together.”
“I never laugh with him. Not anymore.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Shall I pardon you for being a weak coward?”
Another flinch. Then the prince met his gaze, exuding defiance. “Perhaps you should pardon yourself for it first?”
Kaysar, a weak coward? How dare the prince? “I will have your tongue before the day’s end.”
Jareth remained unfazed. “If my forced stay has taught me anything, it’s the truth of your nature. The big, bad Unhinged One fears losing everything he loves yet again. You wear an invisible collar, binding you to a prison of your own making, where time has no meaning and nothing ever changes. Then a beautiful princess comes along, offering you a key, and you pretend you can’t see it. You treat yourself worse than you’ve ever treated me. I think you like your misery—I know you deserve it.”
I will gut him where he sits. Kaysar gripped the arms of the throne, barely able to hold himself back. “I told you to never speak of her.”
“Would you welcome a revelation about her? Because I’m willing to admit she’s yours. That much is clear. Your insanity complements hers, and I wish you both the best. I have no desire to take her from you. I’d prefer to...help you. To make amends for what I failed to do as a child.”
Help Kaysar? Fury churned deep, soon to erupt. “I need nothing from you. You cannot make amends.”
The front doors swung open without warning. Eye rushed inside the room, calling, “Sorry to interrupt, my king, but Hador and Micah have arrived, and they are mere seconds behind me.”
Finally. Every inhalation dagger-sharp, Kaysar lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. The prince was forgotten.
As soon as Kaysar had received word from Eye, he’d called off his guards. Nothing would hinder this meeting.
The oracle halted at the side of the throne, a fine glaze of perspiration glistening on her dark skin. “I would have gotten here sooner, but Cookie wished to change her clothes.” She winced. “My sincerest apologies for her latest choice, majesty.”
What aspect of her magnificent personality had she chosen to emphasize for the coming battle?
For the second time, the doors swung open. Excitement spun through him as King Hador Frostline and Micah marched in, their heads high. They’d forgone armor for the meeting, selecting tunics and leathers instead, as if they had no fear of Kaysar’s claws. Eight guards trailed them. Four fae, four trolls. The paltry number irritated him. Had he lost his edge? Were people getting comfortable around him?
Only Chantel had the right!
Hatred sharpened Kaysar’s focus as he met Hador’s ugly gaze. The urge to kill frothed inside him, reviled memories surging and crashing.
Wandering, grasping hands. Ragged pants. Hot breath on his flesh.
Growls brewed. Hurt him. Make him suffer. Yes. Kaysar would coat his skin in his enemy’s blood and dance to screams of his agony.