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A response lived and died within the same heartbeat, Cookie’s mind consumed with a virtual reality she couldn’t switch off. She watched a young boy lead a younger girl through the forest. They were the most beautiful children she’d ever beheld, with wavy jet-black hair and light brown eyes framed by ultra-long lashes.
She didn’t have to ponder who they were. The knowledge came with the memory. This was Kaysar and his sister, Viori. The realization punched Cookie, and she flattened her hands on her stomach to ward off an oncoming ache. The siblings were so thin, so dirty, wearing rags and boots barely held together by string.
Kaysar carried a large satchel on his back, stooped from its weight.
“This,” Amber said, “is the day Kaysar lost her. Watch it. Watch his capture. And his escape.”
Her heart squeezed painfully. This was going to tear her up inside, wasn’t it?
CHAPTER THIRTY
MICAH AND HADOR. Here. Soon. Not soon enough.
Kaysar poised at the edge of Chantel’s throne, vibrating with readiness, Drendall in his lap. A group of farmers had come to request his aid regarding some kind of swamp monster and offer bribes. He half listened, his mind too active.
Did Micah know Viori? Had the usurper ever interacted with her? Had one of his people? Had someone simply found the doll? But why store it in a treasury? The lack of answers left him ragged.
Failing Viori.
Losing Chantel.
More and more, his woman stared out windows, pensive. Anytime he inquired about her thoughts, she smiled the most heartbreakingly sad smile and changed the subject.
They lived in the same castle, with her glorious plants budding around every doorway and window, yet he missed her as if they were separated by oceans. She kept a part of herself separate from him now. He felt the distance.
They hadn’t made love again.
Chantel had said she wouldn’t ask him to choose her over his sister, and she’d kept true to her word. Why did that disappoint him?
She still hadn’t donned the claws, their team uniform. Her mouth often smiled at him, but the affection no longer sparkled so brightly in those big, beautiful eyes. Though he’d held her lush curves in his arms every night, they’d stopped whispering secrets to each other. She’d kissed him once, forever ago, but his guilt had prevented him from enjoying it, and she’d never tried again.
The strain was starting to wear on him, his patience nonexistent with everyone but her—with effort. But he’d never been a calm individual, and he feared the inevitable snap. Would he only drive her away faster?
But how could he enjoy his woman while his sister suffered a fate unknown? Did Viori need him? He didn’t know. Had she forged a life for herself? One filled with regrets? Horrors? Was she happy? Dead?
Kaysar pulled at hanks of his hair, the uncertainty increasing the likelihood of that emotional snap. He’d already used up the drops of satisfaction and contentment he’d gained during those too few times they’d made love. Nothing remained of them, and he desperately, fiercely yearned for more.
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?”
