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“We won’t be staying long,” Micah replied. Either he read lips at this close range, or he’d taken the drug to deafen himself again. He dropped his gaze to the doll and blinked.
A tell of recognition? Confusion? Which, which? Kaysar struggled to mask his anxiety.
Hador pointed to Jareth. “I won’t leave without my son.”
To his credit, the prince remained seated, appearing furious about his father’s arrival. “I am where you should be. Unless you’d like to switch places, I won’t be going anywhere.”
The king narrowed his eyes but said nothing else.
Though the byplay bothered Kaysar, he maintained his indulgent expression. Where was Chantel?
“Leave the Dusklands of your own volition, King Kaysar.” Micah’s command boomed through the room. “I have no wish to destroy my kingdom and rebuild from the foundation up yet again. But I can and will do so if you force my hand. I won’t allow you to rule over innocent, hardworking people.”
How to explain this in a way the male would understand? “If you strike at me or mine, even once, the kingdom will be destroyed. I’ll make sure of it.”
Micah’s cheeks lost all color.
“Now that pleasantries are over.” Careful. No hint of urgency. “Do you recognize little Drendall, Micah?” He set the doll on the throne’s arm, allowing her big eyes to stare at the intruders.
The usurper’s gaze returned to Viori’s former companion, his brows drawing together. “Should I?”
Genuine perplexity? Kaysar barely stopped himself from ripping at hanks of his hair. He’d known the possibility was minute. He’d desperately hoped otherwise. “The doll belonged to my sister, long ago. One way or another, I will ferret out the truth of her time in the Dusklands.” Best to be clear. “Any who harmed her will soon seek the sweet release of death. Those who lie about an association with her will never find it.”
“Harm a child? A female?” Micah scoffed. “Never. The rules of my kingdom are simple.”
Kaysar...believed him. But the unsatisfactory exchange stripped another layer of civility from him. “Your choice of teammate confuses me.”
“Enough war,” Hador shouted. “I’m tired of fighting you, Kaysar, but I will help Micah oversee your defeat if I must.”
“You’re tired of fighting?” The words left him as little more than a whisper. “Well, let’s give the child rapist what he wants.”
Micah lurched with horror. “The what?”
The king averted his gaze, his cheeks reddening. “You are more destructive than I ever was.”
“Tsk-tsk,” Kaysar replied in a singsong voice, earning moans of pain. “You cannot make the monster, then complain when it bites you.”
Hador scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry for what occurred between us, Kaysar. So incredibly sorry. You must know that.”
Do not close the distance. Do not rip out his heart. He deserved only suffering heaped upon suffering.
Kaysar schooled his features. “Ah. We’ve reached the excuses portion of our interactions. My least favorite, I must admit, but please. Do continue. This always precedes your harm by my hand.”
A lone tear slid down the king’s cheek, quickly followed by another. “I assure you, I’ve paid for my crimes a thousand times over.”
“Do tell. Fill my ears with your miseries.”
A muscle jumped in Hador’s jaw. He offered no response, just heaved his breaths.
Because he was a liar, and he had not paid enough.
“I’ve changed,” the king insisted. “I’ve learned the value of life.”
“You’ve learned the value of nothing.”
Once again, the doors burst open. Everyone turned to face the newest intruder. Kaysar went still as a stern-faced Chantel marched into the room. She’d anchored her mass of sable hair into a severe knot at her nape. Not a single strand of pink. A voluminous black robe draped her.
He shot to his feet, aware of a hammering pulse migrating through his body. Such power. Such passion and beauty. She was a fae queen without equal. A velvet-covered blade. A woman beyond compare, and every sexual fantasy he’d ever had come to life.
Why hadn’t he savored her these past nights?
Why hadn’t she savored him?
The fierce glaze in her mercury eyes struck him as slightly demented, and he nearly dropped to his knees to worship at her feet.
She climbed the dais steps and crossed over, stopping at the throne. She held his gaze, telling him with a firm voice, “Please, excuse me.” The request fit her actions but not the added weight in her tone, as if she asked for multiple pardons at once.
He moved aside, waving toward her throne and bowing his head. “Your majesty.”
She sat with quiet authority, magnificent with her back ramrod straight. “Shall we proceed?”
Vines shot from the floor, marble slabs flying. The stalks snagged the two men and their guards in punishing vise-grips. Poisonvine thorns injected venom directly into their veins, preventing them from flittering. Or moving. Wet crimson dripped upon emerald leaves.
“Micah,” she said, using that same uncompromising tone, “I’ll start with you.”
