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“You’d rather go barefoot?” On alert, he maneuvered around trees, ducked under gnarled branches and avoided webs of any kind. They currently meandered through Autumn Court territory, where the Frostlines had many allies.
Trolls and ogres kept their distance. Pixies, too. Understandable, considering what Kaysar had done to the pink one. He’d been in the midst of a battle with Jareth when she’d swooped in and hobbled him, running the edges of her dagger-sharp wings through his Achilles tendons. Her version of retribution for slaying Race.
Had she flown away immediately afterward, she might have survived the encounter. Instead, she’d circled back to finish him off. Though pixies appeared fragile, they were incredibly strong. Even still, he’d had no trouble catching and crushing her in his fist, then stomping on what remained.
Remembering her attack renewed his fury. He almost wished someone did hide nearby, thinking to attack him. If nothing else, he’d have an opportunity to test Chantel’s fae powers. What more could she do? What were her limits? How would she react to his song?
“Slow down already,” she griped, and he cast a glance over his shoulder. Sweat dampened her radiant skin, glistening as if she’d been dusted with diamond powder. “The land is treacherous. The rocks are sharp, the tree bark is spiked, and what is that awful smell?”
Despite the clenching in his chest, there was no preventing his grin. “That, princess, is the stench of death. We near another field of slaughter. My enemies and their allies thought to invade my land weeks ago.” Months? Days had blurred together for Kaysar. “I attacked first and left their bodies for all to see. Care for a viewing?”
“No, thanks,” she said, but he thought he might have heard a note of curiosity rather than distress or disgust.
His grin widened. There was darkness in this woman. He’d realized the truth when she created poisonvine rather than ivy. A development Jareth was sure to lament. The fool. No appreciation for the finer things.
Perhaps that darkness explained Kaysar’s inexplicable pull to her? Throughout his endless existence, few had understood his drive to devastate the Frostlines. The citizens of Astaria called him evil, as if he had no right to entertain such malice. Of course, few knew the abuse he’d suffered.
Months of pain. Degradation. Endless loss.
The past rose from the mire of his mind, a treacherous tide intent on swallowing the present. With a hiss, he shoved his metal claws deep into his wrist and dragged the tips to his elbow. Blood gushed from the four furrows. Map. Sister. Calm.
Better.
“Kaysar! You’re injured,” Chantel cried from behind him. “There’s a trail of blood—”
“I’m already healing.” Her concern did something to him. He hardly noticed it, though. Yes, it was already forgotten.
Lying to yourself now?
He sliced a tree limb blocking his path, then ushered her along a line of azure bushes. A small, circular clearing overflowed with sunlight and wildflowers. The entrance to his territory.
“Shall we rest here?” he asked and commanded in unison.
“We—” She gaped at the terrain, suddenly speechless, and his chest puffed with pride. He’d paid for every square inch of the Nightlands with misery, countless battles with monsters, and starvation, often going weeks without food or even comfort of any kind.
As she looked everything over more closely, her lustrous skin reveled in the sunlight, aglow with life and vitality.
When can I hold her again? How will she react?
He couldn’t wait to find out. Remembering how her body had trembled against his, how her pulse had jumped and her soft curves had melted over him, he throbbed. Throbbed. For her. A Frostline. As if she controlled his body, and he did not.
Kaysar scowled, frustration entwining with anger and desire. His stance hadn’t changed. Women were tools to be exploited for his cause. They were useful until they weren’t, and they weren’t worth any effort otherwise.
Did the princess release a special plant pheromone that heightened his senses and unlocked a wanton nature he’d previously known nothing about?
Too often in their short acquaintance, he’d caught himself deliberating what sex with her might be like. How it might vary from the sex he’d had with past targets. How she might prefer it. Hard or soft?
He’d always tailored his seductions to the individual, taking no thought for his own pleasure. He’d simply done whatever he’d known the other person wanted. Some had feared violence. Others had begged for it. Some had required demands, and a few had felt inclined to issue them. But which had he favored? He didn’t know. His broken mind had never cared, his body’s sensations dulled.
But they weren’t dulled anymore.
“That tree.” She pointed to a massive okatriva. A tricolored sapling with a black trunk, white leaves, and red fruit. “That looks like a Tree of New Beginnings found in The Forest of Good and Evil.”
