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The satchel rested at his feet. He wasn’t ready to remove or reveal the rocks he’d dropped inside it. As soon as she spotted them, she might comprehend his purpose. Part of him wanted her to, and he didn’t know why. Warn an opponent of the actions he took against them? Was he truly so foolish?
Her misery began anew tomorrow, no matter his feelings on the matter.
“Taking a shower,” she mumbled and sealed herself in the bathroom, the only area closed to his viewing pleasure.
He said nothing, letting her, his fingers tightening on the glass.
Earlier she’d eaten her weight in meat pies and lemon tartlets. Before that, she’d convinced him to use his “own money” to purchase a brand-new tunic. There’d been no need for pants, since he’d packed two pairs. Actually, he’d brought a tunic, too, but she’d wanted the one with roses and ivy embroidered around the collar, not the plain one he’d offered.
She’d pointed, batted her lashes at him and said, “I want that. Buy it for me?”
How could he refuse? With the garment secured behind an invisible blockade, he’d needed only to fetch a coin from his treasure trove and flitter back to insert the gold in the proper slot. Besides, he thought he’d begun to piece together Eye’s riddle and desired a test.
She is the skin she wears...
Chantel’s eyes had developed the golden starburst after she’d donned the bejeweled boots—boots he now remembered stealing from King Hador’s second wife. A woman obsessed with jewelry, who’d once visited Kaysar in his prison tower, curious to scrutinize the “whore” the king used on special occasions.
Kaysar had begged for help, and she’d sneered. Sneered. She’d also left him to rot. A mistake she’d later paid for. Dearly. Only a handful of years after his escape, he’d followed her through a market. He’d known Hador needed the greedy woman, because she came with a hefty allowance from the Autumnlands, with all payments ceasing upon her death.
Kaysar had sent half of her to Hador and the other half to her family. A memory he cherished. He’d kept the boots for sentimental reasons.
Would Chantel’s personality change with her garments? He would find out. Tomorrow. Tonight, he was too busy aching.
An hour ago, he’d showered and stroked himself off. Something he’d never had to do before. Even still, his wanting remained. When he’d dressed in a clean tunic and leathers, he’d barely gotten the zipper over his straining erection. Chantel’s lock of hair remained in his pocket, mocking him. Why had he wanted it? Why did he keep it?
He thought he might murder anyone who tried to take a single strand from him.
When the water shut off, he tipped his glass and drained the contents. Decisions had to be made, and fast. What would he do to Chantel tonight? Kiss her? Caress her? How would she react? Welcome him eagerly? Rebuff him? Must know.
No. Bad Kaysar. He should do nothing to her. She required rest. So he would not advance his seduction of her. Not yet. Even if he wished otherwise. Even if she begged.
He licked his lips and growled at the thought.
A single decision remained then. Should he lie beside her in bed or force her to sleep in this chair?
Again, one question led to others. How would it feel to hold someone in his arms without choking them or stabbing them repeatedly? Good? Better than good? Awful? He’d never spent an entire night with a woman. Or anyone. After sex, he’d only ever stayed long enough to get what he’d planned to get. Secrets. Information. Ammunition.
He despised having someone’s skin pressed against his. Usually. Too much did the sensations remind him of his time with Prince Lark and Hador. Then Chantel came along. Kaysar worked his jaw. They had traded touch after touch, yet he’d rarely harkened to his past. The wonder of her reactions and the shock of his own had kept those thoughts at bay. Which meant...
She had sway over him.
He gnashed his teeth, a habit he’d developed since meeting the princess. What was he going to do about her? About Jareth?
The prince hadn’t followed them inside the outpost—yet. Kaysar should be the one to remain in the chair, at the ready. On the other hand, shouldn’t he try sheltering his living Drendall up close and personal, his body acting as a shield for hers?
He masked a hoarse groan as Chantel exited the bathroom, accompanied by a cloud of steam. Though he hadn’t moved, she startled when she looked his way, executing an abrupt stop. Those magnificent eyes widened, driving him crazy.
“Um. Hi,” she said with a wave.
Kaysar barely stifled another groan as he drank her in. Blood pooled in his shaft. She wore the tunic, and only the tunic. Plump breasts crested by puckered nipples strained the material. Pale, slender legs stretched beneath a hem that stopped mid-thigh.
