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“Wait.” She yanked her hand from his. “Are you in a relationship with someone? I mean, I know you aren’t married, but what about a girlfriend? A mistress? A harem?”
Did the thought leave her frothing with jealousy?
He grinned at the mere possibility and flittered behind her. Kaysar molded his body to hers, just the way he liked, crowding her. The instinct demanded it, and he obeyed.
As he slid his hands over her hipbones and clamped down, she held her breath. When he applied pressure, pressing her against him, she didn’t try to escape—no, she melted closer.
She loved her pleasure.
He nuzzled his cheek against hers, a gesture of affection and gratitude. Unstoppable. “I have no girlfriend. Nor do I maintain a stable of mistresses as Jareth does.” He rasped his words, delighting as goose bumps broke out over her arms. He would never choose to permanently bind his life to another. Become responsible for another’s well-being? Give the Frostlines something else to steal from him?
Though, he shouldn’t allow anyone, especially the Frostlines, to keep him from taking something he wanted, either. The incongruity would bother him tomorrow, after he’d secured Chantel.
“In the eyes of the fae,” he said, “you are wed to Jareth, which is why he hopes to take you from me.”
No one takes her from me! His rage blazed, ever at the ready.
A breathy puff of air suggested he squeezed her a little too tight—or that she enjoyed being squeezed a little too tight.
Just like that, intrigue overshadowed his anger. He nipped her earlobe, rewarded by the softest mewl. What would she do if he tilted her head back and sucked on her hammering pulse? If he slid his hands lower?
If he licked her skin. Kneaded her breasts. Tore off her clothes and—
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “You can let me go now.”
Do not shout a denial. She wasn’t like anyone else, and he couldn’t treat her as such.
Wait. Sounds in the distance. He canted his head, listening, honing in. Jareth had found their trail. Was about five minutes away.
Kaysar cursed. The Frostlines ruined everything.
“We’re about to have company, sweetling.” With a furious huff, he flittered in front of Chantel, clasped her hand once again and tugged her forward. “Come.”
“Jareth?”
“No doubt.”
As he stalked forward, she followed. At the other side of the pond, he navigated the slippery stones with ease. Cool mist dampened the air, reminding him of the first time he’d ever ventured here. He’d been a boy then. Only fifteen. He’d spent a fruitless year searching for his missing sister, then another year learning the various royal courts and preparing to conquer the wild Nightlands most other fae avoided, hoping to find Viori there. He’d been sick from yet another brush with poisonvine when he’d collapsed near the water.
Upon glimpsing his reflection—seeing Viori’s eyes hidden within his own—he’d sung himself to health, exactly as he’d sung himself to health in the tower. The way he’d sung to Viori each night. The melody had quickly turned into a scream of pain and misery, and he’d broken into sobs. It was here, on this very bank however long later, that he’d decided to halt his search for his sister. To cease splitting his focus. To fixate on the only thing he could give his precious Viori—proper vengeance.
“Once we go through the water,” he told Chantel, “I won’t be able to flitter. No one can flitter in the Dusklands. The ability is neutralized by a mineral in the ground. However far we travel, remember we must travel it all over again to return.”
“Ten-four. I’m happy to report the same is true in The Forest of Good and Evil.” She nodded, her excitement seeming to catch fire, burning through the charming shyness the dress had highlighted. The clothes might influence her, but they didn’t control her. “Don’t worry. I won’t be an anchor dragging you down anymore. I’ll be an asset. You’ll see.”
Her ability to torment the prince outside of Kaysar’s bed remained unconfirmed. Her ability to aid Kaysar in other ways did not. An asset to him? Shockingly yes.
Danger approaches. Almost upon you.
Even with the crash of the water, Kaysar caught the prince’s footfalls. Jareth had quickened his pace.
He considered his next move, tossing a glance over his shoulder. His only goal at the moment? Keeping Chantel, his key, safe.
In a sprint, the prince burst through a wall of foliage before vanishing, reappearing halfway to the waterfall. Still sprinting, seeming to fly over the rocky path, already swinging his sword.
Kaysar flittered in front of Chantel, a dagger clutched in each clawed hand. He lifted and crossed the weapons, creating a metal V. His gaze clashed with Jareth’s as the male’s sword tip grazed a straight, shallow cut from the end of his nose to the underside of his chin before meeting the daggers. A clink and a sting registered.
