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“I’m not sure.” Her pout only kindled his desires. “I lost sight of him fifty or so deaths ago.”
The unseated men shouted as they ran. Other warriors stayed to fight, stabbing and hacking at the poisonous stalks. Venom leaked from the punctures, rendering many of the fighters immobile.
Arrows flew at random, embedding in different parts of the vines. Kaysar scowled when Chantel winced. She felt each strike?
Pain fanned her eyes with the next volley, a bead of sweat trickling from her temple. Her shoulders hunched ever so slightly.
She did. This was unacceptable.
You know what you must do.
Oh, he did. But he hesitated, unsure. For centuries, he’d used his song as a weapon to cause madness and death. He hadn’t attempted to heal anyone but himself since Viori’s loss.
He sank his claws into his palms. Emotions mattered, affecting tone. If he caused Chantel a moment of agony or furthered her injuries...
He took an honest look inside his heart. What emotions currently seethed there? Fury, yes. Always. Hatred? Malice? Bitterness? All were present and accounted for. But beneath them, he thought he sensed...affection? A well of it. More than he was comfortable carrying for someone—anyone.
Could he utilize it? Should he?
More arrows plugged her vines, and she mewled. Some of her strength dwindled. Kaysar stopped musing, his answer suddenly clear. Yes, he should.
He moved behind her and clasped her waist. Will never get enough of these curves. Concentrating on the affection wasn’t as difficult as expected. As his throat heated, he placed his mouth at her ear.
The heat built...and he released the first note of his song.
Chantel’s eyes hooded as he crooned to her. Even as she wielded her vines, she leaned against him, swaying from side to side. She began to sing along. “Death has come for you. And you. And you. Hmm-hmm. You can run, but you can’t hide. My vines pursue.”
She gives words to my melody? Satisfaction slaked some previously unknown desire. Was there nothing this treasure of a female couldn’t do?
The louder he sang, the faster her vines bred. More and more thorns emerged, protruding from the stalks, cutting through armor as easily as a knife through butter.
Having a partner might be...nice.
“Stop.” Features scrunched with agony, Jareth crumpled into a fetal ball. He pressed one ear to the ground and covered the other ear with his remaining hand. Blood ran between his fingers. “You have to stop.”
The prince reacted this way, despite Kaysar’s affectionate tone?
Ever better. Kaysar didn’t stop until the soldiers got the message—attack Chantel and her vines in any way and you would die worse than your comrades.
“Let us cross the bridge, sweetling,” he told Chantel, a plan forming as the numbers thinned. Get to the other side. Make their way to the mountain fortress. Reclaim his crown. Figure everything else out. “Jareth, you’ll accompany us, of course.” The prince was stubborn, certain to follow no matter what. Kaysar wasn’t ready to divide his focus between two enemies while his female remained out in the open. He also didn’t trust Micah around Jareth. If the would-be king were to kill the prince, what of Kaysar’s vengeance then?
Jareth unrolled and lumbered to his feet. A bull contemplating a charge, he glared at Kaysar. “She’ll remember being my Lulundria. She’ll not remain this abomination.”
His hands balled into fists, the need to strike escalating. Abomination? When there was no female more perfect?
But what if Chantel felt the same way as Jareth tomorrow, when the elderseed wore off? What if she awoke and regretted the slaughter of this army? Would she blame Kaysar for her actions? He’d fed her the elderseed and encouraged her kills.
And what if she remembered Lulundria’s past sooner rather than later, as Jareth taunted? What if she fell for the prince all over again? What would Kaysar do then?
He’d wondered before. He worried now.
Unsheathing a dagger, he snapped, “Keep up, prince, or I’ll remove your feet and carry you over my shoulder.” He placed his empty hand on Chantel’s lower back, urging her toward the bridge.
A good little puppy, Jareth trailed after them with loathing in his eyes.
Micah must have escaped the field of destruction. There was no sign of his armorless body as they passed the first, second and third lines of corpses. No sign of the male’s centaur or interpreter, either.
A soldier leaped over a thick, slithering vine and charged the princess. Kaysar spun in front of her, shielding her. With sadistic glee, he minced the attacker’s breastplate. Metal sparked against metal, the male losing his footing. Kaysar shoved a dagger through a gap in the armor. Dead.
Two other soldiers approached from the opposite side, their swords already swinging at Chantel. Despite Jareth’s injuries, the prince reacted with halfway decent reflexes, stopping the pair.
More soldiers came. The number of kills stacked up as their little trio moved forward once more.
