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Doing battle alongside a Frostline. How novel. Jareth’s wounds didn’t affect his skills—skills he’d never displayed with Kaysar. The prince’s reflexes were faster and more fluid than usual.
Had he hesitated during their private skirmishes?
The mere possibility boiled Kaysar’s blood. He deserved to pit his best against his foe’s. For someone to pull their punches... An unforgivable insult.
Kaysar slashed another soldier. He blocked, spun and ducked whenever needed, always advancing while guarding Chantel as needed.
Felling enemy after enemy, he adopted a rhythm. Calm came when he realized a wonderful truth. Chantel was witnessing his ability to protect her. His ferocity. When the elderseed wore off, her desire for him might be stronger than ever. Why fear Lulundria’s affections for the prince?
Strike. Slash. Duck. Kaysar’s gaze returned to Chantel again and again, her pull too powerful to deny. A beauty assured of her power. My beauty. Her hips swayed seductively, her steps sure, her posture steadfast.
She kept her arms extended, even when her stalks reached full maturity, attached to her hands by a mystical connection rather than a physical one. Golden smoke swirled around her fingers.
“The survivors are running away,” she pouted. “I sense their movements through the vines.”
“That’s a wonderful thing, sweetling. Now we have targets for later.”
“Well. I doubt there’s ever been a better silver lining,” she said, brightening. “There will always be another bad guy to crush.”
“And claw.”
The prince spit a mouthful of blood at Kaysar. “You rejoice over the death of innocents?”
Innocents? “They attacked your ex-bride, hoping to kill her, Jareth.” He slew a soldier hiding in the shadows. “This is more than deserved.”
A choking noise drew his attention back to the Frostline. Kaysar stopped and blinked. Chantel stood before the male, her vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles, stretching his limbs past comfortability as he dangled in the air. A vein bulged in his forehead. Though he struggled, he couldn’t free himself.
“We saved your life and you dare complain?” she asked quietly. Her eyes were molten, the light around her fingers brighter.
Kaysar flittered—no, he stalked, only then remembering the ability to teleport was negated in the Dusklands. “He isn’t yours to kill, Chantel.” She was his mate, yes, but his priorities had not changed. Vengeance first, Chantel second. Best she learn and accept. “You will release him.”
“I won’t.” Her attention remained fastened on Jareth. “Because I don’t want to.”
“Release him,” he repeated, the command firm. “I won’t tell you again.” But what could he do to her, if she failed to comply? His instincts shouted louder and louder. Protect. “Please? For me?”
“Fine.” Huffing, she stepped back and released her hold. Kaysar breathed a sigh of relief. “But only for you, and only because you’re so sexy when you’re angry.”
She found his anger sexy?
Without the strength of the vines to hold him up, Jareth smacked into the ground. He attempted to catch himself, an instinctive action, but he only injured his mutilated arm further. His bellow of agony filled Kaysar’s ears with a melody as sweet as ever. “You think...I wasn’t...as much a victim...as you were?” He threw the words at Kaysar between panting breaths. “I assure you. I was.”
A victim? Hardly. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed as your uncle decapitated a servant girl and batted her head like a child’s ball, Jareth.” But even as he spoke, dismay chilled Kaysar’s nape. What if the prince had spoken tr—No. No! Frostlines lied. That’s what they did. They were deceivers by nature, willing to do anything to hide their crimes. “Not another word from you, or I’ll add your tongue to my collection.”
Torment stripped the prince of civility. “I’m sorry for the abuse you endured at the hands of my family. I hate what happened to you. But what do you think happened to me when I didn’t go along?”
Rage iced his chest. “So you exchanged your misery for mine? Today you dare seek my mercy?” Something he did not possess.
“Kaysar?” Chantel asked, her voice reedy.
Something was off. He whipped to her side. “What’s wrong? Tell me.” If he knew, he could fix it. He must fix it.
“I feel funny.” Her cheeks were pallid. She blinked rapidly, as if to stave off dizziness. “Weakening fast...so tired.”
Ah. The elderseed was wearing off. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, sweetling.” He draped an arm around her waist, holding her up. “Release the vines and cleave to me. I’ll take care of you. I will let nothing harm you.”
Her gaze searched his before her lids sank over her eyes. Resting her head on his shoulder, she breathed, “Promise?”
“You are mine, and I take care of what’s mine. Remember?”
“Oh, yes. It’s nice to be wanted.” She obeyed at last, wrapping her arms around him. Foliage withered as her body went limp against his.
Sleep had claimed her.
He swept her up, clutching her slight weight against his chest. This felt...right.
