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“No. The Frostlines lie. They’re kind in public and monsters in private. I watched from my window, my ire sharpening every time a servant or guest gazed upon them with adoration and admiration.”
“But you never saw Jareth in private. You don’t know if he broke down every time he sealed himself in his bedroom.”
“No!” A violent shake of his head as he attempted to step back again. “You don’t understand.” His volume rose with each word.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. We don’t have to discuss Jareth, young or old.” She petted his chest until he relaxed, then steered the conversation to the present. “What are you going to do about Micah and Hador? Will you leave the castle again?” Tomorrow?
“Not without you. As to what I’ll do... I am unsure. I must think. My schemes require...adjusting.” He kneaded her backside, his touch almost bruising. “Earlier you told me you needed to be first. What if I can’t give you that? I can’t lose you, Chantel. But I can’t lose her, either.”
“Her?”
“Vengeance is Viori, and Viori is vengeance.”
He spoke the words by rote. An internal chant, no doubt. He believed he’d failed his sister and sought to offer her reparation. The only thing he had to offer? The pain of those who had separated them.
Win him from his vengeance, yeah, Cookie could probably do it. But win him from his sister? He might hate her for it. Forgiveness wasn’t something he knew how to offer.
“I won’t ask you to give up your sister,” she promised. “Not now, not ever.” Maybe one day, he would freely—happily—let her go. Because Cookie wasn’t done fighting. “We’ve got time to figure this out, baby.”
He released a shuddering breath, relaxing further.
She pressed a soft kiss into his lips. “Sing me a song?”
Minutes passed in silence, the storm pitter-pattering behind her. She assumed he refused her request. But, as he combed his fingers through her hair, he released the first note. A haunting melody she felt in every cell. Once again, she melted over him.
He sang as he swept her against his chest and carried her to bed.
* * *
“WHAT DO YOU think of this, Kaysar?” Chantel stood before an erotic statue of a naked couple lost in the throes. “Beside the door or on the dais?”
Kaysar remained nearby. Yesterday, she’d found a trunk full of mortal clothes and gadgets she’d claimed with a shouted, “Dibs!” This morning she’d washed the garments, then donned a “tank” top, “yoga” pants, and a hideous green “bath” robe. Curlers covered her head, keeping her hair in tight ringlets.
“I’m taking today off from my royal duties and doing a little spring cleaning,” she’d told him, her gray-green eyes glittering with challenge. “The people will love the end results.”
“An erotic statue looks spectacular anywhere, sweetling,” he told her now.
“Oh, my gosh. You’re right.” She beamed at him and returned to her redecorating.
He ensured the servants obeyed her without hesitation as she ordered them to place this here and that there. Items she’d discovered in the treasure trove. Framed maps. Marble statues. Paintings. Furnishings and vases.
She’d requested a carpenter, and Kaysar had supplied her with the best. Someone able to make “kitty cities” and climbing posts for the royal feline, upon his arrival. The carpenter also built ramps for Pearl Jean’s “scooter.” Whatever that was.
Three days had passed since the raid. Kaysar and his queen made love at all hours, whispered in the dark and slept curled together every night. Having tasted of their connection, he could settle for nothing less than an eternity with her. He cherished every minute in her presence. More than he’d ever cherished anything.
The prince occupied his usual spot at the edge of the royal dais. Jareth stared at Chantel, his gaze intent.
That wouldn’t do.
Earlier, Kaysar did the unthinkable and showed the male a kindness. But then, this particular kindness had been for himself, as well. The prince had stunk, and Kaysar had allowed servants to bathe him.
When Kaysar rotated on his heel to approach the prince, Chantel swung around and patted his butt. He stopped for a moment, a smile flashing and vanishing. The things she did. He shook his head and crossed to the prince, winding through piles of goods awaiting her decision for permanent relocation.
“Look at my mistress, nesting,” he said to Jareth when he stood at the male’s side. “Creating a home for us.”
“You’re a prick,” the prince snapped.
“The great Frostline prince thinks poorly of me. However will I recover?”
To his great annoyance, Jareth got smug. “Enjoy her while you can. She doesn’t need to remember Lulundria to flee you. You’ll drive her away all on your own. I saw her face when you flittered to my father. You didn’t—because you weren’t here. That’s her war line. Your days with her are numbered.”
Rage. Unholy. Consuming. How dare the prince use his own fears against him. “You will not even speak of her.” Kaysar went low, grabbing and yanking Jareth’s ankles, smacking him to the floor. The crash shook the entire throne room.
