Won’t be a sitting duck. She blinked, shook her head, willing herself to heal. Her vision cleared, and she craned her head to search for Kaysar...
One by one, the centaurs collapsed, each gushing blood. Or missing a head. Every other blink, she caught a glimpse of Kaysar as he moved through the ranks. Crimson soaked him, his expression ecstatic.
He loved this.
Terror gripped her and squeezed. Okay. Maybe she didn’t need his help, after all. If she’d misread the vision, if ever he focused his murderous sights on Cookie, she would lose. For now, she was better off navigating the forest and its survivable dangers on her own.
She bucked and contorted, doing her best to free her arms from the rope while pushing her way up the log. If she failed to succeed this way, she planned to succeed that way.
Slow down. Think. Fear is at the wheel, urgency setting in.
She ignored the warning. Cookie wanted out of this—Yes! See? Success. One hand free, then the other. Whipping upright, she yanked off the gag, then worked on the rope around her poor damaged ankle. To her amazement, she’d already begun to heal. In a matter of minutes, she might even be racer ready.
Come on, come on. What if Kaysar focused on her next?
Finally, the rope gave. Cookie lumbered to her feet and threw a swift glance over the battleground, tensing as realization set in. Only two centaurs remained. Time to go.
She launched forward, losing her houseboots as she zoomed past a line of trees—“No!”
Kaysar appeared, towering in front of her. Unable to slow, she crashed into him and bounced back, stumbling but remaining upright.
Breathe. Just breathe. This was fine. Everything was fine. Yes, okay, he looked a bit insane right now, his eyes maniacal as he surveyed her from top to bottom. But. He hadn’t retaliated when she’d slammed into him. His intentions toward her might not be terrible.
She backed away, step by step, but kept her gaze upon him, just in case. Blood drenched a powerful body humming with aggression. After all the damage he’d caused, he wasn’t winded. If a centaur had managed to injure him, she found no evidence of a wound.
Voice a rapture-inducing growl, he asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
Far from here? Forever? Fingers crossed.
She paused a good distance away and held up her hands, palms out. A gesture of innocence or an attempt to ward him off, she wasn’t sure. Either way, so far, so good. “Hi. Hello. First, I can’t thank you enough for the save. While I’m not a fan of being a damsel in distress, I’m glad I’m not dying.” Very smooth. But true. “Right? I’m not dying?”
Eternal seconds ticked by without a response.
Okay. Moving on and trying again. The Cookie way. “I’m Cookie Bardot. Well, my first name is actually Chantel, but friends call me Cookie. Apparently, cookie was my first word, and also all I ever wanted to eat. But I’m babbling, sorry. I do that when I appear in a strange world, where mythological monsters eye me with mental forks and knives and a guy with sexy ears comes along and murders everyone.” She forced an airy laugh, her cheeks heating. Had she told a homicidal maniac he had sexy ears? “Anyway. Short story long, you can call me whatever you want.”
He fingered his ears before shaking his head and scowling. “Chantel? Cookie? No. Your name is Lulundria. Though I can be persuaded to use the name Drendall upon occasion.”
Uh-oh. She detected a note of anger. Anger. From an unashamed killer who’d displayed zero anger before gutting the centaurs. “Sure. I’ll answer to Lulundria. Or Lulu. Even Lue. Or Drendall. Dren is nice, too.” Who were these women? “I’m easy. Easygoing, I mean. Not easy—never mind. You get it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are her, but not her.”
The same thing the first round of pixies had said. Not that she would be stupid enough to trust a pixie again. In fact, if ever she got her hands on the pink one, she’d stop being murder curious and start being murder happy.
Cookie proceeded cautiously. “Did, um, Lulundria—the other Lulundria have pink hair and green eyes?”
His chiseled features darkened. He gave a sharp incline of his head. “She did.”
Lulundria. The name clicked, and once again she knew. Her donor. The woman she’d seen in her vision. Who she recognized on a cellular level, though they’d never met.
To tell this man or to not tell him? What if he’d only saved her to gain answers about the transplant? Once he knew the truth, he’d have no use for her. Worse, what if he believed she was somehow responsible for Lulundria’s death?
On the flip side, what if the information bought her a protector and guide home?
Amid the silence, he prowled closer. Closer still...
She remained in place, motionless, her heart pounding harder and faster, as if she were in the middle of a marathon. When he stood only a few feet away, she caught his scent and liquified. What was that? Sweet, but spicy. Intoxicating.
He walked a circle around her, and she let him do it without reprisal, remaining rooted where she stood. Partly in fear. Partly in...not fear, a desire to nuzzle into his strength growing.
So desperate for a teammate, you’ll enter the bear’s cage?
He paused behind her, and his warm breath brushed her nape. The most delicious shivers of all rippled over her.
“You are far more beautiful than she was. An object of desire few have the strength to resist.” He purred the words straight into her ear, wrapping his powerful arms around her waist, crowding into her. Tap. Tap. The tip of his metal claw kissed her belly again and again without cutting her clothes. “Tell me, girl. Do I make you apprehensive?”
The feel of him... “You do make me apprehensive,” she admitted, earning a start of surprise from him. Among other things.
Cookie hadn’t pressed against a hard, masculine form in so long. How she’d missed the warmth. The sense of closeness. The safety. For once, she didn’t feel oppressed by loneliness or impending doom.
Tap, tap, tap. “You alone have no reason to dread your time with me, female.” Tap, tap. “Not at the moment.”
What about later?
She decided to roll the dice. The truth will set you free. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I believe your Lulundria is...dead. I’m sorry,” she repeated. “My heart was defective, and I was dying. She didn’t need hers anymore, so doctors transplanted it inside me. After the surgery, I began to change. My hair. My eyes.” The vines.
The brutal warrior tensed. She braced for a shout of denial, or an accusation of dishonesty.
He appeared before her, and she yelped. How was he doing that?
“You hold Lulundria’s heart in your chest? She lives on in you?” He set two knuckles under her chin and tipped her head up to his, unveiling a stunning smile. He was temptation made flesh. “This is wonderful. This is wonderful indeed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAYSAR HAD DETECTED no lies in the beauty’s confession, the truth hitting him with all the finesse of a cannonball. Lulundria had returned to Astaria. She’d come back as this living doll—this living Drendall—whose finely boned face both mesmerized and unsettled him.
One woman the same as any other? Hardly.
He could stare at this female forever and another day, and it wouldn’t be long enough. And her body... All that pale, radiant skin. The top of her head reached his shoulders. Barely. She was short but curved, wearing a pink tunic with text scribbled over the center. “Stay-at-Home Cat Mom.” On her legs was black material seemingly poured onto her skin. A mortal fashion?
He frowned as the unthinkable happened—he hardened without permission from his mind. But why would he do this? People responded to him; he did not respond to people.
Despite the unprecedented reaction, she aided his cause. The heart of a Frostline-by-marriage beat in this former mortal’s chest, ensuring Lulundria lived on.
Ensuring her connection with Jareth and Hador lived on.
The princess wasn’t the first royal fae to extend her life this way, but there were few others who’d dared to venture down this particular path. A mind was a gateway to the heart, the battery for any glamara, and all were different, no two intellects the same. The longer this Chantel carried Lulundria’s heart, the more her thoughts and personality shaped it. For better or for worse.
Whether she realized it or not, she was unerringly immortal, incredibly powerful, and unarguably fae. Each of the five courts now recognized her as a royal Summerlander and Winterlander. Lulundria’s own parents would welcome her with open arms. Jareth, too. His marriage vows commanded it.
The prince had no choice but to accept this stranger as his wife—and the de Aoibheall babe soon to quicken in her belly.
A babe Kaysar would never know.
He...wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea, now that victory was so close. What belonged to Kaysar belonged to Kaysar. Always. Without exception. He didn’t share with anyone. Ever. He refused to share. And yet he planned to give this princess his seed? His child? An innocent babe, handed over to the Frostline prince? Placed within Hador’s reach?
Fury rose at the incongruity, ever at the ready, the need to kill someone, anyone, nigh irresistible. Instead, Kaysar stroked his claws over his forearm. The slight tickle reminded him of his maps. His sister. His safe harbor in any storm.
He centered and calmed, certain he could solve the conundrum tomorrow. Vengeance first, everything else second.
Today, fate wanted him to oversee the punishment of the Frostlines. Unlike the original Lulundria, this woman hadn’t spent her childhood hearing horror stories about the Unhinged One. What reason did she have to resist him?
No doubt her seduction would be laughably easy.
“Who are you to me?” she asked, an uneasy little thing. First she shifted from bare foot to bare foot. Then she smoothed pink and sable locks from her brow. Then she massaged the abrasions marring her wrists. “Who were you to Lulundria?”
Her accent was soft, liquid and wonderfully lazy, like the warm maple poured over his mother’s berry cakes. A delicacy he hadn’t considered in centuries. Now, his mouth watered.
A pang sizzled in his chest, but he ignored it, honing his focus, schooling his features. Let the princess’s seduction begin.
Today he chatted with her. If he received encouragement, he touched. But nothing more than a few light caresses. To keep her glued to his side long-term, he must earn her trust before he claimed her body. “I’m Kaysar de Aoibheall from the Midnight Court, and I’m at your service.” No reason to mention his designation. “Unhinged One” might be a jot difficult to excuse in the beginning.
“Kaysar,” she repeated, her slow drawl turning the zar sound into sir.
The pang only intensified. Disregard. “As for the other question, you alone know who I am to Lulundria. You must only remember.” Filtering the eagerness from his tone, he asked, “Have you relived any of her memories?”
She rocked on her heels. “Only one, and only a fragment, but it was enough. A man hurled ice daggers at her. He hurt her.”
Well, well. Her quiet rage was utterly delicious. Even better, she had referred to Jareth, her husband, as “a man.” A stranger. She considered the prince a merciless killer.
The first hint of satisfaction teased Kaysar. As good as mine.
He pretended to think the matter over and nodded. “Perhaps it’s best not to seek any other memories. What if they’re worse?”
“I definitely do not want to remember another woman’s memories. I barely handle my own.”
That, he understood. He stalked another circle around her, inspecting his prize once more. But once wasn’t enough. There was too much of her to enjoy, so he kept going. With each loop, he increased the distance between them to take in more of her. No woman had a right to smell sweeter than poisonvine. Especially this woman.
Unfamiliar needs battered him. Kiss. Lick. Touch. For pleasure.
Ire forever at the fore, he scowled. Kaysar experiencing pleasure with a Frostline, doing things he considered a chore?
“You’re sending me mixed signals, and I’m not a fan.” For this perusal, she moved with him, her gaze firmly attached to him, no matter where he stood. “Are you planning to do foul things to me or not? I honestly can’t tell.”
He answered without thought. “Tell me your definition of foul.”
She blink-blinked, a pfft of air parting her lips. A bright smile spread. “Dang, you’re hot. I’ll be honest. I think you’re into me. And I admit, I might be a little into you, too.”
That smile stopped him in his tracks and robbed him of breath. Exquisite.
He met her gaze and forced a smile of his own. He’d paid the realm’s finest concubines to teach him how to charm and intrigue, and he utilized those skills now. “You aren’t wrong... Chantel. I am very much into you.”
Relaxing further, she asked, “Where are we?”
“This is Astaria.” Your new home.
“Astaria,” she echoed, surveying the land around them. “Not Rhoswyn? Or Loloria? Or Enchantia?”
“There are five fae kingdoms, also known as courts. Midnight or Nightlands. Summer. Autumn. Spring. And Winter.” He grated the last. “There’s also a territory known as the Dusklands. We are currently in the Forest of Many Names.”
“Fae,” she squeaked. “I knew it. But are we talking Seelie and Unseelie? Or does it even matter?”
“Fae are fae.” Dissatisfied with the distance, Kaysar eased closer, reentering Chantel’s flowery force field. His blood heated slowly, simmering...boiling.
Her scent reminded him of poisonvine—no, not poisonvine, not exactly, but a far more potent and pure strain. His head fogged.
“Shall I tell you how Lulundria and I first met?” he asked silkily.
“Yes, please,” she rasped, licking her ruby lips.
Tension coiled inside his muscles as never before, a shock to his system. “Six months ago, I came upon Lulundria in this forest with her husband, a Winterland prince. The evil man you saw in the memory. With my aid, the darling Lulundria escaped, running away. I’ve sought her ever since. I’ve craved her ever since.” He observed her expression, saying “Now I crave you.”
Her features softened, any lingering stiffness evaporating.
Oh, yes. This seduction was laughably easy indeed.
She searched his gaze. To his consternation, her stiffness returned gradually. When the metamorphosis was completed, she straightened with a snap, stepped back to widen the distance between them. “I may have Lulundria’s heart, but I assure you, I’m not her.”
He snapped, “What use are you to me, if you aren’t Lulundria?”
She took another step back. Good. Let her dread the temper of the man who decided her fate. As a Frostline, her every breath was a gift from Kaysar. Let her see the blood of the enemies he’d slaughtered on her behalf.
Her behalf? No. Every murder had served his master, vengeance. Nothing mattered more than her husband’s pain and suffering.
“Also,” she said, as if his outburst meant nothing to her, “I don’t want to be a princess. They’re the weakest characters.”
He had no idea how to respond. Deep breath in. Out. Kaysar offered the princess his best imitation of a reassuring smile. “You are Lulundria in every way that matters. You are also married to the prince who killed you.” To further increase her distrust of the prince, he told her, “Jareth pierced Lulundria’s internal organs with ice directly in front of me. I fought him and chased after her, intending to heal and protect her. But in her pain, fear got the better of her, and she created her vines. The stalks dragged her through a doorway, and she vanished.”
“Vines dragged me through a doorway, too.” In her fervor to learn more, she lost her
reluctance and sidled closer. “The second I went through it, the stalks withered.”
Like a teacher to his student, he told her, “Because you are a doormaker. You open and close doorways into the mortal and fae worlds.”
“So I can go home?” Relief poured from her in great, sweeping waves, rousing a confusing tide of...something inside him. “I can go home!” She bounded the rest of the way and gripped his tunic. “How do I open a doorway? Do you know?”
He wished to respond, but his voice had ceased working, speaking suddenly an impossible task. His mind whirled with wild, unfettered thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp. Her body was flush with his. So warm. So soft. Breasts. Breasts were smashed against his chest. Plump ones.
Pleasure lashed him like a whip with a thousand tails, wrenching a groan from his innermost being. His shaft reacted with no prompting from his mind again, shooting iron-hard. The urge to rub against her was nearly impossible to resist.
“You can’t,” he rasped. He barely stopped himself from wrapping his arms around her. First he must temper this strange and unappreciated reaction to her. “The opening of a door always drains the maker. While you’re probably able to create vines, you won’t be strong enough to craft another door for weeks or months.”
Months. Hmm. He’d lived thousands of years, and he would live thousands more. How could he obtain lasting satisfaction through this woman’s connection to Jareth with so little time? And what if she failed to conceive before her ability recharged?
Other than chaining her, a temporary solution and a hindrance to his goal, he had no way to contain her.
“Are you a doormaker, too?” she asked.
Calm. Steady. “I am not. Few are.”
“Well, that’s just great,” she huffed, resting her forehead against his sternum. A pose born of dejection or a need for comfort? “A mandatory cooldown for an ability I didn’t know I had and didn’t mean to use.”
Cooldown? Yes. He should cool down. Should flitter out of reach and escape the heat generating between their bodies and shed the awful, wonderful things she continued to make him feel.
Heartless Page 8
