Could he?
He must.
He would.
Kaysar whipped his gaze to her for the hundredth time, unable to halt the action. She perched on the shore, barely covered by the pink dress he’d insisted she wear after he’d noticed the blood he’d deposited on the green one. Her beauty robbed him of breath.
After donning the garment, she had softened immensely, becoming shy and playful—battering his defenses with stronger force.
The gowns meant to punish Chantel only punished Kaysar.
She drew his gaze—compelled it to return to her. The sight of her struck him like a blow.
At the moment, she snacked on the breads, cheeses and fruits he’d confiscated from the centaurs, a contingent of mercenaries Jareth had paid to attack him.
Kaysar had fetched the food for her before his bath, relieved the misery portion of their relationship was over. He’d had no thirst for it, anyway. He liked the idea of working together to oversee his goal.
What to do about the doormaker, though? He owed her a way home, so he should deliver. Something an honest partner would do. But he didn’t want Chantel leaving Astaria. Ever. Which meant he had to convince her to stay with him before he presented her with a doormaker. But how? What else did she need from him?
When no answers were forthcoming, Kaysar stomped from the pond. He shook out his hair, flinging water in every direction, then dressed in the clean tunic and leathers Chantel had “gifted” to him.
Upon his return with the food, she’d told him, “You said everything in the bag is mine, and I carried nothing of yours. Rather than let you traipse about naked or in dirty clothing, I’ll gift you with a shirt and pants.” She’d beamed the sweetest smile at him. The same smile she’d beamed before she’d punched his face. “For a price.”
When he’d balked, both affronted and savagely turned on, she’d only smiled wider, a temptress no man had the strength to resist. “Do you think I’ll demand sex,” she’d asked throatily, “or do you hope I will?”
How he’d hoped! In the end, she’d merely requested information about “the bark.” The elderseed. When planted, it grew enchanted trees. When ingested, it healed any injury and strengthened any fae exponentially for a short period of time. Her eyes had widened with excitement as he’d explained, and she’d muttered, “Just like the elderseed in the game.
“If I eat the elderseed, I’ll power up, right?” she’d asked. “Will I recharge enough to open a doorway?”
Of course her mind had gone there. “You won’t,” he’d replied, and it was the truth. “Creating vines and opening a doorway come from two different sources of power. The glamara merely utilizes the vinemaking as a bridge from which to manifest. The elderseed will fuel any ability but your glamara.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked, drawing him back to the present. She motioned to the picnic she’d set up, rubies sparkling on her throat, biceps and fingers. “I saved you half...after I ate the original half.”
“No, thank you.” No, thank you? He frowned, confused. When had he taken lessons in gentlemanly comportment? “We should go.” They would enter the Dusklands as originally planned. He would put his ear to the ground and seek a living doormaker he probably wouldn’t find. Chantel would be satisfied with his efforts. At least for a little while. He could use the time to learn her better. To win her affections.
“Very well.” From her perch on the ground, she gathered her belongings. As soon as she finished, he offered her a hand. With a sigh-worthy smile, she fluttered her fingers over his. “How kind of you. Ohhh. Look at us. So polite to each other. It’s like we’ve both become new people.”
Her softness. Her warmth. Struggling to rein in his sharpest desires, he tugged her to her feet. Guilt seared him when he anchored her satchel to his chest and the heavy weight strained his shoulder.
Disregard. They moved forward from now on, not backward.
Kaysar laced his fingers with hers, marveling at the differences between them. The smallness of her bone structure compared to the largeness of his. The paleness of her silken skin next to his darkness. The delicacy of her pink nails, with her black thorn claws retracted, pitted against the sharp metal tipping his.
The guilt conquered more territory, and he scowled.
As he squired her across the path that divided the pond, stepping from one mossy rock to another, she made the sweetest little noises. Blood continued to rush to his groin, his shaft nearly ripping free of his leathers.
“I’m surprised Jareth hasn’t found us yet,” she said.
“I expect your husband to—”
“Uh, he isn’t my husband, thank you very much. This perma-bachelorette isn’t getting hitched.”
“You are a Frostline. He is a Frostline.” Would she change her mind if she remembered Lulundria’s love for Jareth? The idea nearly stopped Kaysar cold. He didn’t like the thought of Chantel kissing and touching the prince. Ever.