Old bitterness merged with new. What if the prince took Chantel to bed as soon as Kaysar finished with her, too relieved by her return to care about her pregnancy?
Jareth, daring to enjoy her curvy little body night after night... The outrage!
He deserves no pleasure. Kaysar punched the wall again. And again. And again and again and again. Skin split. Knuckles shattered like glass. But his rage failed to cool.
Perhaps he’d keep Chantel for years.
Slightly mollified, he flittered to a treasure trove in the catacombs of his castle. Eternal torches illuminated a doorless room, casting muted golden light over a sea of gold coins, gemstones and weapons. A thousand maps hung over the stone walls. In the center of the chamber was a massive marble water fountain topped by a likeness of Prince Jareth’s dead mother.
In here, Kaysar kept the material goods he’d stolen from the Frostlines. Trunks filled with clothing they’d worn during special occasions. Invaluable family jewels. Swords they’d commissioned from the most skilled blacksmiths. He’d even taken furnishings, paintings and—his personal favorite—the urn containing Prince Lark.
One day, Kaysar would decide how best to desecrate the ashes.
What did Chantel require? She’d need clothes, of course. He shoved several gowns into the bag, unconcerned by size since fae garments magically fit the wearer, whoever the wearer happened to be. Although... She’d be too comfortable in these.
He wanted more than her misery—he wanted her dependent.
Kaysar removed the gowns and selected much lighter ones with nearly transparent material. Basically nightgowns. He grinned. Until the heat in his groin reignited, and his shaft hardened.
Spontaneous desire for the princess needed to stop. What did he care about a woman’s attire? Especially garments he planned to peel from her body as soon as he bedded her.
A groan sprung from him. Chantel...naked...
What color were her nipples? Did she have pink or sable curls between her legs? Would those emerald irises with their silver flecks go soft as he brought her to climax?
He pressed a hand to his aching length—wishing it was her hand.
With a growl, he blindly crammed something into the bag. What else, what else? This, this, and this. Yes, yes. This. Elderseed. He carefully set the large black brick-like object in the folds of a gown.
If someone mortally wounded Chantel anytime in the future, Kaysar now had the means to heal her right away.
What else? As he stalked across the chamber, the soles of his waterlogged boots squeaked. He should change into dry—Shoes. He’d almost forgotten. Where were the shoes?
He flittered to Eye’s bedroom, took a step forward, and paused. His seer lounged in a clawfoot tub before a blazing hearth, enfolded in a thick veil of steam. She’d piled her dark hair on her crown. In a reclined position, with her eyes closed, she presented a picture of total relaxation.
Envy scorched the cracks in his chest. “Give me your shoes,” he demanded.
Her eyelids popped open, and she screamed, scrambling to her feet. Water droplets slicked down her nakedness. Nakedness she attempted to cover with her hands before scrambling again, reaching for a towel.
He rolled his eyes. “You are of no interest to me in that regard.” Kaysar didn’t see people. He saw pawns and obstacles. “Where are your shoes?”
“Y-your majesty,” she sputtered. “How did you enter without—never mind. Now isn’t a good time for anything. You should leave. Please.”
He offered a cold laugh. “Aren’t you amusing today? Attempting to eject me from the bedroom I allow you to breathe in.”
Her fingers clenched on the edge of her towel. “Perhaps you should be nicer to me. I’ve had a vision about your princess.”
He acted without thought, flittering to her. So close the tips of their noses brushed together. “What did you see? Tell me.”
Words tripped from her tongue. “She is more than Lulundria. She is the skin she wears.”
He waited for her to say more. She didn’t. Confusion drew his brows together. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. I only sense this is similar to the heart issue. The skins are her, but they are also not her, both a part of her and separate from her, not yet fully formed.” She bent her head and rubbed her temple. “Chantel is still figuring herself out. She hasn’t chosen a path.”
“You speak nonsense.” Useless female. He moved away with a huff and shuffled through the room, searching for slippers, sandals or boots. In the closet, he found books. Hundreds of volumes stored in a private library.