a lock of her hair between his fingers. “You are her. But how can you be? You are not her.”
He’d killed his own wife. What wouldn’t he do to Cookie? She punched him in the throat. Twice.
He wheezed as he gripped her shoulders. Oh, no, no, no. This wouldn’t do. With a snarl, she kneed his junk, hard. Shake that off, prince.
He hunched over, spittle spraying from his mouth. No hesitation. No risks, no rewards. She slammed the palm of her hand into his nose, his own momentum giving the blow more steam. He roared and released her, dropping to his knees.
Had the bones in her hand shattered on impact? Yes. Did pain and nausea roil up? Also yes. But she didn’t pause. He’d murdered her donor and now suffered a little of her hurt. Worth any agony.
“Let’s go, girls. Run,” she commanded, grabbing two of them by the dresses and shooting off.
Both women resisted. They even latched on to her wrists and forced her to stop...then they slowly dragged her in the opposite direction. Cookie grappled for purchase in the mud.
“Kaysar will understand, okay?” Rain blurred her vision, and she shook the droplets from her eyes. Tugging. Wiggling. Failing. “We’re not running from him. We’re running to safety. The Viking is a wife killer.”
A wife killer already straightening and refocusing on her, his eyes narrowed.
Fear and fury rammed together, heat collecting in Cookie’s arms. Vines licked out and rolled back in, whipping her captors before vanishing. Both women yelped and released her, falling.
A lash of soft leaves caused so much pain, they lost their hold on the prize? Seriously?
A living bullet, Cookie sprinted toward the trees. Mud puddles splashed at her feet.
“Noooo,” the Viking shouted. “Do not hurt her.”
A stampede sounded behind her. Had her guards given chase?
A quick look back—argh! A hard weight slammed into her, throwing her face-first into the ground. For the second time that day, she ate a mouthful of dirt. Air exploded from her lungs, and stars winked over her eyes as the women dog-piled her.
“Lulu, please,” the Viking called, running over.
“That’s not my name,” Cookie grated, squirming and fighting. The rain helped, slickening her skin. Yes! Freedom. She came to her feet and sprinted off once more, barely dodging the Viking’s clasp.
Her tasks crystalized. Get to safety. Find Kaysar.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THIS MUST BE my origin story. A real-life hero quest or whatever.
Cookie hated hero quests. She mumbled under her breath as she tripped through the forest of pain. Her fight-or-flight response remained in high gear, whipping her blood into fuel. Not that it did her much good. The numerous gashes on her feet left trails of crimson for any would-be detective to follow.
She’d fled from the prince, her donor’s abusive ex, what? Twenty-four hours ago? A thousand years? He’d given chase. Because of course he had. Somehow, she’d managed to evade him throughout the night and survive the freezing wet. She’d even evaded him throughout the morning. Now afternoon sun streamed through a colorful canopy of leaves, spotlighting her every move.
How much longer could she go on? The rain she’d lamented, she now missed. So thirsty. She still hadn’t eaten, her empty stomach protesting. Her clothes had dried, but they were stiff and dirty. Itchy.
She’d lost count of the trolls and ogres she’d stumbled upon. They’d reacted like the others, snorting and pawing, ready to charge, only to let her pass without incident. With the exception of one. That particular ogre had barreled over and pinned her against a tree trunk, his beefy hands caging her in as he huffed and puffed his big, bad breath all over her face. But in the end, he, too, had let her pass. The whole lot of them had done the same thing to the evil prince. She’d doubled back a time or two, hoping to witness his comeuppance.
Why hadn’t Kaysar found her yet? Were fae males like humans? Had he already given up on Lulundria, the woman he supposedly craved? Well, good riddance. Cookie didn’t need him. No matter how much she’d once thought otherwise. She wasn’t the damsel in distress or the princess in need, as he believed. She had skills. Good ones. And she would remember what they were as soon as she unearthed a safe—semi-safe—halfway decent spot to rest.
Which direction to go? To the left, trees, bushes and flowers flourished, a breeding ground for pixies. To the right, shadows ghosted over gnarled limbs that were littered with thorns.