the class, if you please.”
He pinched a lock of her sable hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. “Tell me. Do you feel any different right now?”
Did she? “I don’t know. Why? Should I? Is this good or bad? Is this a fae thing?”
“Not a fae thing,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “A Chantel Cookie Bardot thing. I believe you’ll experience physical and emotional changes whenever you don clothing or shoes once owned by another.”
Was he right? Would she undergo more changes every time she, well, changed?
“I don’t want to be someone else,” she griped. She already contended with Lulundria. Throwing other people into the mix sounded like the perfect recipe for disaster.
Not yet ready to consider all the ramifications of this development, she switched her attention to a subject of equal importance. “What happened last night? Why did you Hangover our room?” She motioned to the damage to help him translate her meaning.
His features chilled and heated, the inconsistency bewildering. Perhaps even heartbreaking. He looked almost needy and lost. “Oh. That. I had a bit of an argument with myself. I won.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather luxuriate in my palace as your doormaking ability charges?”
“Positive.”
He pursed his lips and bent over to pick up the shoes he’d dropped. “These are for you.”
If ever he decided to share his reasons for tossing furniture, she’d listen. For now, she examined the gift. Thick rubber soles. Rounded toes. Plain. The fae equivalent of tennis shoes? Perfect for hiking.
“They have no jewels,” she remarked. “I’d rather wear the boots.”
He looked confused. “But the boots hurt your feet.”
“And they have jewels.” Comfort paled in the light of their beauty.
“Fascinating creature.” Amused, he dropped the shoes on the floor and offered his elbow to her. “Shall we break our fast and continue our journey?”
“We shall.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KAYSAR LED CHANTEL through the Forest of Many Names once again. As they wound through a maze of bushes, nearing their destination, they remained quiet. She carried the satchel, straining under its weight after a mere two hours of hiking. Already she wheezed her breaths. Her much-needed rest and a hearty breakfast had done little to aid her stamina.
He didn’t feel guilty about her growing discomfort. Or the new rocks he’d slipped into the bag.
Last night, as he’d held her soft body in a tight clasp, clinging to her as if she were some kind of lifeline, he’d had to remind himself of his mission. Fury had consumed him, and he’d erupted.
Vengeance first. Her comfort wasn’t and would never be his objective, no matter his feelings on the matter—a decision he’d made and accepted, even as he’d demolished their room.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend the next weeks at my palace?” he asked for the hundredth time.
“Dude. Get the hint. No doormaker, no luxuriating.”
A flash of anger. Very well. She would suffer the consequences of her refusal.
As always, he forged ahead. Sunlight spotlighted their path, the sound of rushing water growing louder with each step. No sign of Jareth. Had the poor princeling run into trouble?
Soft limbs and leaves brushed him, and Kaysar imagined grazing Chantel’s silken skin in such a way. He hissed with need. He must caress her.
So this is lust. Continual, desperate wanting. An inescapable needing. Insatiable, all-consuming hunger, capable of disrupting the best-laid plans. The sweetest, most excruciating battle he’d ever waged.
Had he been drifting through his life before this, only half-awake?
He scrubbed a hand over his face. He could have killed the princess a thousand different times this morning, and two thousand different ways last night. But she’d slept so peacefully, trusting him to see to her protection. He hadn’t wished to disturb her. In a mere handful of days, her life had been turned upside down and inside out. And yet she’d continued to find comfort with him.
He’d never wanted her to not find it.
He...liked her. If she had a problem, she complained about it, letting him know. He didn’t have to wonder or ask. Did she have any idea how refreshing that was? And her ability to transform into another because of her clothing—that, he thought he might love.
How he envied her. To become anyone, if only for a little while. To feel what they felt. To experience their greatest desires and later exploit them.
Wonderful. He was erect again. Obscenely so.
Thoughts of Chantel had hardened him again and again throughout the day. He’d been inundated with unfamiliar urges, requiring