“You misunderstand what you remember, princess.” Jareth glared at Kaysar, his blue eyes frosty. He cast his next words to Chantel. “I would never purposely hurt you.”
“Go spin your lies somewhere else,” she snapped, and Kaysar reached for the lock of hair he’d transferred to the pocket of his new pants.
“I would never purposely hurt you,” Jareth repeated. “But the king would. He arranged Lulundria’s suffering, pushing her into my ice.”
Kaysar could have stopped the prince. He could even refute the male’s claim with more carefully spun truths. And Chantel would probably believe him. For a time. Instead, he remained quiet. Let’s get this over with.
If Chantel fled him, he would...he...didn’t know. For the first time in too many years to calculate, he didn’t have a next move.
Aiming the tip of his sword in Kaysar’s direction, Jareth bellowed at Chantel, “The king is a madman. You realize this, yes? He looks at maps that aren’t there. And his song.” He shuddered. “You’ll believe your head is about to explode. You’ll pray it does. He kills without mercy and attacks the Winterlands on a whim. His evil knows no bounds.” He swung his gaze to Kaysar once more. “Deny it, your majesty. Lie to her.”
Kaysar was many things, but he was not a liar or a coward. “I deny nothing. Yes, I pushed Lulundria into the path of your ice. No, I didn’t care that she was injured. Actually, that isn’t the full truth. I required her pain. I planned to heal her immediately afterward, becoming her hero. She would have fallen straight into my bed. But she fled me.”
“You did what?” Chantel dug her claws into his back.
In a secret part of him, he perceived the tiniest flicker of shame. And he resented it. He had done nothing that hadn’t been done to him. “If you consider the variables, this is actually an extension of the crime you’ve already almost forgiven me for. Therefore...”
Despite his logic, her anger persisted. “Obviously, our partnership is over. For good and for real this time.”
He silenced a denial. Breathe in. Out. He’d done her wrong. He’d admitted it. Now he owed her more than an apology. He should offer some kind of appeasement. Yes, yes. What could it hurt?
But what was he to offer? The last female he’d attempted to appease was Viori. “I... I’ll do better from now on. I’ll try, at least. No one will ever try harder. I’ll give you more jewelry. A sea of it.”
“Good for you, but no, thanks. Scratch my name off your roster. You go after innocent bystanders. That means you’re no better than the one who hurt you.”
Was she right? Was she wrong? He didn’t know! “What if I limit my targets from now on?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”
Different impulses warred. Face her. Pin her against the rock wall. Touch her hair. Touch all of her. Kiss her until she forgot what he’d done. Beg for another chance. Just one more.
Who am I? Kaysar de Aoibheall did not beg for anything. Ever. But he had promised to be better for her, and he always kept his word.
“Come to me, Chantel,” the prince called, extending a hand in her direction. “Let me take you from this awful place.”
Kaysar glared at the prince, telling Chantel, “You wonder why I target him, sweetling? Allow me to share.” To Jareth’s credit, he held Kaysar’s stare, even as he flinched, because he knew what was coming. “Lulundria’s darling Jareth once watched with a smile as his father cut out my tongue. I was only twelve at the time. Too young to heal from such a severe injury.”
Chantel gasped with horror.
“I grew a new one only because of my glamara.”
He couldn’t see her face, and she didn’t retract her claws, but her expression must have softened, because Jareth shouted, “You’re wavering?”
“Maybe? I don’t know, okay?” she retorted, and Kaysar’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “It didn’t happen to me, but I want to punish you for your reaction.”
Kaysar floundered, some unknown emotion ravaging him. This woman...
Jareth tried again. “He made you think your own husband was a monster out to kill you.”
“Tsk-tsk. You know there’s more to the story, Jareth.” Chiding tone. Deepening rage. Unwavering determination. Chantel deserved to know everything. “You witnessed your father and your uncle locking me in the tower after the removal of my tongue. Did you know they took me from my five-year-old sister, leaving her without a protector?” His voice hardened, and