He should be careful, that was all. Grant her a certain amount of his time, energy and thoughts each day, but no more, and never before he contemplated another way to harm the Frostlines. See? Absolutely sustainable.
Kaysar stared at the throne room doors, willing them to open. Which gown had Chantel selected for the day? The dark queen or the gentle shepherdess? Would she wear his claws?
He’d never given gifts to a lover before. Or a friend. He’d never given anything to anyone except his family. And he’d never had a friend. But to those he’d once loved and respected, he’d presented songs.
His chest clenched as memories surfaced. He remembered how his mother used to close her eyes and hum along, just as Cookie had done. His father, a gruff farmer, had often attempted to secretly wipe a tear away mid-chorus. Anytime Kaysar had sung Viori a lullaby, she’d told him she loved him.
If he and Chantel ever decided to have a child—
He stiffened, gripping the arms of the throne overly tight. No children to further the Frostline legacy. Ever. No further thought needed on the subject.
Kaysar tapped his foot, faster and faster. To distract himself, he cast his gaze about the room. As she recovered, he’d ordered this space filled with things he hoped she’d like. What would Chantel think of the end result? Velvet chairs provided spots of color. Side tables displayed crystal vases overflowing with fresh flowers. He’d relocated tapestries and paintings from the royal treasury; they now covered the walls.
On the battlefield, he’d learned how much environment mattered. Opulence invited wonder and awe.
Why had she not arrived? He shook the ice in his third glass of sweetened lemon juice. A treat he’d only recently discovered. Oh, he’d consumed it before, but it had been as bland as everything else. The past few days, his taste buds had come alive.
Would Chantel be amenable to letting him pour the juice over her body and licking up the droplets?
He readjusted his hard-on.
“Did you bed my wife?” Jareth grated from a few feet away.
The second he’d assured Chantel’s safety, Kaysar had shackled the prince to the edge of the royal dais, using an unbreakable chain mystically enforced, preventing flittering. He planned to torture the prince at his earliest convenience; he simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet, his mind too chaotic.
“What I do with my mistress is none of your concern.” The deceptively easy tone said what he did not: You skate perilously close to the edge, Frostline. Boast about the private things he did to Chantel? The world-changing things she did to him? He’d rather cut out his own tongue. Her passion belonged to him and him alone, and he would not share it, even in conversation.
A tug-of-war raged within him. He didn’t like that Chantel was bound to Jareth, even by association. The only way to sever their tie, however, was to kill Jareth. But. Kaysar wasn’t ready to cease tormenting the prince. On the other hand, he wanted Chantel free now.
The prince stood tall, seemingly unconcerned by the diamond collar that anchored him to the thick link of chain. He bared his teeth and fisted his hands. “In your own way, you care about her. I see that now. So why aren’t you more alarmed about the horrors you’re visiting upon the girl? The bleak future you’ve arranged? With you, she becomes more and more evil. You know that, yes? You are ruining her.”
Kaysar sipped his juice as if it were a fine wine. “You wish to give her what you want. I give her what she wants. Learn the difference, and maybe you’ll manage to keep your second wife.”
After much internal debate, he’d decided to allow Jareth to train Chantel in the art of doormaking, teaching her everything he’d learned at Lulundria’s side.
Kaysar worried the prince meant to trick Chantel into recalling him. He almost hoped the Frostline tried. Part of him needed her to remember as soon as possible. Then he would know the obstacles he must hurdle. The foreboding would go away and the wondering would stop. He could act, fixing things.
If she fell back in love with Lulundria’s husband...
He recoiled at the thought. No. She wouldn’t. She was strong. Very strong. Her emotions would remain her own. Forever.
Jareth sprinted for Kaysar, but the chain pulled taut, stopping him before he ever reached the throne. Having regrown his hand, he pointed an accusing finger at Kaysar. “You sit there with no regard for