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  “There is no more perfect creature.” Kaysar grazed the shell of her ear with a metal claw.

  She preened for him, because she couldn’t not. When she released the vines, the stalks withered to ash, but a sweet scent remained.

  The arrows plummeted into the chasm, useless, and the soldiers took a collective step back, one word rising from their ranks. “Poisonvine.”

  “My turn to attack.” She smiled her sweetest smile at Micah—and produced hundreds more vines.

  * * *

  SOME MOMENTS FOREVER altered your existence. This was one such time for Kaysar. He knew it, sensed it. And he wasn’t sorry.

  For the whole of his life, he’d considered himself incapable of passion. He’d lauded the inability. But it hadn’t taken Chantel long to coax his deepest desires from hiding. Now, Kaysar stood transfixed, desperate to worship at the feet of the hauntingly beautiful princess who had turned his world upside down.

  In her sexy pink dress and jewels, wielding her gift and poison, Chantel was every dream he’d never known he possessed. Wise. Discerning. Fierce. His doll to dress up and play with. His sweetest weapon. The war prize he deserved for surviving a year of agony and a hundred lifetimes of misery. His mate.

  She was. He knew that, too, all questions assuaged. The knowledge lit him up, pride infusing his spine. Fate had selected this warrior woman for him and him alone. Eye had predicted it. Whatever Chantel’s last name was, she belonged to Kaysar. He had decided.

  He dared anyone to contradict him.

  More and more vines flourished from the princess’s delicate, bejeweled hands. Those thorny stalks matured fast and bred others, splitting here, there, everywhere. Each end sharpened as it uncoiled and slithered.

  Rule my lands, Micah? Think again. So Kaysar had been absent from the Dusklands longer than he’d believed. So what?

  The false king’s soldiers panicked as the vines descended, a row of archers unleashing another volley. Once again, Chantel stopped the assault midair. Vines grew over the chasm... Chaos reigned, centaurs rearing, dumping their riders. Men retreated, but they were slow, weighed down by their armor.

  Within seconds, Chantel constructed a wide, sturdy bridge, connecting the cliff to the flatlands. Still her vines grew, coiling around the first line of soldiers—and squeezing. Armor crunched, caving in, and blood gushed from every metal joint.

  She laughed, the sound of it lovelier than Prince Lark’s screams for mercy. “Do you see, Kaysar? I made fae in a can. Chicken of the siege.”

  Hair swaying in the breeze. Irises like mercury and gleaming. Skin aglow. She was more radiant than the sun, her every motion a study of grace and elegance. Rosy color painted her cheeks as red and pink flowers bloomed from her vines.

  A vessel of vengeance and woe.

  He had no defenses against her. Desire burned him. Scorched him—branded him. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.

  I will give her jewels. All the jewels. He would give her everything. Just as he’d promised. But he would expect everything from her, too. Her loyalty. Her devotion. Her presence. She would stay with him always.

  Supply Jareth with one of her children? One of mine? No. Kaysar devised a new plan. He and Chantel would have no children. Since the citizens of Astaria considered her a Frostline for the rest of eternity, the name would die when he tired of tormenting Hador and Jareth.

  An acceptable outcome.

  Chantel would support his agenda, of course. Look at her. His Briar Rose, the embodiment of destruction and the most breathtaking sight in all the lands.

  “Do you happen to know if Micah has been slain yet, sweetling?” he asked, curious. Soon, the battle would end, a vast majority of the army annihilated as easily as breathing.

  “I’m not sure.” Her pout only kindled his desires. “I lost sight of him fifty or so deaths ago.”

  The unseated men shouted as they ran. Other warriors stayed to fight, stabbing and hacking at the poisonous stalks. Venom leaked from the punctures, rendering many of the fighters immobile.

  Arrows flew at random, embedding in different parts of the vines. Kaysar scowled when Chantel winced. She felt each strike?

  Pain fanned her eyes with the next volley, a bead of sweat trickling from her temple. Her shoulders hunched ever so slightly.

  She did. This was unacceptable.

  You know what you must do.

  Oh, he did. But he hesitated, unsure. For centuries, he’d used his song as a weapon to cause madness and death. He hadn’t attempted to heal anyone but himself since Viori’s loss.

  He sank his claws into his palms. Emotions mattered, affecting tone. If he caused Chantel a moment of agony or furthered her injuries...

  He took an honest look inside his heart. What emotions currently seethed there? Fury, yes. Always. Hatred? Malice? Bitterness? All were present and accounted for. But beneath them, he thought he sensed...affection? A well of it. More than he was comfortable carrying for someone—anyone.

  Could he utilize it? Should he?

  More arrows plugged her vines, and she mewled. Some of her strength dwindled. Kaysar stopped musing, his answer suddenly clear. Yes, he should.

  He moved behind her and clasped her waist. Will never get enough of these curves. Concentrating on the affection wasn’t as difficult as expected. As his throat heated, he placed his mouth at her ear.

  The heat built...and he released the first note of his song.

  Chantel’s eyes hooded as he crooned to her. Even as she wielded her vines, she leaned against him, swaying from side to side. She began to sing along. “Death has come for you. And you. And you. Hmm-hmm. You can run, but you can’t hide. My vines pursue.”

  She gives words to my melody? Satisfaction slaked some previously unknown desire. Was there nothing this treasure of a female couldn’t do?

  The louder he sang, the faster her vines bred. More and more thorns emerged, protruding from the stalks, cutting through armor as easily as a knife through butter.

  Having a partner might be...nice.

  “Stop.” Features scrunched with agony, Jareth crumpled into a fetal ball. He pressed one ear to the ground and covered the other ear with his remaining hand. Blood ran between his fingers. “You have to stop.”

  The prince reacted this way, despite Kaysar’s affectionate tone?

  Ever better. Kaysar didn’t stop until the soldiers got the message—attack Chantel and her vines in any way and you would die worse than your comrades.

  “Let us cross the bridge, sweetling,” he told Chantel, a plan forming as the numbers thinned. Get to the other side. Make their way to the mountain fortress. Reclaim his crown. Figure everything else out. “Jareth, you’ll accompany us, of course.” The prince was stubborn, certain to follow no matter what. Kaysar wasn’t ready to divide his focus between two enemies while his female remained out in the open. He also didn’t trust Micah around Jareth. If the would-be king were to kill the prince, what of Kaysar’s vengeance then?

  Jareth unrolled and lumbered to his feet. A bull contemplating a charge, he glared at Kaysar. “She’ll remember being my Lulundria. She’ll not remain this abomination.”

  His hands balled into fists, the need to strike escalating. Abomination? When there was no female more perfect?

  But what if Chantel felt the same way as Jareth tomorrow, when the elderseed wore off? What if she awoke and regretted the slaughter of this army? Would she blame Kaysar for her actions? He’d fed her the elderseed and encouraged her kills.

  And what if she remembered Lulundria’s past sooner rather than later, as Jareth taunted? What if she fell for the prince all over again? What would Kaysar do then?

  He’d wondered before. He worried now.

  Unsheathing a dagger, he snapped, “Keep up, prince, or I’ll remove your feet and carry you over my shoulder.” He placed his em
pty hand on Chantel’s lower back, urging her toward the bridge.

  A good little puppy, Jareth trailed after them with loathing in his eyes.

  Micah must have escaped the field of destruction. There was no sign of his armorless body as they passed the first, second and third lines of corpses. No sign of the male’s centaur or interpreter, either.

  A soldier leaped over a thick, slithering vine and charged the princess. Kaysar spun in front of her, shielding her. With sadistic glee, he minced the attacker’s breastplate. Metal sparked against metal, the male losing his footing. Kaysar shoved a dagger through a gap in the armor. Dead.

  Two other soldiers approached from the opposite side, their swords already swinging at Chantel. Despite Jareth’s injuries, the prince reacted with halfway decent reflexes, stopping the pair.

  More soldiers came. The number of kills stacked up as their little trio moved forward once more.

  Doing battle alongside a Frostline. How novel. Jareth’s wounds didn’t affect his skills—skills he’d never displayed with Kaysar. The prince’s reflexes were faster and more fluid than usual.

  Had he hesitated during their private skirmishes?

  The mere possibility boiled Kaysar’s blood. He deserved to pit his best against his foe’s. For someone to pull their punches... An unforgivable insult.

  Kaysar slashed another soldier. He blocked, spun and ducked whenever needed, always advancing while guarding Chantel as needed.

  Felling enemy after enemy, he adopted a rhythm. Calm came when he realized a wonderful truth. Chantel was witnessing his ability to protect her. His ferocity. When the elderseed wore off, her desire for him might be stronger than ever. Why fear Lulundria’s affections for the prince?

  Strike. Slash. Duck. Kaysar’s gaze returned to Chantel again and again, her pull too powerful to deny. A beauty assured of her power. My beauty. Her hips swayed seductively, her steps sure, her posture steadfast.

  She kept her arms extended, even when her stalks reached full maturity, attached to her hands by a mystical connection rather than a physical one. Golden smoke swirled around her fingers.

  “The survivors are running away,” she pouted. “I sense their movements through the vines.”

  “That’s a wonderful thing, sweetling. Now we have targets for later.”

  “Well. I doubt there’s ever been a better silver lining,” she said, brightening. “There will always be another bad guy to crush.”

  “And claw.”

  The prince spit a mouthful of blood at Kaysar. “You rejoice over the death of innocents?”

  Innocents? “They attacked your ex-bride, hoping to kill her, Jareth.” He slew a soldier hiding in the shadows. “This is more than deserved.”

  A choking noise drew his attention back to the Frostline. Kaysar stopped and blinked. Chantel stood before the male, her vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles, stretching his limbs past comfortability as he dangled in the air. A vein bulged in his forehead. Though he struggled, he couldn’t free himself.

  “We saved your life and you dare complain?” she asked quietly. Her eyes were molten, the light around her fingers brighter.

  Kaysar flittered—no, he stalked, only then remembering the ability to teleport was negated in the Dusklands. “He isn’t yours to kill, Chantel.” She was his mate, yes, but his priorities had not changed. Vengeance first, Chantel second. Best she learn and accept. “You will release him.”

  “I won’t.” Her attention remained fastened on Jareth. “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Release him,” he repeated, the command firm. “I won’t tell you again.” But what could he do to her, if she failed to comply? His instincts shouted louder and louder. Protect. “Please? For me?”

  “Fine.” Huffing, she stepped back and released her hold. Kaysar breathed a sigh of relief. “But only for you, and only because you’re so sexy when you’re angry.”

  She found his anger sexy?

  Without the strength of the vines to hold him up, Jareth smacked into the ground. He attempted to catch himself, an instinctive action, but he only injured his mutilated arm further. His bellow of agony filled Kaysar’s ears with a melody as sweet as ever. “You think...I wasn’t...as much a victim...as you were?” He threw the words at Kaysar between panting breaths. “I assure you. I was.”

  A victim? Hardly. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed as your uncle decapitated a servant girl and batted her head like a child’s ball, Jareth.” But even as he spoke, dismay chilled Kaysar’s nape. What if the prince had spoken tr—No. No! Frostlines lied. That’s what they did. They were deceivers by nature, willing to do anything to hide their crimes. “Not another word from you, or I’ll add your tongue to my collection.”

  Torment stripped the prince of civility. “I’m sorry for the abuse you endured at the hands of my family. I hate what happened to you. But what do you think happened to me when I didn’t go along?”

  Rage iced his chest. “So you exchanged your misery for mine? Today you dare seek my mercy?” Something he did not possess.

  “Kaysar?” Chantel asked, her voice reedy.

  Something was off. He whipped to her side. “What’s wrong? Tell me.” If he knew, he could fix it. He must fix it.

  “I feel funny.” Her cheeks were pallid. She blinked rapidly, as if to stave off dizziness. “Weakening fast...so tired.”

  Ah. The elderseed was wearing off. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, sweetling.” He draped an arm around her waist, holding her up. “Release the vines and cleave to me. I’ll take care of you. I will let nothing harm you.”

  Her gaze searched his before her lids sank over her eyes. Resting her head on his shoulder, she breathed, “Promise?”

  “You are mine, and I take care of what’s mine. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s nice to be wanted.” She obeyed at last, wrapping her arms around him. Foliage withered as her body went limp against his.

  Sleep had claimed her.

  He swept her up, clutching her slight weight against his chest. This felt...right.

  Jareth hadn’t attempted to rise yet. He panted, “She isn’t yours.”

  “She wasn’t.” Kaysar grinned with staggering satisfaction. “But she is now.” He would be securing her agreement posthaste. When in trouble, she’d turned to him.

  “You’re a monster, and you’re going to ruin her. You know that, yes? Do you even care? She’s already poison—because of you.”

  Ruin her? When he planned to give her the world? Kaysar laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I am merely what your family made me, Jareth. You know that, yes?” He resumed his journey to the mountains, done with the conversation. For once, he had something more important to do than torment a Frostline.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “TIME TO WAKE UP, sweetling. You’ve slept long enough, and we have much to discuss.”

  The sexy voice roused Cookie from a deep, sublime sleep. “Just ten more minutes,” she muttered. “Fifteen if you have a heart.”

  A heavy sigh greeted her words. “Once again, it seems I can deny you nothing. Sleep, then. And sleep well.” Sexy Voice hummed the most beautiful song, and she slipped into the darkness...

  However long later, the barest shaft of light pierced the fog that encompassed her mind. She tried to blink open her eyes, but her lids remained glued shut. Oh, well. She rolled to her side, getting more comfortable. Huh. Her memory foam had amnesia.

  “You’ve been sleeping for three days, Chantel. An endless eternity.” Sexy Voice had returned. The bed dipped, as if he stretched out beside her. “I have so much to tell you. So much has changed.” His tone effortlessly glided from firm to irritated.

  She’d taken a three-day snooze?

  “I insist you wake, Chantel. Micah has destroyed my playground. The goblins are missing, and the lack has encouraged people to move here
. Willingly. He’s made the Dusklands habitable. The outrage of it all!” The bed shook, as if he’d shuddered. “I suppose there are a few welcome developments. I’m able to flitter in and out of the palace. Which I sacked. Jareth is my prisoner, of course.” A weighty pause left her suspended. What would he tell her next? “Do you hate me now? Do you hate yourself?”

  I know him. Who... Lights switched on in her mind. Memories crystalized, and she let them. “Kaysar,” she breathed.

  She recalled his betrayal. Learning about his tragic past and the Frostlines who’d held him captive. She remembered the sweetness of his lips. The elderseed. Unleashing her vines and—Whoa. Her body jerked, as if shocked by a live wire. She’d killed. She’d killed a lot. Now, Kaysar feared she blamed him, hated him, for encouraging her to do it?

  Did she? She thought... No. How could she? Miss Murder Curious had enjoyed every minute and scream. Every death. And hate herself? No again. Anyone who endangered her or her loved ones—er, or rather, her companions, whoever they happened to be—earned a bad end. But...

  A part of her feared what she was becoming. Because there was no going back. That, she knew.

  Cool metal glided along her cheekbone, sending warm shivers cascading over her. “You don’t mean to tempt me to distraction, do you, sweetling? You just do.”

  Sexy voice, sexy words—very sexy man. Lust welled, as if it had only waited on the sidelines. She longed to touch her dark king, to be touched by him, but she couldn’t open her eyes. Her lids were too heavy.

  Though she fought, she failed. The fog in her mind only thickened, snuffing out the lights. All too soon, she drifted back to sleep...

  However long later, Cookie’s eyelids popped open. She blinked into focus, lights switching on in her mind once again. How much time had passed since—“Kaysar!” She jolted upright, various candles flaming to life.

  Heart like an anvil, she surveyed her surroundings. A spacious bedroom straight out of a fairy tale, with marble walls, wispy white curtains that draped a massive bay window with colorful stained glass, and elaborate gold furnishings. Across the way, a crackling hearth blazed with cerulean flames, seeming to burn sapphire bricks. The opulence shocked her.