Eye’s words played inside his head. Lulundria had died and...this girl had eaten her heart, somehow becoming the fae princess? No. Wrong. The centaur did not become the royals they ate.
Could she be another Summer Court princess?
No again. He sensed Lulundria.
Had she worn a magical illusion before? It was possible. Some fae possessed such an ability.
“You don’t want her,” Race said, then forced a laugh. He rubbed the reddened marks littering his chest. “She bites.”
Even better. “Give her to me.” No longer could he mask his eagerness, the words spilling from him. “I want her. She’s mine.”
Tone hardening, Race told him, “Ask anything else of me. But the girl, I keep.”
Did the centaur realize he’d rested a hand on the hilt of his sword?
Around them, soldiers stiffened. The males might not wish to challenge the King of the Nightlands, but they’d obey their leader. They wanted what he wanted, after all. A couple bites of the girl, ensuring their eternal life.
New sparks of rage ignited, burning through Kaysar. “You may be the son of an emperor, but you inhabit the Nightlands. My lands. Have you forgotten my rule?”
Race bristled but gritted out, “I have not.”
“Say it. Tell me the rule.”
The centaur heaved every breath. An attempt to control his temper? “Do not unsheathe a weapon in Kaysar’s vicinity unless we plan to kill him,” he said, pushing the words through clenched teeth.
“That’s right. So, you will remove your hand from your sword and gift me with the girl, or I will kill you and every member of your hunting party. I might turn my sights to your families next.” Kaysar did not threaten. He vowed. “Decide. Now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DARK-HAIRED HOTTIE from Cookie’s vision! He was here, he was real, and he was horrifying. Beautiful and terrible at once, with a threatening glint in his eyes. An angel merged with a devil, both haunting and haunted.
He would look super-hot in a mug shot.
In her vision, she’d compared those dark eyes to iced whiskey. In person, they were set ablaze. Before, he’d had scruff on his jaw. Now, he had a full beard. He was even taller than she’d realized. At least six and a half feet of pure warrior, with the most sublime muscle mass.
Two elaborately detailed swords crossed at his nape, precious gems glistening from the hilts. The kind of weapons she utilized in the video game.
A white shirt molded to a broad chest, veeing at the collar to reveal a dusting of black hair and a hint of tattoos. Lines and dots. Torn leather pants stretched over powerful thighs, the ends tucked into scuffed combat boots. Metal claws tipped his fingers. He wore half a dozen rings topped by...teeth?
If anyone could pull off an impossible win against the centaurs, it was this man. Especially considering he owned the land. Home court advantage, baby. Talk about the perfect ally for a fish out of water. But what did he plan to do with her after the battle? Anytime he glanced her way, he lit up like a little kid at Christmas, eager to tear the heads off his new toys.
Christmas...home... Will I ever see my family again?
Poor Pearl Jean. Poor Sugars. They didn’t know what had happened to her, where she was, or even if she even lived. How lost they must be.
What are you doing, lamenting? The game isn’t over. Fight!
Cookie’s top priority had stamped itself in her brain—get home by any means necessary. If she had to defeat an army, she’d defeat an army. If she had to kill, she’d kill. Without question. She used to practice stabbing people. The motions, only the motions. And only to gain a better understanding of her avatar. But...
In a deep, secret part of her, she’d maybe kinda sorta...enjoyed it. That same deep, secret part of her yearned to kill her captors and leave their corpses rotting on the ground. An hour ago, Cookie had awoken like this, tethered and engulfed by the scent of horses and sweat as she dangled from a pole. The constant pressure inflamed the joints in her shoulders, ankles and hips. Her body screamed protests. Ants and other abominations crawled all over her, making her itch. If she could have peeled off every layer of her skin, she’d be nothing but raw muscle right now.
The centaurs had trussed her up into the perfect appetizer for any outdoor barbecue, planning to feast on her all-you-can-eat-buffet-style.
Hope you taste as sweet as you look, girlie. Soon you’ll roast on a spit, and I’ll pick your bones clean.
The earlier taunt echoed, sparking fury. As the horsemen had carted her through Nightmare Candyland, they’d speculated about the spices to use on her charred remains. They’d discussed owning nymphs as pets and claiming mortals as servants. She’d flowed from hysteria, to rage, to game mode, doing her best to think of an escape.