Heartless (Immortal Enemies 1)

“Vines dragged me through a doorway, too.” In her fervor to learn more, she lost her reluctance and sidled closer. “The second I went through it, the stalks withered.”

Like a teacher to his student, he told her, “Because you are a doormaker. You open and close doorways into the mortal and fae worlds.”

“So I can go home?” Relief poured from her in great, sweeping waves, rousing a confusing tide of...something inside him. “I can go home!” She bounded the rest of the way and gripped his tunic. “How do I open a doorway? Do you know?”

He wished to respond, but his voice had ceased working, speaking suddenly an impossible task. His mind whirled with wild, unfettered thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp. Her body was flush with his. So warm. So soft. Breasts. Breasts were smashed against his chest. Plump ones.

Pleasure lashed him like a whip with a thousand tails, wrenching a groan from his innermost being. His shaft reacted with no prompting from his mind again, shooting iron-hard. The urge to rub against her was nearly impossible to resist.

“You can’t,” he rasped. He barely stopped himself from wrapping his arms around her. First he must temper this strange and unappreciated reaction to her. “The opening of a door always drains the maker. While you’re probably able to create vines, you won’t be strong enough to craft another door for weeks or months.”

Months. Hmm. He’d lived thousands of years, and he would live thousands more. How could he obtain lasting satisfaction through this woman’s connection to Jareth with so little time? And what if she failed to conceive before her ability recharged?

Other than chaining her, a temporary solution and a hindrance to his goal, he had no way to contain her.

“Are you a doormaker, too?” she asked.

Calm. Steady. “I am not. Few are.”

“Well, that’s just great,” she huffed, resting her forehead against his sternum. A pose born of dejection or a need for comfort? “A mandatory cooldown for an ability I didn’t know I had and didn’t mean to use.”

Cooldown? Yes. He should cool down. Should flitter out of reach and escape the heat generating between their bodies and shed the awful, wonderful things she continued to make him feel.

He wrapped an arm around her instead, holding on tight. The pangs he’d experienced earlier must have caused some sort of residual damage in his chest. Left cracks. Something. Because some long-buried instinct resurrected, rising to the surface. Need...more of...her. Must protect...

She lifted her head, and he knew. She hadn’t been dejected; she’d sought comfort from him. From him. “Well. No matter,” she said. “One down doesn’t mean all down, right?”

“Obviously,” he said, having no idea what she’d meant. Kaysar could not stop himself. He traced two claw tips gently over her cheeks and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, careful not to nick her skin. “Which of Lulundria’s plethora of abilities have you exhibited?”

Eager, she jumped up and down a little. “How many is a plethora?”

“I’m not sure. More than a dozen, less than a throng?” New urges fought for dominance. To hear her babble more nonsense. To deepen her excitement. To knead her softest places and see her eyes glaze. To push her against a tree and tear off those skintight pants. Things he’d never fantasized about doing to others.

How was she affecting him like this?

“Every fae has a glamara, their strongest ability,” he explained. “But some also travel great distances in seconds or mesmerize with a glance. Others cast illusions. And on and on and on the list goes.”

“You are fae.” Chantel retained her clasp on his tunic and searched his eyes without reservation. Most people averted their gaze within seconds, unwilling to stare into the abyss. A shame, he used to think. He’d paid a high cost for the seething pools of hatred, and he enjoyed showing them off. Now? He thought he might be unnerved. “What can you do?”

“More than a plethora.” He cupped her cheeks. “Say you’ll come with me to my home. I’ll see to your protection, I swear it.”

Her good humor faded. “I’m sorry, Kaysar, but I want to return to my home as soon as possible.” She extracted herself from his hold, and he could do nothing but let her. “I’d love it if you helped me find another doormaker, though.”

Help her return to the mortal world? No. She would come to his palace. Where she could leave anytime she desired, once she learned to flitter. Which she could do, long before she recharged her glamara.

He stroked a claw over his arm, grazing his skin. Map. Sister. Calm. “The evil prince will hunt you. He might hunt you even now, Chantel. And he’ll find you. All royals employ seers. Those who peer into the past, present and future. But I can hide you from him and his seer. Let me. I was too late to protect Lulundria, but I’m not too late to protect you.”