Heartless (Immortal Enemies 1)

Asking more questions about the realm might work as a distraction from whatever bothered him. Or heat his temper another fifty degrees. Totally depended on which side of his personality responded. The besotted stalker or the surly king.

The truly sad thing? She was attracted to both.

Whatever his mood, he remained strong and capable. A fallen tree in the way? No problem. He tossed it aside. Nothing deterred him from anything he decided to do, and nothing frightened him. No, he deterred and frightened everyone else. The guy had cut her hair and saved a lock as a keepsake. She’d noticed the dark strands sticking out of his pocket. Any fae, ogre or troll they came across paled before fleeing at top speed.

Each time it happened, she’d gone all ooey gooey inside, feeling like a silly schoolgirl with a crush.

“Ow!” A limb grazed her shoulder, slicing her shirt and drawing blood. When she hopped to the side, she stepped on a rock, and her poor feet seemed to swell in her boots. Then another limb sliced her. And another. Ugh! She hated this world. Hated feeling helpless and lost, not knowing up from down. Mostly she hated hiking and everything and everyone everywhere. And she wasn’t being dramatic right now. They all deserved it.

“Worst fantasy resort ever,” she grumbled. “One star.” The review for her guide might not be any better. Not once did he do what she secretly wanted and carry her.

He walked faster, making her walk faster.

As they trudged up another hill, her lungs cooked to well-done. Her thighs cooked. All of her cooked. “I’m never joining a gym. After this, I’m never exercising another day in my life.”

Jumping over a thick tree root, she whimpered. When she skirted a cluster of snapping flowers, the satchel slammed into her side, and she winced. Stupid bag! What was she lugging around, anyway? Anytime she reached for the tie, Kaysar—

“Do you enjoy going nowhere?” he snapped, increasing his pace.

That. He prevented her from finishing the task and pushed onward. So frustrating, but probably for the best. If she dropped an item, she lost it forever, guaranteed. The king pausing to allow his lowly partner to collect it? Please. But oh, she wasn’t sure she possessed the stamina to go much farther. Lack of food and water had taken their toll. Utter fatigue ruled.

Crush? Dwindling fast.

“What?” Kaysar said, pivoting to wag a finger at her face. “What is this look? We’re doing as you demanded. Where are your smiles? Your thanks?”

He actually wondered why she lacked smiles? Her nerves frayed beyond repair. “Are you referring to my Resting Serial Killer Face? Because I’m nearing a snap, and I’m not sure there will be survivors. Slow down a little.”

“You are the one so desperate to find a doormaker, Chantel,” he chided, as if she needed another reminder.

To her astonishment, he slowed to an amble before acknowledging her silent pleas and sweeping her into his arms. He redistributed the weight of the satchel, taking the burden upon himself.

“You’re so strong.” Cookie snuggled closer, molding her body to his.

“The strongest,” he said, as if her praise mollified whatever had angered him.

Her animosity seeped away. Mmm. He smelled so good. Though she’d lamented the heat only moments ago, she reveled in it now. His warmth delighted her.

She opened her mouth to ask him a personal question. She knew so little about him, and curiosity was a thorn in her side. Before a single word escaped, she clinked her teeth shut. Nope. No antagonizing her guide when he’d only just begun to carry her.

There were only two directions that kind of conversation could go.

Scenario #1

Cookie: Asks the question.

Kaysar: Snaps at her for daring to ask and puts her back on her feet.

Scenario #2

Cookie: Asks the question.

Kaysar: Refuses to answer and puts her back on her feet.

Besides, the moment she inquired, he would learn he possessed knowledge she wanted. Personal knowledge. He could use it against her. No, thanks. Already she relied on him more than she wished to admit.

Just get home.

“Do you have nothing else to ask me?” he demanded, getting worked up again.

“Well, yes,” she said, testing the waters. If he was amenable, she’d asked him a non-personal question.

His breath hitched. With eagerness? “Ask, Chantel.”

“If the fae are immortal, how did Lulundria die from her wounds? I mean, my powers came from her, and I healed a broken bone in minutes.”

He grated, “Immortality doesn’t mean we live forever. It just means our bodies generally regenerate faster than they die. However, some injuries are too severe and heal too slowly.”

He ducked under a long branch without a hitch in his stride, keeping her secure in his arms. As he straightened, the temperature dropped. Noises changed, too. Rushing water drowned out chirps, croaks and buzzes, though she saw no sign of a river. Even the atmosphere changed, the air electric, as if another storm brewed.