Heartless (Immortal Enemies 1)

The leathers, then? She removed the pants and studied her eyes. Gray. Pants back on. Green.

Okay. So. Obviously the garment was responsible. But why the leathers and not the tunic? When she’d donned the top fresh from its pristine packaging, she’d undergone no changes. The pants were clean but used. Was that the difference?

What did this even mean? Would other used garments affect her appearance?

Wait. What if more than her appearance was affected? When she’d worn the boots, she’d developed that hard-on for jewels.

What happened if she mixed and matched her outfits?

Cookie donned her boots and called, “Kaysar?” They should have a conversation. She rushed out of the bathroom and skidded to a stop.

He sat at the bottom of the bed, fully dressed in a white tunic and black leathers. Their uniform? He wore it better, no doubt about it, gorgeous beyond imagining. In his hands dangled a pair of ugly but comfortable-looking slippers.

A kernel of sexual desire broke through her anxiety when he dropped the shoes on the bed and jumped to his feet, his big muscles flexing. He bowed up, preparing for battle, the gleam in his eyes as turbulent as the destruction around him.

He looked capable of any vile deed, and she...liked it.

“Someone dares threaten you?” He readied his claws. “Someone dies.”

She closed the distance to clutch his shirt as she explained what she’d witnessed. He evinced no confusion, only awe.

“I was right,” he said with a slow grin. “You are the skin you wear.”

Oookay. Cookie couldn’t look away as he traced his gaze over her form. She couldn’t catch her breath, either. “I don’t understand.” You are the skin you wear. Like, an avatar? “Explain to the rest of the class, if you please.”

He pinched a lock of her sable hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. “Tell me. Do you feel any different right now?”

Did she? “I don’t know. Why? Should I? Is this good or bad? Is this a fae thing?”

“Not a fae thing,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “A Chantel Cookie Bardot thing. I believe you’ll experience physical and emotional changes whenever you don clothing or shoes once owned by another.”

Was he right? Would she undergo more changes every time she, well, changed?

“I don’t want to be someone else,” she griped. She already contended with Lulundria. Throwing other people into the mix sounded like the perfect recipe for disaster.

Not yet ready to consider all the ramifications of this development, she switched her attention to a subject of equal importance. “What happened last night? Why did you Hangover our room?” She motioned to the damage to help him translate her meaning.

His features chilled and heated, the inconsistency bewildering. Perhaps even heartbreaking. He looked almost needy and lost. “Oh. That. I had a bit of an argument with myself. I won.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather luxuriate in my palace as your doormaking ability charges?”

“Positive.”

He pursed his lips and bent over to pick up the shoes he’d dropped. “These are for you.”

If ever he decided to share his reasons for tossing furniture, she’d listen. For now, she examined the gift. Thick rubber soles. Rounded toes. Plain. The fae equivalent of tennis shoes? Perfect for hiking.

“They have no jewels,” she remarked. “I’d rather wear the boots.”

He looked confused. “But the boots hurt your feet.”

“And they have jewels.” Comfort paled in the light of their beauty.

“Fascinating creature.” Amused, he dropped the shoes on the floor and offered his elbow to her. “Shall we break our fast and continue our journey?”

“We shall.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

KAYSAR LED CHANTEL through the Forest of Many Names once again. As they wound through a maze of bushes, nearing their destination, they remained quiet. She carried the satchel, straining under its weight after a mere two hours of hiking. Already she wheezed her breaths. Her much-needed rest and a hearty breakfast had done little to aid her stamina.

He didn’t feel guilty about her growing discomfort. Or the new rocks he’d slipped into the bag.

Last night, as he’d held her soft body in a tight clasp, clinging to her as if she were some kind of lifeline, he’d had to remind himself of his mission. Fury had consumed him, and he’d erupted.

Vengeance first. Her comfort wasn’t and would never be his objective, no matter his feelings on the matter—a decision he’d made and accepted, even as he’d demolished their room.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend the next weeks at my palace?” he asked for the hundredth time.

“Dude. Get the hint. No doormaker, no luxuriating.”

A flash of anger. Very well. She would suffer the consequences of her refusal.

As always, he forged ahead. Sunlight spotlighted their path, the sound of rushing water growing louder with each step. No sign of Jareth. Had the poor princeling run into trouble?