The Mad King (The Dark Kings #1)(72)

He dropped her hand. “But I am mad, Alice,” he muttered, and the ease they’d shared just seconds ago vanished.

The air thickened with tension, and even though he stood right next to her, it was like a wall had suddenly slammed up between them. If he had fangs, he’d be growling.

What had she done now? His moods were as random as trade winds. Up and then down. Hot and then cold. For a second she’d thought he wanted her here. Maybe she’d been wrong.

Her stomach rumbled, a loud sonorous boom in the stillness. He turned and walked into another room, leaving her to wonder whether to stay or follow.

A second later, he came marching back in holding a golden-brown bun in his hand. “Here.” He tossed it at her. “Eat something. You’re too skinny. Like all the rest of them.”

She caught the yeasty projectile. It was sticky and warm. It smelled so good, and she was so hungry. Rest of them, who? She was curious and even recognized a hot tendril of jealousy spark through her veins despite her resolve not to care that other women had obviously tramped through his home. But she wouldn’t ask. It was the Hu pride.

He was hot one second, cold the next. It aggravated her because she wanted to like him, wanted to see him as she’d seen him before. And just when she thought maybe she’d been wrong about him in the beginning, he did something to make her doubt her memories of him all over again. The man was just like Wonderland, always throwing her off-balance.

She tore into the bread with her teeth. It’s not like she’d asked to come here. Tabby was right; she was sick in the head to be so turned on by him.

“Come on.” He turned and walked off.

“Come on. Come on.” She mocked. “It’s always ‘come on’ with you. I’ve got a name, you know.” She swallowed the bite of bread, unhappy to find she’d liked it. It tasted like butter and honey. Any other time she’d lick her fingers to claim all the sticky goodness, but she refused to show him how much she’d enjoyed it.

“Alice.” Again he sounded aggravated.

There’d not been a thought in her mind to do it, but as if having an out-of-body experience, she watched her arm draw back. Saw the half-eaten bun sail out of her hand toward the back of his head.

The moment it hit him, she gasped, then covered her mouth, horrified. He jerked, came to a complete stop, and grabbed the back of his skull, crumbs still clinging to bits of his hair. When he looked at her... All she had to say was, if looks could kill. But then his stare turned incredulous, as if to say: “Did you really just throw that piece of bread at me?”

Her fear turned to laughter, and she couldn’t stop it. She grabbed her stomach and pointed. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what I was thinking. I’ve never...” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she lost all words and laughed until her sides ached.

His anger quickly subsided, and he cocked his head as if confused by her. Which only made it funnier. He was the Hatter, yet she was the one acting like a complete idiot.

She held up her hand. “I’m sorry.” She huffed, gulping in air. “Sorry. Won’t do it again.”

“Yes, well, I... deserved it.” His lips tipped up, and she knew he fought back a smile. And seeing that was like pouring salt on snow; it killed her laughter cold. She grabbed her chest as her blood heated and her head swam with naughty thoughts.

Like shoving the stupid jacket off his broad shoulders, stripping him of the colorfully striped pants, and then proceeding to lick her way down his body until she came to the bit of male beauty that would be hard and proud. Just for her.

She shivered. His nostrils flared as if he sensed her thoughts. Something wicked, and not altogether displeasing, glinted back at her from the depths of his chocolate-brown eyes.

The room charged with a snap of sexual hunger so intense, so arousing, she knew if she touched herself she’d find herself soaked.

His hot gaze danced across her form, lingering in all the right places. Heat coiled like a sling between her thighs. Focusing, trying to remember to breathe around the lump in her throat, she held her ground, pretending he wasn’t making her tremble.

Her reaction was more intense than any she’d had in years, maybe ever. She wanted him with a need that came a hair’s breadth to being insane.

His mouth thinned. “Come on. Please.”

She nodded regally and tried to pretend his words hadn’t just turned her insides to mush, then followed him down another hall. This one was full of closed doors. At least twenty. The dimensions of the place made her light-headed; it was small, yet large. Compact, yet unending. Madness. Like the man himself. Was he taking her to his room?

The thought made her want to purr.

Stopping at the seventh door, he turned the knob and opened it to her. “Is this okay?”

Her eyes widened as she stepped in behind him. “My room?”

Had it really been a dream? She could have sworn... She sighed. Seeing the clocks and scattered plants, all Alice could think was how drab it all looked. She’d gotten Wonderland all wrong. What must he think, seeing her room, knowing how silly her notions of his world were?

She felt his eyes on her, hot and searching. Drawn to him, she looked back. And for a moment, it seemed like his eyes swirled with light, round and round and round. Mesmerizing her, locking her in place, black rolling into brown and then into amber. Around and around, over and over, pulling her in with its sad, haunting symmetry. A staircase that fell into forever; unending, unceasing torment.