by Anne Bishop
As a Warlord Prince, he needed his own room, his own bed for sleep, for rest, for solitude. He slept in this room when Surreal stayed at their town house in Amdarh or visited one of the family’s other estates as his second-in-command. He didn’t feel the need or the desire to stay away from her when she was in residence. Besides, withholding his body from her would have been a breach of the promise he’d made to be her husband in every way.
Her pregnancy had been unplanned and unexpected—the result of them comforting each other on the night his father died. Their marriage had had more to do with him not allowing her to leave with his child than with heated passion. But they had loved each other in their own way for decades, as friends and family, and Surreal had understood—and accepted—that he never could love anyone else with the depth and passion that he had loved, and still loved, Jaenelle Angelline, the living myth, dreams made flesh. Witch. His Queen.
Surreal had known Jaenelle, had been friend and sister to the woman and a sword and shield to the Queen. She had been there throughout his first marriage, taking the position of second-in-command to give him as much time as possible with Jaenelle since Witch’s life span had been measured in decades, not centuries. And she’d been there during the year of mourning and the years after.
But even after he and Surreal had married, there had been a distance between them, a wariness. They had been friends, lovers, partners, parents. But until the Birthright Ceremony, until she had formally acknowledged paternity and given him irrevocable rights to his daughter, there had been that distance, that wariness. Now . . .
The door opened. Surreal walked into the room. His room.
“Did you get them settled for the night?” she asked.
As he turned to face her, something inside him relaxed, swelled. Bloomed into a heady, dark desire.
Mine. He looked at her, standing there in his room, wearing a long green nightgown shot with gold threads—a gown that was every kind of invitation—and felt that one word fill him until there was nothing else. Mine.
“Sadi?”
He wanted to play. Oh, how he wanted to play. And so did she. Why else was she in this room? His room, where he wasn’t a guest. Where there were no boundaries to what he could or couldn’t do.
But there had to be choice. Always a choice.
“Daemon?”
Using Craft, he closed the door behind her. But not all the way. Not yet.
“Do you want to play?” he purred, approaching her slowly. Stalking her.
“Well, you’re in a mood.”
She couldn’t hold on to the sassy smile as his sexual heat, freed of all restraint, wrapped around her, as he leaned toward her, his mouth so close to the corner of hers she probably believed he was touching her. But he wasn’t touching, wouldn’t touch until she made her choice.
“Do you want to stay here tonight and play? Or do you want to go to your own room and sleep alone?”
If she didn’t stay with him here tonight, he couldn’t be with her, couldn’t be the considerate guest in her bed. Not tonight. Not when he wasn’t holding anything back. Not when he felt—truly felt—that the woman, like the child, was his, and with the woman he wasn’t interested in lovemaking or even sex. Not tonight. Tonight was about possession, about making her body sing in a way that told her there were no barriers between them anymore, that he would finally give her everything he was.
But only if she made that choice.
“Do you want to play?” he purred again.
Nerves. Excitement. Arousal spiced with a little fear of what he intended to do.
Delicious.
“Stay or go?” he whispered.
Her hard nipples strained against the delicate gown. He smelled the wet heat of need between her legs.
“S-stay.”
The door closed. The lock clicked. She trembled when his fingertips lightly brushed her skin.
His mouth touched hers in a kiss so delightfully, viciously gentle, he had to lick the tears from her face before doing anything more.
When he finally laid her on his bed, she whimpered with the need for his touch—and he focused everything he was on pleasuring her body before pleasing his own.
Mine.
* * *
* * *
Surreal’s eyes snapped open. Her heart pounded so hard she feared the sound would wake the man sleeping beside her.
She did not want to rouse—or arouse—the man sleeping beside her.
What she wanted right now, more than anything, was to get out of that room.
She rolled on her side, bringing herself closer to the edge of the bed, and waited. No hand suddenly anchoring her hip. No arm reaching out to pull her close again. No head lifting off the pillow to look at her. No deep, sleepy voice asking where she was going.
She eased her feet out from under the covers, then her lower legs to the knees. She rolled a little more and slid out of the bed, crouched beside it, waiting.
Daemon still slept.
Staying crouched because she was sure an upright figure in his bedroom would bring him instantly awake and riding the killing edge, she made her way to the door.
Please. Sweet Darkness, please let this door open. Let whatever locks he put on the door and around the room be released now.
She turned the handle. The door opened, bringing a whiff of fresher air compared with the sex-saturated smell of his room.
She slipped into her bedroom and closed the door. It was tempting to put a Gray lock on the door, tempting to put shields around the room. But a Gray lock wouldn’t stop him. It might make him curious or concerned—or enraged—but it wouldn’t stop him.
She hurried into her bathroom, put an aural shield around the room to cover the sound of water, then took a long hot shower. She shook as she washed her hair, as she thoroughly washed her body, as she stood and let the hot water ease tight, sore muscles.
A Warlord Prince’s bedroom is his private place, and he tends to be more possessive when he’s there.
Jaenelle Angelline’s words, spoken decades ago as both instruction and warning.
Surreal knew about possession. The first night she’d had sex with him, the night they made Jaenelle Saetien, they had ended up in his room, in his bed, and he’d been . . . more than Daemon but not quite the Sadist. He’d been riding a side of his nature that had been somewhere between the two—and the way he’d ridden her that night had been breathlessly exciting.
The sex since that night was staggering and wonderful and better than anything else she’d experienced, but it didn’t always have the edge that made it breathlessly exciting.
But last night . . .
What had she done to provoke him into doing what he’d done last night? Into being what he’d been last night? She’d recognized the glazed look in his gold eyes. She knew who had controlled her body and played with her until she was drowning in terrible pleasure that made a woman deliciously satisfied one moment and craving the next touch, the next permitted climax with a sharp, desperate need.
She had been in bed with the Sadist—and it terrified her. It terrified her, who had been the highest-paid whore in Terreille’s Red Moon houses as well as one of the best assassins in that Realm. She hadn’t been a whore for decades, since she emigrated to Kaeleer, but she still kept all her knives sharp—and she had, on occasion and with great discretion, used them.
All her skills counted for nothing against a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. All those skills counted for nothing against the Sadist.
They’d been getting along so well since the Birthright Ceremony. Something in Daemon had relaxed, a common response when a man was granted legal rights to his child. She suspected that relaxation also had its roots in Daemon’s brief meeting with some aspect of Witch, who had gifted their daughter with an extraordinary Jewel.
A few days after the Cerem
ony, he’d said “I love you” for the first time, words that warmed her, that assured her that he wanted to stay married to her.
Now . . .
She shut off the water, wrapped her hair in one large towel, and dried off with another.
She couldn’t take Jaenelle Saetien away from school and the daily lessons in Craft and Protocol the girl had begun with Daemon, but she could leave for a few days, could use the excuse of checking on the family’s other estates as a reason to be away. Nothing unusual about that. Nothing that would raise suspicions or have Daemon asking questions.
Daemon.
She gripped the sink while she remembered the feel of his hands, the feel of his mouth, the feel of his cock filling her, moving inside her. . . .
She climaxed. It wasn’t enough. That greedy, desperate need was back.
Not Daemon. The Sadist had done this to her.
She needed to get away in order to figure out why.
* * *
* * *
Half-awake, Daemon reached across the bed. When his hand found cold sheets instead of a warm body, he rolled onto his back and rubbed his hands over his face.
Mother Night.
He hadn’t had sex like that, hadn’t offered to give sex like that, since . . . Well, he hadn’t had sex like that since the last time Jaenelle Angelline had accepted his invitation to play. He hadn’t thought that anyone else, even Surreal, would agree to play those games of possession with him, knowing she was safe. He hadn’t thought he would love anyone else deeply enough to want to play those games again.
The first time he had seen Witch in his bedroom and reacted to her in this way, his father had explained some things about the nature of Warlord Princes that he hadn’t known.
“This is emotional—and it’s darker, more dangerous when it happens. It’s the thrill of being feared while you seduce your lover to the point where she doesn’t want to refuse. And at the same time it’s the comfort of being able to reveal that side of your nature to a lover and know you’re still trusted. . . . It’s a potential for violence that is transformed into a kind of ruthless gentleness. . . . It’s part of your nature. It’s part of your caste. It’s in every one of us. . . . You’ve twisted a part of yourself into a powerful weapon, honed it to the point people have given it a different name.”
What had played in his bedroom last night was the Sadist in his mildest form. The Sadist as lover. That didn’t come close to what he was when he let that dark, lethal aspect of himself slip the leash. But all that particular knowledge and skill, wrapped in the velvet of love, could give a woman piquant pleasure in ways nothing else could.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that Surreal would accept his invitation. After she made her choice, because playing this game with him had to be her choice, he’d shown her what he was without the barriers he’d kept between them—barriers he’d held in place to protect her, thinking they were necessary. She’d shown him last night that he’d been wrong about that.
A brief psychic probe located the Gray, so he slipped out of bed, put on a robe, and opened the window to let the room air out a bit before his valet or anyone else came in.
Belting the robe, he walked into Surreal’s bedroom, then stopped, shocked, when her psychic scent hit him.
Surreal SaDiablo, Gray-Jeweled witch and assassin, his wife for the past fifteen years, was afraid of him. Truly afraid of him. Because of last night.
But . . . She’d made the choice. She’d accepted his invitation to play. And if she’d been uncomfortable at any time, she could have stopped the play with one word. Just one word.
“Surreal.”
She gave him a brittle smile. “It’s time to check the other estates. I wanted to get an early start and didn’t want to wake you.”
He could read her body, knew her heart was pounding, her breathing too shallow.
Last night, he’d felt that dark possession, had known the woman was his and, equally important, that he was hers. And he’d shown her who he was—a truth he’d shown to one other woman.
But unlike Jaenelle Angelline, who had accepted everything he was, Surreal had seen the truth and now feared him. Oh, she had been afraid of him at other times, and had reason to be. But not here. Not in their home. Not in her bed.
Except they hadn’t been in her bed. They had been in his, and for a Warlord Prince, that made a difference. Oh, yes, it made a difference.
He kept his voice gentle, made no move toward her. “Will you have breakfast with me before you go?”
She hesitated a moment too long. “Sure, sugar. Just give me a few minutes to finish packing and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Daemon retreated to his room and closed the door. He took a quick but thorough shower, recognizing that any scent of sex would trouble her right now.
Maybe going away would help her, give her time to realize it had been a game, that he would have stopped the instant she asked him to stop. But she hadn’t asked. He knew she hadn’t asked. Just as he knew that the Sadist as lover had known exactly where her line was between sharp pleasure and real pain and hadn’t, even for a heartbeat, crossed that line.
Even so, he’d scared her instead of pleasing her. Her going away for a few days might be a good thing. If her fear didn’t dissipate, it would become a wall between them.
As he dressed, Daemon worked to restore the leashes on his temper, on his power, on the Sadist, and on the sexual heat. But something inside him had swelled last night, had bloomed, and when he tried to snug the leash on the sexual heat, it felt like a shirt that should have fit but was a little too tight.
Today was not the day to ease up on control of the heat, so he ruthlessly snugged the leash to where it had been the day before, ignoring the nip of pain that came from choking back a part of himself too much.
Having leashed every part of himself as tightly as possible, Daemon went downstairs to do what he could to reassure his wife before she fled from their home.
THREE
Lord Dillon found a dimly lit nook behind a curtain near the main ballroom. He opened the window a crack to breathe in some cool fresh air and give himself a quiet moment before throwing himself back into the bright and sometimes brittle sounds of instruments and voices, the flash of jewels and Jewels and women’s gowns. A typical aristo party in a Rihland city. He’d never been outside the Territory of Askavi—not yet, anyway—but he imagined that aristo parties were pretty much the same in every Blood city in the Realm of Kaeleer.
Maybe he should find out. There was no reason for him to stay in Askavi and plenty of reasons to go.
If you loved me . . .
He’d been nineteen years old when he made the Offering to the Darkness and came away with the Opal as his Jewel of rank. He’d been in his second year of training to be an escort who could serve in a Queen’s court, and had one more year to go. Many young men received their education in District courts while they served in the Third or Fourth Circle. Youngsters weren’t paid for their service, but they were given room and board, which was regarded as sufficient compensation. His father, however, had wanted him to study at a school, claiming that the escorts who served in a court and were responsible for training the young men sometimes undermined those potential rivals for the Queen’s attention. Much better to be trained at a school and have the polish necessary to be offered a place in a Second Circle and rise to an important position that much faster.
He hadn’t cared about a fast rise through the levels of a court. He had wanted the adventure of going away. His father had wanted him to go to the school, so he went, and at one of the dances that gave escorts-in-training a chance to gain some experience, he’d met Lady Blyte. She’d been a couple of years older than he, the daughter of a Warlord and a witch whose bloodlines were far more aristo than his family’s modest claim to that label, and he’d been flattered that she had singled him out for a se
cond dance.
He hadn’t realized at the time that she’d chosen him because she hadn’t expected him to give her any trouble when she tired of him and tossed him aside.
He’d been dazzled the first time she kissed him—although, at the time, he’d believed he’d initiated that first kiss. He’d believed he’d initiated quite a few things—until she started wanting things that wouldn’t do any harm to her reputation but would sully his. He’d balked the first time she tried to get him into bed, not because he didn’t want sex but because he wanted to serve in a Queen’s First Circle someday, a position that required the ultimate trust not only of the Queen but of her Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort.
A man who damaged his honor and respectability by having sex outside the marriage bed would never receive that trust anywhere but in the meanest kind of court, where trust and honor could be bought and sold.
But most young men from good families received some formal sex instruction, since learning to be a good lover was considered essential for any man who wanted to serve as a consort in a Queen’s court or wanted to please a wife. The men sat through frank discussions and some demonstrations of how to please a lover. That instruction was usually followed by one or two lessons with a woman who was qualified to train young men in the skills required in and out of bed. Despite the marks he’d been spending on Blyte, he’d saved enough from his quarterly allowance to pay for the formal instruction.
When he told Blyte that he had signed up for sex training at a reputable establishment, she had led him to a shadowed spot on the terrace just outside the ballroom and had said the fatal words for the first time. If you loved me . . .
If he loved her, he would forget about the training and use the money to take her to . . .
He couldn’t remember what she’d wanted that first time, but it had sounded reasonable, and he had loved her, so he’d canceled the instruction and taken her to some expensive event.
