by Anne Bishop
He laughed. Then he moved his own stack of books and retrieved his mug of coffee. “Why don’t you sit down? I take it you’ll have your hands full the rest of the morning.”
She took the other seat—and felt a bit daring. He, at least, seemed to recognize that she had a woman’s heart and feelings without hemming those feelings in with rules and yappy chaperons like Lady Surreal had done. Would he be amused if she confessed that one of the things that attracted her to Dillon was the fact that Dillon reminded her of him? Just a little. Just enough.
Now Prince Sadi was sitting out here without his jacket, which, despite the white silk shirt, made him appear to be casually dressed, and she felt like they were just two people who could chat as equals. Because of that, maybe she could talk to him about things that Nurian and Prince Yaslana didn’t want to hear.
“What are you reading?” Daemon asked.
“This and that.” Remembering how Dillon had made fun of some of her selections, she cringed when Prince Sadi turned the stack to read the titles.
“You like stories with gore and danger?”
That was one of the books Dillon had mocked. He’d even held his nose as if it smelled bad. “It’s just for fun.”
Daemon pulled out a book from his own stack. “Have you tried this author? Same kind of thing but the characters are less embellished. Not that there is anything wrong with a character having hidden skills that are suddenly required. Those can be good stories for times when, as you said, you want to read something just for fun. But I think this author’s characters feel more real, like someone I could meet in a dining house or in a shop.”
She called in a pencil and the small notebook she used for things she didn’t want to forget and wrote down the author and title of the book.
“This is an interesting choice.” Daemon tapped the spine of another book.
The words came out in a rush. “Dillon says it’s a brilliant account of the service fairs and the choices people made when they came to Kaeleer. The author’s ancestor emigrated through the service fair, and he wrote the book based on personal accounts of those days.” Daemon’s odd smile stopped the flow of words. “Have you read the book?”
“I have.”
“Did you think it was brilliant?” Please think it was brilliant.
“I thought it was pretentious. But I’ll be interested to hear what you think of it.”
Jillian blinked. “Why?”
“Because you were there.”
The words were said so gently, it took her a moment to absorb the meaning.
“You were a girl during that time, but you weren’t a young child,” Daemon said. “While time may have softened some of those memories and details because you haven’t thought about those days until now, you probably remember far more than you realize. You and your sister were among those who fled from the witches who had their claws in Terreille. Nurian signed a contract with Lucivar during the last fair.” He sat back. “No matter how faithfully that author recounts what it was like to come to Kaeleer, he can’t remember, can’t reproduce how it felt the way you can. Those feelings are in your heart and your blood and your bones. History to him. Personal memory for you.”
Such an obvious thing, but it hadn’t occurred to her.
“May I make an observation?” Daemon asked.
“Yes.”
“There is no easy comparison between the long-lived and short-lived races when it comes to age equivalents. We have spurts of development followed by long plateaus. Lord Dillon is a Rihlander who has reached his majority and is considered an adult. If you were a Rihlander, you would be about fourteen or fifteen, and when you turned twenty and reached your majority, Dillon would be in his late twenties. But you’re Eyrien, and it will be decades before your age of majority is within sight.”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“He’s your first romantic love, and that’s special,” Daemon said gently. “But it’s not forever, even if you’d like it to be.”
She almost snapped at him, almost asked him how he would know. Then she realized he did know. He had married Jaenelle Angelline, and even after decades of being married, her death almost destroyed him.
But he was talking to her, really talking to her, instead of telling her what she could and couldn’t do.
“Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”
“Yes.”
“If two people really love each other and want to be together, you know, physically, intimately, and one of them hadn’t reached the age of majority . . . what would happen?”
“That would depend,” Daemon replied. “If the man recognized his responsibilities when seeing a young woman through her Virgin Night, there might be disapproval but no other consequences. However, if she was damaged in any way, if he became intent on his own excitement and pleasure, which can happen with a young man, and as a consequence broke the girl, stripping her of her Birthright Jewel and destroying the potential power she might have had at maturity; if she becomes pregnant, especially if she is broken that night and can never have another child . . . The debt he would owe would not be tempered with much, if any, mercy.”
“But if she really loved him . . .”
Daemon slid out of his chair, went down on one knee, and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles—a gesture so like the way Dillon held her hand.
“Darling, you’re forgetting the other half of that statement. If she really loved him and he wanted sex, yes, she might be tempted to give in to please him because he desperately needs her, and her giving in, despite the risks, is the only way he’ll believe she loves him. But if he really loved her, he would acknowledge that she was too young for more than some romance and kisses. If he really loved her, he would respect her decision when she refused to do something he wanted; he wouldn’t keep pushing until he got his way. When that happens, it’s been my experience that the man doesn’t really love the girl for herself; he only loves what he can get from her.”
Jillian stared at that beautiful face, listened to the voice that wrapped around her—and felt as if she’d walked out of a hot, stuffy room and breathed in crisp, clean air.
“What if she’s already given him some things?”
“Are we talking about material things or her body?”
“Material things.”
“If the loss causes some discomfort but no long-term consequences, then it’s a mistake that bruises but doesn’t destroy, and the person will recognize the signs and not step into the snare the next time.” Daemon looked toward the eyrie. “I think it’s time to go in for breakfast.”
“Hell’s fire.” Jillian leaped to her feet, almost knocking Daemon over. Fortunately, he got out of the way, although she wasn’t sure how he’d managed it. She vanished her stack of books, turned toward the glass doors, then hesitated when she saw Prince Yaslana watching her. Watching them.
Yaslana stepped aside to let her pass.
Glancing back before she went into the kitchen to help with breakfast while Marian fed baby Andulvar, she saw Prince Sadi step into the front room. He smiled at her as he and Yaslana headed deeper into the eyrie instead of coming into the kitchen.
For a moment, Jillian stared at nothing. Daemon Sadi was more beautiful than Dillon and was the patriarch of the most powerful aristo family in the whole of Kaeleer. If Sadi talked to her as if she was intelligent and interesting, why did Dillon leave her with the feeling that she had to prove she was worthy of his attention?
* * *
* * *
Lucivar followed Daemon into the study and closed the door. Then Daemon turned, wrapped a hand around the back of Lucivar’s neck, and drew him close.
Glazed, sleepy gold eyes. A sweet, murderous smile. Lucivar knew the warning signs, knew what would happen if he made the wrong move, said the wrong thing.
>
The Sadist’s black-tinted nails were honed as sharp as a knife and could slice a wrist or nick a jugular vein deeply enough for a man to bleed out in less than a minute—and then have his Jewels shattered in the last moments he struggled to survive.
He felt his brother’s breath on his skin before the Sadist said too softly, “That little bastard has been using a seduction spell on your girl.”
Fury blazed through him, creating a fire beneath his skin. His hands closed into fists. But Daemon’s hand was still on his neck, warning him to keep still.
“I won’t insult you by asking if you’re sure,” he growled.
Daemon’s eyes were still glazed but no longer sleepy. His smile now held an edge that was no longer murderous but definitely cruel. “Good.” Moving his hand, he stepped back—and Lucivar sprang to the other side of the room, needing to move.
“I should have ripped the little prick’s arms off when I caught him touching her.” Lucivar turned toward the door, but Daemon sidestepped, getting between him and the easy way out of the room.
“You can’t do that now for the same reason you didn’t do it then,” Daemon said with a mildness that ripped away a little more of Lucivar’s control. “If you squash him, Jillian will always believe he was a wonderful boy and you were the cruel surrogate father who killed her true love.”
“How is a seduction spell true love?” Lucivar shouted, not caring if anyone heard him. Then he took a moment to check the room and realized Daemon had put an aural shield around the walls so they could shout, argue, fight, even destroy the whole damn room and every stick of furniture in it, without anyone hearing them.
“Seduction spells can be used for all kinds of reasons. Don’t tell me you haven’t used a seduction tendril now and then to make things more exciting for Marian.”
Lucivar swore fiercely, a low rumble of sound as he continued pacing. “That’s different.”
“Completely different. One kind is meant to please; the other kind tries to smother choice.”
Daemon knew all about playing games with seduction spells, knew how much to use to add a bit more persuasion to a request without taking away a person’s choice—and knew how to strip a person of any choice at all.
Lucivar glanced at his brother, then stopped moving. Daemon stood there, staring at his own hand, his thumb moving back and forth as if caressing something.
“Bastard?”
“Not just a seduction spell,” Daemon said thoughtfully. “There was something else entwined with it. Something hidden.”
Lucivar approached warily, his attention split between looking at Daemon’s hand and watching for any sign that the Sadist might suddenly return.
“Compulsion spell, maybe,” Daemon continued quietly. “Damn good one if it is. Subtle. Enough to influence thoughts and actions and have the influence linger without the spell being obvious enough to detect. Which means there has to be a particular action or phrase that triggers the spell.”
“What kind of action?” Lucivar asked, keeping his voice just as quiet. Not that he didn’t want to charge out the door and voice his displeasure in a way that would shake the whole damn valley, but he didn’t want to distract Daemon from figuring this out.
“I think you’ll find that Jillian has ‘loaned’ her true love whatever she’s saved from the wages Marian pays her.”
“And you’re going to stand there and tell me I’m supposed to do nothing?”
“She has to discover the truth about him for herself.” Daemon looked into Lucivar’s eyes. “And I’ve already done something. You won’t like it.”
Oh, Hell’s fire. “Tell me anyway.”
“I wrapped a different sort of spell around your girl.”
Lucivar bared his teeth but stopped himself from ramming a fist into Daemon’s ribs. “What kind of spell?”
“When Jillian and I were talking, I detected the seduction spell when I took her hand and rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. So I drained that spell and wrapped her in one of my own. She’ll never feel it, Lucivar. It won’t interfere with her own power or her ability to use Craft, and it will fade in a few weeks. But during that time, any spell anyone tries to use on her will wash over her and be absorbed by my power without Dillon or anyone else realizing he no longer has the ability to control what Jillian thinks or does. She’ll be able to view his actions and words without the veil of seduction or the compulsion to believe what he says.”
Lucivar stepped away and prowled the room again, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the tension. “Titian.”
“No,” Daemon said. “She’s much too young to weave that kind of spell around her.”
“Now she’s too young. But once she reaches Jillian’s age, if I suspected that someone, some boy, was trying the same thing, would you . . . ?” He looked at Daemon.
“Of course. You have only to ask.”
Lucivar nodded. Having him as a father wasn’t going to be easy for his children as they got older, and he’d figured that his reputation for being volatile and violent would be a layer of protection against anyone trying to make a play for any of them. But Daemon was a different kind of fighter with a different arsenal of weapons, and having him as another layer of protection allowed Lucivar to step back a little.
“Come on,” he said as he swung around Daemon to reach the door. “By now the yappy horde will have cleared out and we can make our own breakfast.”
“Just don’t use any bowls on the counter unless you took them out of the cupboards yourself. Scelties will lick the last bit of oatmeal—or most anything else—out of a bowl and use Craft to set the bowl next to the sink so that the adults can’t tell who did, or didn’t, eat the breakfast they were supposed to eat.”
Lucivar thought about the bowl he’d used yesterday morning to beat the breakfast eggs and said, “Shit.”
Laughing, Daemon opened the door and led the way to the kitchen.
TWENTY-FOUR
That night, Surreal felt Daemon’s sexual heat the moment she opened the door of the guest room. It wrapped around her, smothered her. Frightened her, because the need to have him became so overwhelming she would let him do anything to her. He had shown some restraint for the first couple of days after he’d arrived at the eyrie, leashing the heat enough that she could pretend that sleeping with him wasn’t an ordeal. But it seemed even being a guest in his brother’s home wasn’t a sufficient deterrent for his games tonight.
He lay on his back, his eyes closed and one arm over his head, completely relaxed. The sheet was carelessly bunched just below his waist, showing her his naked, beautifully toned upper body. Looking at him, someone would swear he wasn’t doing anything. He continued to swear he wasn’t doing anything whenever she lashed out at him.
She knew better.
As she looked at him, her heart raced, her nipples tightened to the point of pain as they stood at attention, begging for the feel of his hands, his mouth. And need that threatened to strip her of any choice pulled at her, a liquid heat between her legs.
Had to fight this. Had to hold on to what was left of herself before she became nothing more than need he would come to despise while he denied any responsibility for this sexual addiction.
Daemon turned his head and opened his eyes. Warm gold. Sleepy. Waiting.
“Everything all right?” His seductive voice wrapped around her, creating a different kind of need.
“Fine.” She stripped off the robe and wished the nightgown was one of the modest ones she’d taken to wearing at the Hall instead of the silky gown she’d packed because she’d expected to be sleeping alone while she was Lucivar and Marian’s guest. Getting into bed, she added, “Just not in the mood for sex tonight.”
She knew her physical scent would shout the lie, at least to a Warlord Prince. She turned on her side, her back to him.
She felt him move, cou
ld tell he was now propped on one elbow, studying her. One warm hand settled on her hip.
“Surreal?” The bastard actually sounded concerned.
Push down the sheet, pull up my nightgown, put your hand between my legs, and play with me until I beg for your cock. “I’m tired.”
Daemon kissed her shoulder and settled back on his side of the bed. “Sleep in tomorrow if you can.”
He extinguished the candle-light. A minute later, Surreal heard the slow breathing that meant he was already asleep. Knowing he would wake the instant she got out of bed, she waited with gritted teeth until she couldn’t stand it a minute longer.
She’d barely eased her legs over the side of the bed when she felt his hand on her arm.
“Bathroom,” she whispered.
The hand slid down to the bed, the man recognizing the word to mean he could go back to sleep instead of waking fully to meet a threat.
She hurried into the bathroom that accommodated the guest rooms in this part of the eyrie and locked the door. Then she pulled up her nightgown and tried not to cry as she gave herself some relief.
* * *
* * *
Pain lanced through his head as Daemon tried to tighten his control of the sexual heat. Nausea, the new companion to the headaches, made him grit his teeth and swallow hard. He could hide the pain, had been hiding its severity for months, but the smell of vomit would be much harder to hide no matter how fast he disposed of the basin.
He hoped, with sick desperation, that Surreal meant it about not wanting sex tonight. She remained convinced that he was responsible for her increased sex drive, and telling her he couldn’t—wouldn’t—oblige . . . Putting a Black shield around himself for protection might break what little affection they still had for each other. Putting a shield around himself would acknowledge the Dea al Mon side of her heritage—and admit that he no longer trusted the assassin who slept with him.
As he struggled for control of the pain and nausea, knowing he had only another minute or so before she returned, he heard the song drifting up from somewhere deep in the abyss. Heard it. Focused on it. There were no words—at least, none he recognized. But he understood the message.
