The Shadow Queen

CHAPTER 4

A room within the Keep held one of the thirteen Gates that connected the three Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell. On the Dark Altar stood a four-branched candelabra. When the black candles were lit and the spell was invoked, a stone wall turned to mist and became a Gate between the Realms.

Following the assistant historian/librarian, Theran stepped out of that mist into a room that looked almost the same as the one he’d just left, but it felt different. It felt darker.

He had reached Kaeleer, the Shadow Realm. He was really here.

And home had never felt so far away.

Stepping out of the Coach that had brought him from the Keep to this place, Theran stared at the massive structure of dark gray stone that rose up in front of him. It sprawled over the land, and its towers speared the sky. Its size intimidated, and the feel of age and dark power that surrounded it was sufficient warning to any visitor that a smart man walked softly around anything that lived behind those walls.

“Is that an enclosed community?” he asked. He could understand the feeling of that much power if several hundred Blood had lived in a place for many generations. There had been a few places “ruled” by covens in the Shalador reserves that had a similar feel. Or so he’d been told. Most of those places—and the strong witches who had lived in them—hadn’t survived the purges that had been ordered a few years ago by Dorothea’s pet Queens.

“Like a village, you mean?” the Coach driver said. Then he made a sound that might have been an effort not to laugh. “No. The village is that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “This here is a private drive until you reach the bridge. After that, it becomes a public road to Halaway.”

“Private . . .” He was looking at a residence? That feeling of dark power came from one family?

“That’s SaDiablo Hall,” the driver said. “Family seat of the SaDiablo family and home of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. I was told to bring you here.”

SaDiablo. SaDiablo. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

But Dorothea SaDiablo was dead, wasn’t she? Completely destroyed, body, mind, and Jewels. Wasn’t she?

“Daemon Sadi lives here?” Theran asked.

“He does.”

Was Sadi still controlled by the SaDiablo family? Was he still a slave? Was this branch of the SaDiablo family any better than the ones who had tried to destroy Terreille?

Have I just handed myself to the enemy? Damn that Hayllian bastard for sending me here.

“I’ll take the Coach around to the stables, then wait around a bit to see if I’m needed,” the driver said. “You should go on up to the Hall and state your business. Won’t attract any atten—”

A solitary howl rose from the trees off to the right. Then another howl rose up from the left. The third came from behind him.

Theran turned in a circle, his heart hammering against his chest. Nothing he could see, but something was out there. He was picking up psychic scents, a feeling of power moving toward him from several directions. But those scents were just enough off-kilter that he couldn’t identify what was out there.

“Well,” the driver said, scratching his head. “Now that you’ve got their attention, you’ve got everyone’s attention. So you might as well go on up.”

“What are they?” Theran asked. “Guard dogs?”

“Wolves. The pack lives in the north woods that are part of this estate. They’re protected by the Hall—and they protect the Hall.”

Hell’s fire. “Could be worse,” Theran said.

“Could be,” the driver agreed. He paused and gave Theran a considering look. “Don’t know if any are here right now, but you don’t want to be upsetting the cats. They’re big, and they’re mean.”

Theran forced a smile. “It’s not like they would eat me.”

The driver just looked at him.

“Mother Night.” Could it be any worse? He didn’t ask because he didn’t want the driver to tell him about whatever was worse than man-eating cats someone kept as pets.

The driver touched two fingers to his temple as a salute and went back into the Coach.

Theran quickly stepped off the landing web and hurried to the front door, which opened before he could knock, and showed him what could be worse than man-eating cats—a large, stern-faced man who was wearing a butler’s uniform and was also a Red-Jeweled Warlord.

Outranked by a servant, Theran thought as he obeyed the silent invitation to step inside.

“Good afternoon,” the butler said. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for Daemon Sadi. I was told I could find him here.” Of course, the Hayllian prick at the Keep hadn’t mentioned he’d be looking for Sadi inside a SaDiablo fortress.

As the butler turned one hand, he suddenly held a small silver tray. The use of Craft was so smooth, Theran stared at the tray for a moment, feeling envious of the subtle training the butler must have received. Oh, Talon had given him the best training available, but their rough-and-ready life didn’t require subtlety in anything except fighting.

“Your card?” the butler said.

Hell’s fire. Did people still use such fussy things? Would the court he hoped to create have to use them?

“I don’t have a card,” Theran said, feeling like an awkward child who’d been caught out pretending to be an adult.

The butler’s hand turned. The tray vanished. “Your name?”

Theran hesitated. His family had survived by hiding. But would anyone here in Kaeleer understand the significance of the name?

“Theran Grayhaven,” he said reluctantly.

“Territory?” the butler prodded after a moment’s silence.

“Dena Nehele.”

The butler tipped his head in a tiny bow of acknowledgment. “I will inquire if the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is available to receive you.”

“I don’t need to talk to . . .” He was talking to the butler’s back, so there was no point continuing. Besides, the man didn’t go far—just to the back of the great hall.

After a quick knock on the door, the butler stepped into an adjoining room and stepped back out a few moments later.

Nothing subtle about the snub if the butler now informed him that the Prince wasn’t available.

“This way,” the butler said.

Theran followed the man back to the half-open door. The butler stepped in and announced, “Prince Theran Grayhaven of the Territory of Dena Nehele.”

“Thank you, Beale,” a deep, cultured voice replied. “Show him in.”

Beale stepped aside, allowing Theran to enter, then retreated, closing the door behind him.

The room was shaped like a reversed L. The long side was an informal sitting room, complete with tables, chairs, bookcases, and a leather sofa large enough for a full-grown man to sleep on. The short side of the room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases filling the back wall, red velvet covering the side walls, and a large blackwood desk with two chairs in front of it for visitors.

From behind the desk rose the most beautiful man Theran had ever seen. Hayllian coloring—the thick black hair, golden eyes, and light brown skin. But the man moved like something too graceful to be completely human, and as he came around the desk, Theran felt the punch of sexual heat.

“Prince Grayhaven.”

The voice caressed him, a warm syrup over his skin, producing an unwelcome arousal.

“I’m Daemon Sadi.”

Of course this was Sadi. Who else could it be?

He’d heard stories. Who hadn’t heard stories? But now he had a glimpse of why Sadi had been called the Sadist. All Warlord Princes had that sexual heat to some degree, but he’d never met another Warlord Prince who could halfway seduce a normally uninterested man just by speaking, just by walking toward that person.

Then the door opened, Sadi looked around, and Theran felt the ground crumbling right out from under him.

He’d thought the sexual heat had been a deliberate ploy to throw him off-balance. It wasn’t. The punch he’d experienced when he’d walked into the room was Sadi with his sexuality chained. One look at the woman who walked into the room, and Sadi . . .

Theran froze. Warlord Princes were territorial at the best of times, and lethally so when it came to a lover. A woman could end a relationship with a Warlord Prince without fear, but the only kind of male who could survive an attempt at poaching was a stronger Warlord Prince.

Based on what he was picking up from Sadi’s psychic scent, this woman was definitely the lover, and since he was a stranger, just being in the same room with her might be enough to provoke Sadi into a kill.

Not pretty, Theran decided. Attractive in an uncommon way, but definitely not what he would call pretty. The golden hair looked shaggy and was too short for him to find personally appealing. And she looked too thin to have the kind of curves a man would find interesting.

And all those things that would have made Theran dismiss her as a potential partner didn’t seem to matter to Sadi at all. The hunger in those gold eyes when he looked at her, the hunger that had sharpened his psychic scent . . .

She stopped, narrowed her blue eyes, and rocked back on her heels.

“Nighthawk and I are going for a ride,” she said. “Beale said you wanted to see me before I went out.”

“Wear a hat,” Daemon said.

Her mouth primmed. “I don’t like hats.”

Daemon moved toward her.

Theran adjusted his coat to hide his reaction to the heat pouring off the other man.

The woman just narrowed her eyes a little more and seemed immune to the feel of seduction blanketing the room.

Daemon cupped her face in his hands. “You need to wear a hat when you go out in the sun,” he purred.

“You don’t wear a hat.”

“My nose doesn’t turn bright pink and peel.”

She frowned at Daemon.

“And since I adore that nose,” Daemon said, kissing the tip of the adored nose, “and the rest of your face, and the rest of you . . .”

Daemon’s hands caressed her lightly but thoroughly as they traveled along her shoulders and down her back, his arms wrapping her tight against him as his mouth covered hers in a kiss that . . .

Theran felt his legs go weak. He should avert his eyes, give Sadi and the woman some token of privacy. But he couldn’t look away.

He wanted that kind of heat and hunger. Hoped he’d find it with the new Queen who would rule Dena Nehele.

And hoped he could get out of this room very, very soon.

How in the name of Hell did anyone else manage to live here?

Sadi finally ended the kiss and loosened his hold. His lover braced her hands against his chest as if to push away but didn’t move.

“Mother Night,” she muttered. On her second try, she managed to push away from Sadi and stand on her own. Then she studied the warm golden eyes that were watching her. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn hat.”

“Thank you,” Daemon purred.

“Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

A flashing grin was her answer.

As she headed for the door, Daemon caught her and turned her around.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Daemon said.

Theran felt those blue eyes lock on to his face, and would have sworn they changed to a darker blue, a sapphire blue that became a doorway to something dangerous, something feral. Something he couldn’t name but knew he didn’t want to see.

“This is the Warlord Prince Theran Grayhaven, from Dena Nehele,” Daemon said. “He hasn’t said, but I believe he can trace his bloodline back to Jared, a Warlord I knew a few centuries ago.”

“Jared,” she said in a voice that made Theran shiver. “And Lia?”

Afraid to answer—and more afraid not to—Theran nodded.

He couldn’t look away from those sapphire eyes.

Then her eyes were simply blue again. “Welcome to the Hall, Prince Grayhaven.”

Maybe it was because he was getting used to the feel of being in a room with Sadi that he was finally getting some sense of the woman.

A Queen. He felt certain she was a Queen. That caste had a distinctive psychic scent. But he couldn’t figure out if she wore a lighter Jewel or a dark one. She seemed to circle around his own Green, feeling lighter one moment and darker the next.

Your wits must still be addled, he thought. The Blood had a Birthright Jewel and a Jewel of rank, and each had a clear, separate feel. Since surviving could sometimes depend on knowing if the person you were facing wore a darker Jewel than your own, conflicting information like he was picking up from the woman could prove deadly.

“Prince Grayhaven,” Daemon said, “this is my wife, the Lady Jaenelle Angelline.”

“It is a pleasure, Lady.”

A horse bugled, a sound full of annoyance, followed a moment later by hooves thundering down on a hard surface.

Jaenelle hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “My ride is getting impatient.”

Theran wondered why anyone would bring a horse into the great hall—and wondered why the animal had sounded so loud—but he didn’t get a chance to ask.

“Have a seat,” Daemon said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Grateful to be alone, Theran scrubbed his hands over his face. After the past few minutes, he needed a long walk or a cold shower—or both.

As Daemon escorted Jaenelle into the great hall, he lightly touched the stallion’s mind. *I need to talk to the Lady before you go riding.*

The stallion, wearing a hackamore and barely enough leather to be called a saddle, tossed his head, revealing the Gray Jewel that was usually hidden under his forelock.

Nighthawk was kindred—the name given to the Blood who were not human. A different body and a different race, but a Warlord Prince was still a Warlord Prince, and those who had chosen Jaenelle as their Queen had learned to work together and share their Lady. In most ways.

*Theran Grayhaven,* Daemon said on a psychic thread aimed exclusively at Jaenelle. *What do you think of him?*

*Why does it matter?*

*He’s come here to ask a favor. I can hear him out or show him the door.*

When she looked at him, he saw who she was beneath the surface: Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The Queen, even though she no longer ruled.

*I spun a tangled web this afternoon,* she said. *That’s why I want to go riding—to let my mind rest while I focus on something physical.* She paused. *He’s part of it, Daemon. So is his connection to Jared and Lia. Hopefully a good gallop will clear my head and help me understand the vision.*

*Then I’ll hear him out and arrange to have him stay with us for the night.*

Jaenelle nodded.

*So,* Daemon said. *You’re riding Nighthawk this afternoon. Are you riding me tonight?*

“Daemon!”

The combination of shock and laughter in her voice told Beale, the footman Holt, and even the horse what they’d been talking about. The color blazing in her cheeks when she realized she’d said his name out loud in that tone of voice confirmed whatever assumptions the other males had.

“I was just asking,” Daemon said, trying to sound meek instead of amused—or aroused.

He glanced at Beale, whose mouth had curved in a tiny smile despite the otherwise stern expression.

Mother Night, he was going to have to tell the butler not to arrange for an intimate dinner. Under the intimidating exterior, Beale was a romantic and wouldn’t hesitate to exile Theran to a guest room and a dinner provided on a tray so that Lady Angelline could have a private dinner with her lover, who was also her adoring husband. And since he liked the idea of a private dinner much better than entertaining a man who had angered his father, he had to nip that idea before it took root. At least for tonight.

And apparently his thoughts had been a little too apparent, because Jaenelle was staring at him. Fortunately, she was still focused on his face.

As she turned away, she pointed at Beale. “Our guest will be joining us for dinner. I will expect him at the table.”

Beale flicked a look at Daemon, who shrugged. “Very well, Lady.”

She strode past Nighthawk and right out the door.

“Prince Nighthawk,” Holt called softly.

Using Craft, the footman sailed a hat across the great hall. Nighthawk caught the brim of the hat with his teeth, bobbed his head, then turned and walked out the front door, which closed behind him.

Daemon stared at the door. Mother Night, Jaenelle was going to be so pissed when Nighthawk planted his feet and refused to move until she put on the hat.

“So,” he said. “Which one of you told the horse about the hat?”

When neither Beale nor Holt answered him, he nodded. “Three out of three of us, then.”

The Blood survived within a complex dance of power. There was caste, social rank, and Jewel rank, and an ever-changing pattern of who was dominant. Didn’t matter which measuring stick was used, he was the dominant male here at the Hall. In the whole damn Realm, for that matter. But there were times, like this, when it tickled him to know that all the males who lived at the Hall were equal in one way: they all served, and they were very good at assessing one another’s skills and letting the one most likely to succeed take the lead.

Of course, Jaenelle didn’t always appreciate the fact that they worked together so well. Which also tickled him.

Until he remembered what waited for him in the study.

Daemon tipped his head toward the study door. “A pot of coffee and whatever Mrs. Beale might have handy.”

“And then you’ll be unavailable?” Beale asked.

Daemon considered Theran’s claim that he owed the Grayhaven family a favor, and he considered Jaenelle’s certainty that Theran was connected to the vision she had seen.

Jaenelle had been trained by the Arachnians, the golden spiders who were the weavers of dreams, to spin the tangled webs of dreams and visions. Even now, with her power diminished from what it had been, she was the most accomplished—and deadly—Black Widow in Kaeleer.

So he would listen to Theran’s claim, and no matter what he heard, the other Warlord Prince would join him and his Lady for dinner.

Whether Theran Grayhaven would see another sunrise was a different consideration.

He looked at Beale and knew the butler understood the nature of the man who owned the Hall.

“Yes,” Daemon said softly. “I’ll be unavailable.”

Something had changed, Theran thought as he watched Daemon walk back into the study and settle behind the blackwood desk. The sexuality was chained again, thank the Darkness, but the mood was both lighter and more grim than when Theran had first entered the room.

Sadi leaned back in his chair, steepled his slender fingers, and rested the black-tinted forefinger nails against his chin.

“I understand you think I owe you a favor,” Daemon said.

Hell’s fire.

“You are Jared’s descendant, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Theran replied. “The last of the bloodline that goes back to Jared and Lia, who was the last Gray-Jeweled Queen we had in Dena Nehele.”

“Because of that bloodline, I’m willing to hear you out.”

The words were courteously spoken, but there was a growing chill in the deep voice.

How to explain when it mattered so much, when so much was at stake?

He shrugged out of his coat and vanished it to give himself a little more time. He’d thought of little else during the journey between the Keep and here—what to say, how to explain. Now . . .

“We need a Queen.”

Daemon raised one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

Theran leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to make his hands ache. “You don’t know what it’s been like for my people. Two generations after Lia—just two!—the bloodline failed. The last Grayhaven Queen wore a Yellow Jewel. She wouldn’t have been the Territory Queen at all if she hadn’t been a Grayhaven. After that . . .” He swallowed hard.

“After that,” Daemon said, “the Queens who were willing to sell themselves to Hayll in order to rise to a power they wouldn’t have gained otherwise were the ones who ruled. Those who opposed Dorothea’s bid to control the whole of Terreille were either broken so they had little or no power, or were killed outright so the males would have no one to serve except Dorothea’s pets.”

Theran stared at Daemon. “How did you know?”

“I was a pleasure slave for a lot of centuries, controlled by Dorothea and the Ladies she sold me to. I watched some Territories fall, village by village, court by court, until there was nothing left that was decent, no one left who was honorable.” Daemon smiled bitterly. “Oh, I slaughtered the bitch’s pets. Buried more of them than anyone will ever know. Hell’s fire, there were times when Lucivar and I destroyed entire courts. But Dorothea was like a vile weed with a deep taproot. No matter how much you cut away, her poisonous influence would grow back. It always grew back—until the taint of her and the bitch who backed her was cleansed from the Blood for good.”

Theran licked his lips. “The storm of power two years ago. You know about that?”

Something queer flickered in Daemon’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I know about that. I know what it did—and I know what it cost.”

You know what it cost you, Theran thought, feeling hopeful that Daemon might be more sympathetic than he seemed. “We lost half the Blood in Dena Nehele to that storm. We lost half of the survivors while quelling the landen uprisings that followed that storm. There are one hundred Warlord Princes left in the whole of Dena Nehele. One hundred. My Green Jewel is the darkest we have.” Not quite, but he didn’t want to mention Talon.

“Theran . . .”

“We don’t have any Queens.” Theran rammed his fingers through his hair, then ended up fisting them and pulling until his scalp stung.

“Theran.”

He let go of his hair and gripped the chair’s arms again. “All right, we do have some Queens. But they’re old women. Or they’re little girls who are too young to deal with grown men, especially men as volatile as Warlord Princes. And there are a handful of adolescent Queens, but they’re already starting to act like the Queens we’re finally free of, and there’s been some muttering that the Warlord Princes would rather kill them than let a bitch become old enough to rule. If those girls act like the previous Queens and we accept them, we’ve won nothing. All the blood that was shed and the people who were lost would have been for nothing.”

When Daemon didn’t respond, Theran plunged on with the shining coin of hope that Talon had given him. “When Jared was an old man, dying from the wounds of his last fight, he told a trusted friend this one thing. He said, ‘If the need is great and nothing the family can do on its own will help Dena Nehele survive, find Daemon Sadi. Ask him for help. But only once.’ ” Theran closed his eyes for a moment. “Those were the last words Jared spoke. Well, we did all we could. We fought and we bled and we watched our people drown in the filth of Hayll. And now I’m the last one left. The last one. So I’m here, asking for help.”

A long silence, interrupted by a knock on the door. All the items on the desk vanished, replaced by a woven mat as Beale brought in a large tray and set it in the center of the desk.

“Thank you, Beale,” Daemon said.

After Beale left the room, Daemon poured coffee for both of them, then leaned back in his chair, ignoring the thin sandwiches and nutcakes that were also on the tray.

“You say you need a Queen,” Daemon said. “What, exactly, are you looking for?”

Theran took a sip of coffee to wet his suddenly dry throat, then took a deep breath—and told him.

Dinner was over; the strained effort to be a courteous and entertaining host was finished—at least for tonight.

Daemon stood in front of the dresser in the Consort’s suite and stared into the mirror.

“You’ve had worse days, old son,” he told his reflection. “You know you’ve had worse days.”

But being pummeled by Theran’s words had made him feel soiled and weary, and listening to that particular blend of hope and despair had stirred up memories until they swelled and burst in his mind like pus coming out of a wound gone septic.

He’d heard it before. Heard it for centuries. He’d watched young men grow old and break under that blend of hope and despair.

It didn’t help that Theran looked so much like Jared, as if all the generations in between had been erased. But Theran wasn’t Jared, and there was some internal difference that Daemon recognized but couldn’t name—and that difference was the reason he had considered Jared a friend and would never consider Theran as more than an acquaintance. Nothing indicated he wasn’t a good man committed to helping his people, but . . .

A knock on the door that connected his bedroom with Jaenelle’s. “Come,” he said, turning away from the mirror.

She came in, wearing a silky sapphire robe.

His stomach clenched. He’d been the one who had hinted this afternoon—shit, more than hinted—that he was interested in sex tonight. But that was before he’d talked to Theran, before the barbs of memories had hooked into his mind and heart. Now he hoped she was too tired to want more than a cuddle.

“You didn’t want to talk about it before dinner,” Jaenelle said, “but I need to know what sort of favor Theran wants.” She stretched out on the bed, propped her head in one hand, and studied him. “Daemon, do you feel all right?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine, he was nowhere close to fine, and he needed to tell her that instead of trying to hide it.

Talk. She wanted to talk. That, at least, he could do.

He removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his black jacket and dropped it on the dresser before he shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on the clothes stand so that his valet could decide if it needed to be cleaned, pressed, or simply aired. He’d done without a personal valet for a lot of years, and there were times when he missed the independence of having his wardrobe be his. On the other hand, Jazen managed to keep his favorite shirts hidden, leaving others out as bait when Jaenelle went foraging in his closet. For that reason alone he was willing to follow his valet’s rules about where to leave the clothing that had been worn.

“Theran wants my help to convince a Queen from Kaeleer to go to Terreille and rule Dena Nehele,” Daemon said, returning to the dresser. He positioned himself in the mirror so that he could see Jaenelle’s face, but his own reflection hid the rest of her.

She’d sat on the bed dozens of times, talking to him while he got undressed, before they both retired to her bedroom. Their bedroom, since he used this room only when she wasn’t home. But tonight it bothered him, scratched on his skin. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scraping at those pus-filled wounds.

“Say that again,” Jaenelle said.

“Dena Nehele needs a Queen who knows what it means to be a Queen, who knows Protocol and remembers the Blood’s code of honor. Who knows how to live by the Old Ways.”

“And if he doesn’t find a Queen like that?”

Daemon sighed. “If he doesn’t, I think what’s left of two races—Dena Nehele and Shalador—will wither and die.”

He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets, then called in some coins to provide an excuse for why he was still standing at the dresser, emptying his pockets, and delaying the moment when he had to tell her he was too churned up to be of use to her.

“What did you tell him?” Jaenelle asked.

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“Will you?”

“No.” When Jared had answered his summons that last time, Daemon had known Dena Nehele would fall under Dorothea’s relentless campaign to rule all of Terreille. Had he done the Shalador Warlord any favor by encouraging Jared to hold on to love for as long as possible? “The males in Kaeleer won’t tolerate one of their Queens going to Terreille.”

A hesitation. “I know a Queen who might be willing,” Jaenelle said. “She knows Protocol, although she prefers to ignore it as much as the rest of us.”

Daemon snorted softly as he fiddled with the coins, stacking and restacking them. The Territory Queens in Kaeleer belonged to Jaenelle’s coven. They had been her First Circle and they were still her closest friends. Thanks to Saetan, every one of them knew all the nuances of Protocol and the give-and-take of power between males and females. Thanks to their own perversity, the Ladies ignored the formality of Protocol every chance they could. And it was that blend that made them so formidable—and made them such good Queens.

“She’s a distant cousin of Aaron’s,” Jaenelle said. “She’s a few years older than me. She’s not a close friend, but I like her. As part of her own apprenticeship, she lived at the Hall with the rest of us for four months to get ‘court polish.’ ”

Since Jaenelle’s court had been the most informal gathering of power he’d ever seen, the humor of sending anyone there for training eased the tightness in his stomach a little. “Did she acquire any polish?”

“She got lessons in Protocol from Papa,” Jaenelle replied. “Those will polish anybody.”

It was easier to talk to her reflection, so he kept his back to the room while he continued to fiddle with the items on the dresser. “What will her court say about relocating to Terreille?”

Jaenelle hesitated. “She doesn’t have a court at the moment. That’s why I think she would be willing to do this.”

He looked at her exotically beautiful face, which only hinted at the wonderful and terrifying Self that lived beneath the human skin. She was capable of cruelty, but the cruelty was always entwined with justice.

What had she seen in her tangled web?

And why was the arm that had been covered by sapphire silk now bare?

“What happened to her court?” His stomach tightened again as the edge of his temper sharpened.

“Instead of renewing their contracts, her entire First Circle resigned, and that broke the court.”

“Why?” he asked too softly. There were very few reasons why all the males would walk away from a Queen, and none of those reasons would help Theran or Dena Nehele.

“You won’t like the answer.”

He already didn’t like any of this. “Tell me.”

Jaenelle sighed. “She wears a Rose Jewel, which makes her a minor Queen in a Territory like Dharo; she doesn’t come from an aristo family; and”—she winced—“she’s not pretty.”

Fury rose in him, a molten ice. “That’s it? That’s all?”

“She can’t offer flash and glitter. It’s not in her. But she’s a good, solid Queen, and she’s got the tenacity to dig in and work.”

Daemon blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders to try to shake off some of the tension. Tried to shake off that terrible blend of hope and despair that was making it so hard to think clearly. But he’d done what he could, hadn’t he? Even now he was doing what he could. “Well, Jared will have to give up some of what he wants in order to get the rest, but—”

“Jared?” Jaenelle asked.

Her voice sounded oddly sharp, and that pricked his temper, honed it to a lethal edge. But he was so tired tonight. So desperately tired. Still had to play the game, though. Dorothea couldn’t prove he’d helped the Shalador Warlord, but lately the women she’d chosen to use him as a pleasure slave were an added barb of cruelty.

“Why are we talking about Jared?”

He turned toward the bed. “Because—”

He slammed back against the dresser hard enough to make everything rattle. His heart hammered against his chest, and his body was suddenly—and painfully—aroused.

There was a filthy bitch sprawled on his bed.

She lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand, one leg forward and bent at the knee to help her balance. Nothing blatantly provocative about the position, which meant only that she was smarter than the bitches who had tried before her. She was wearing sheer white stockings that came up to midthigh. No need for a garter belt when Craft could hold the stockings in place. Above that, she was wearing a simple white shift that ended just above the stockings and was sheer enough that it didn’t hide the body beneath.

It also didn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything else.

His cock strained against his trousers, wanting to be sheathed inside her and flood her with come.

Bitch. Filthy bitch.

“Daemon?”

She’d succeeded. Where all the others had failed, this one had succeeded. She made him want, made him need. And when the little bitch informed Dorothea that he could be aroused, the slavery he now endured would be nothing compared with what would be done to him to breed him with Dorothea’s select bitches.

“Daemon? What’s wrong?”

And the one untouched thing he had left to offer, the one clean thing he had given to no one else, would be taken from him. Like everything else had been taken from him.

Because of the little bitch now stinking up his bed.

She sat up. Shifted closer to the edge of the bed. His bed. “I think I should leave.”

Leave? No, no, no. Not until he’d purged himself of some of this anger, some of this hatred, some of this need.

He raised his right hand. The Black Jewel in his ring flashed. And he saw her tense as Black locks and shields surrounded the room, trapping her inside. With him.

This was his room, the one bit of peace and privacy he could claim. That was his bed, a place he shared with no one. And her body was his to do with as he pleased.

He took a step toward the bed, delighted by the way she shivered. Not with anticipation. The little bitch had finally figured out what she found in his bed wasn’t going to be pleasure.

He took another step.

She tried to bolt, tried to launch herself off the bed.

Snarling viciously, he caught her, threw her back down on the bed, and came down on top of her, forcing her legs apart, pushing against her, taking dark pleasure in the knowledge that the moment he vanished his clothes, his cock would ram into her.

“Daemon.”

Go ahead, he thought. Plead now that you can’t control what’s coming. Could never control what’s coming.

His hands tightened on her wrists. Tightened and tightened until just a little more pressure would break bone. Her pulse hammered under his fingers. Her heart thundered against his chest.

He smelled her fear. Reveled in the scent of it.

She turned her head, as if daring to deny him her mouth.

He clamped his teeth on the spot where her neck and right shoulder connected....

And breathed in a scent that soothed and excited him. He licked that spot and tasted a flavor more heady than the best wine. And knew whose body trembled beneath his.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered, nuzzling that spot, breathing in those scents that could belong to no other woman. “Jaenelle.”

His hands relaxed, still cuffing her wrists but gently now. So gently.

“Jaenelle.” He was safe. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him for wanting her. She wouldn’t punish him for needing her.

He could give her this because she was the one he had waited for.

As he raised his head to look at her beloved face, he realized something wasn’t right about the room.

It didn’t smell like her. Like them. It smelled only like him.

“Kiss me,” he whispered before sinking into a kiss that was viciously gentle.

He needed her, couldn’t survive without her. And he needed the scent of her arousal, the flood of her pleasure, to fill his bed.

His room. His bed. And . . .

He looked at the woman who meant more to him than anything else, and thought, Mine.