The Shadow Queen (34 page)

He vented some of his temper in sheer volume. “This evening when I walked into my room at Lady Rhea’s house, that bitch Vulchera was wearing one of my shirts!”

There was a look in her eyes he’d never seen before, a kind of pissed-off incredulity.

“When in the name of Hell did you get so damn possessive about a shirt?” she yelled. “If you don’t want me wearing one of your precious shirts,
say so.
Or have Jazen tell me, since he seems to be just as possessive of anything that resides in your closet.”

“That’s not—”

She ripped open the shirt, sending the buttons flying. Stripping it off, she scrunched it up and threw it behind her.

He wasn’t sure what she was wearing under the shirt, except that it was a combination of sheer fabric and lace that veiled her nipples without hiding them.

His mouth watered, and his mind went wonderfully blank of everything that didn’t concern having their two bodies come together in particularly delicious ways.

Which was a problem, since he’d finally managed to get her well and truly angry with him.

Besides, the sooner he figured out a way to end the fight, the sooner he could apologize for being an ass and they could put all that energy and emotion to better use.

“Let’s start with some basic truths, Prince,” Jaenelle said.

He winced at her tone of voice.

“You’re a beautiful man, Daemon. It’s more than your face. It’s the way you move, and the timbre of your voice, and the sexual heat that comes off you even when you’ve got it leashed. All of those things are part of what you are. And women are going to be drawn to you because of it. Hell’s fire,
I
was drawn to you because of those things. I still am, you ass.”

His lips twitched, trying to smile.

“And you can’t deny that the times when you walk into the bedroom wearing leather pants and nothing else, you aren’t looking for the reaction you get.”

Just remembering her reaction was making him hard. Harder.

“No, I can’t deny it.” His voice turned husky, almost a purr.

“A lot of women are going to want the body they see. Some of those women will also want the man who lives inside it.”

“The man they think lives inside it.”

“Point taken.” She sighed, and the sound made him hopeful she was shaking off the anger. “Aaron runs into the same problem on occasion when he’s an overnight guest, especially when Kalush isn’t with him. I don’t know what to tell him either, except to make his refusal so embarrassingly public the woman won’t dare go near him again.”

“It wasn’t that,” Daemon said, looking away. “Not all of it anyway.” His fury returned, but he worked to keep it leashed. “Vulchera is a woman, not a girl, and can’t use the excuse of being young for being stupid. She’s a trusted friend of Rhea’s, so she was among the aristos Rhea had invited to provide conversation and company after she and I reviewed the business I was there to review.”

“Was there any business?” Jaenelle asked.

“Some. Anyway,Vulchera’s flirting was too pointed and obvious from the moment we were introduced—and not the friendly kind of flirting your coven indulges in that’s meant to be nothing more than fun. Your friends taught me that there are ways a woman can flirt with a man that lets him know he’s safe.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “This woman wasn’t interested in doing anything that was safe, and she certainly wasn’t interested in my reputation or my feelings. She used the same scented soap that you had purchased the last time we visited Lady Rhea’s court.”

“It’s not an exclusive soap or an exclusive scent. It’s not even exclusive to the shops in that Province.”

“Vulchera wasn’t wearing that scent the first day,” Daemon said softly. “Since we were at Rhea’s country home, there was only one shop that carried items suited for an aristo purse. She paid one of the clerks to find out what scent you used.” And he intended to have a little chat with that fool very, very soon.

“And then she put on one of your shirts,” Jaenelle said, nodding as if she understood.

But she didn’t. “Do you know how I feel when I see you wearing one of my shirts?” he asked. “Do you understand how aroused it makes me, how much possessive pleasure it gives me? Because of who you are, when you wear one of my shirts, you’re telling the whole household that you’re mine. And more than that, that I’m yours.”

“I feel surrounded by you,” she said quietly. “Comfortable. Safe. Loved.”

“And aroused?” he asked just as quietly.

“Only if I picture you wearing it,” she muttered.

Her answer made him smile—and smoothed some of the jagged edges inside him.

“Well, this bitch did understand. Before we got through dinner that first evening, she realized I wouldn’t invite her to my bed or accept an invitation to hers. So she used a scent I associated with you, put on a piece of clothing that would carry my own scent. She wanted me to pretend she was you. She wanted me to believe she could be a substitute for you.”

Jaenelle studied him. “So you were insulted on my behalf?”

Rage flashed through him before he got it back under control. “Of course.”

For the first time since she walked into the room, she looked wary. With good reason. He might overlook an insult aimed at himself, but he would never tolerate an insult aimed at her.

“Is she still alive?” Jaenelle asked.

“She’s alive.” The Sadist smiled a cold, cruel smile. “But I did inform her that the next time she tried to seduce a married man, she would lose all feeling between her legs, guaranteeing a total lack of pleasure and no possibility of climax until the spell ran its course.”

Jaenelle swallowed hard. “How long?”

“Six months for every married man she had tried to seduce, and a year for every one she had successfully seduced.”

“Can . . . can you do that?”

“The spell is already in place.”

She looked stunned. “Mother Night.”

He stepped closer. Slipped a finger under a strap of that
whatever
she was wearing.

“I don’t want to talk about Vulchera anymore,” he crooned. “I don’t want to think about her. Not her.”

He knew his eyes were glazed, knew which side of himself wanted to play.

And so did Jaenelle.

“Stay with me tonight,” the Sadist purred. “Here. In this room. Let me play with you.”

“What . . . wh-what does that mean?”

The stutter pleased him. So did the nerves.

“Leave this on. I find it intriguing. With it, I want you to wear one of my shirts and those sheer white stockings. Nothing else.”

She made a small sound. Might have been a whimper.

“I’m going to plump up the pillows and make myself comfortable. You’re going to straddle me. Sheathe me. And then, my darling, I am going to make you stay perfectly still. I’m not going to let you touch me in any way except to give me sweet kisses while I enjoy touching you. I’m going to play with you, lover. I promise I’ll be very, very gentle, and by the time I’m through, I’ll make you very, very happy.”

Her eyes were glassy, and she looked dazed by the force of sexual heat now surrounding her.

“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and get ready?” he said, taking a step back.

He hardly dared to breathe until she closed the bathroom door.

He wanted her desperately at that moment, but he knew what he was asking, knew what he was going to do. He had to give her enough time to think clearly and decide if she was willing to play.

He took off his shoes and socks, removed his belt. He pulled back the covers, plumped the pillows into a mound, and reclined against them, waiting.

The Sadist as lover.

Oh, yes. He wanted to play.

When she came out of the bathroom dressed exactly as he’d requested, he knew in a way he hadn’t before that there was no part of him she feared—and that was the most arousing thing about her.

He was pleasure and trust—even as the Sadist.

When she climbed onto the bed and straddled him, he caught the scents of nerves and excitement. By the time he allowed her to sheathe him, she whimpered out of need.

And hours later, while he watched her sleep, he knew he had made her very, very happy.

CHAPTER 22

TERREILLE

T
heran walked out on the terrace and crouched beside Gray and the honey pear pots.

“Anything poking out of the dirt yet?” he asked, even though he could see perfectly well there were no seedlings.

“Too early,” Gray said, sounding distant and distracted. And sad. “Won’t know for a while yet if anything will want to grow.”

“Something wrong?” Theran asked. “Are you worried about going to the Keep for dinner tonight?”

Why wouldn’t Gray be worried?
He
was worried. They wouldn’t be dealing with either the High Lord
or
Yaslana
or
Sadi; they’d be dealing with all three. As far as he was concerned, those were three good reasons for having nightmares.

At least this dinner had been the leverage he’d needed to stop Cassidy from going into town for the outdoor concert. She’d been disappointed—and unhappy with him—but she had accepted his “request” that she remain at the estate and not take risks.

The Darkness only knew what sort of excuse he could find the next time she wanted to expose herself to the Dena Nehele people.

“Cassie doesn’t want to plant the seeds she brought from Dharo,” Gray said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the pot in front of him. “When I asked her this morning why she hadn’t picked out a spot in the garden for them, she said maybe it would be a mistake to plant them, that maybe things that aren’t from Dena Nehele shouldn’t be trying to put down roots here.”

“Makes sense,” Theran said. “We don’t want our own plants pushed out because something else was brought into our land.”

“She wasn’t talking about the plants,” Gray said. “Not really.” He sighed and looked at Theran. “I love you, Theran, and I am grateful for the way you’ve taken care of me these past years.”

“There’s nothing to be grateful for,” Theran grumbled. “We’re family.”
And you wouldn’t have needed that care if you hadn’t been protecting me.

“When Cassie goes back to Dharo, I’m going with her.”

The words shocked him. Chilled him. Showed him a potential loss that wasn’t about a physical distance separating them.

“Gray,” he breathed. “Gray, this is your home. Here. In Dena Nehele.”

“She doesn’t think there’s anything here for her. She doesn’t think she can put down roots and make a life.”

“You’re talking about going to Dharo,” Theran argued. “About going to
Kaeleer.
”

Gray nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning, after she said that about not putting down roots.” He shifted so he was sitting on the flagstones. “If Cassie doesn’t belong here because her bloodlines began in a different place, do we belong here,Theran?”

“What?”

“I guess you belong here because you have the Grayhaven bloodline, but I’m wondering about me.”

“Hell’s fire, Gray. Do I need to show you a map and point out the village where you were born? A village that’s
in
Dena Nehele?”

“I didn’t begin there,” Gray said. “I can trace my bloodline to Thera and Blaed on my mother’s side.”

“So can I,” Theran snapped. “Our mothers were sisters, remember?”

“Thera and Blaed came over the Tamanara Mountains with Lia and settled in Dena Nehele.”

“To serve Lia.”

“They put down roots, made a life for themselves here, but they didn’t come from Dena Nehele. Neither did Jared. He came from Shalador. And his people, the ones who came over the mountains to escape the destruction of their Territory . . . Did enough Shalador blood get spilled defending Dena Nehele to entitle the survivors to put down roots?”

“Gray . . .” The thought staggered him—and made him wonder how Ranon would respond to that question.

“I’ll be going with her,” Gray said. “If she’ll have me.”

He’d never heard his cousin talk like this. “What would you do in Dharo?”

Gray shrugged. “I’ll find work. Maybe I could work for Cassie’s father.”

A Purple Dusk Warlord Prince working for a Warlord who wore Tiger Eye? What was Gray thinking?

If he was thinking.

If any part of this was actually Gray’s idea.

Was Cassidy using Gray as a pawn in some kind of game? Wouldn’t be the first time a Queen had used one man in order to chain another.

“Well,” Theran said, rising, “there’s plenty of time to think about all this. Right now, we both need to get cleaned up and properly dressed. For Cassidy’s sake, we want to make a good impression.”

Gray’s eyes flashed with temper, turning a familiar face into a stranger’s. Then the temper faded, and the man looking at him was more like the boy Theran had known during these ten years since Talon rescued Gray.

“Yes,” Gray said, “we want to make a good impression.”

Settling on the arm of the sofa, Saetan crossed his arms as he studied his daughter.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for, witch-child,” he said. He’d listened to Jaenelle’s account of Daemon’s return from the visit to Lady Rhea’s country house, and he heard the concern in her voice. Since he’d already heard Daemon’s report about the incident, he didn’t understand
why
she was concerned.

“I wasn’t hurt, and Daemon wasn’t hurt,” Jaenelle said. “Don’t you think his . . . punishment . . . is a bit harsh?”

“On the contrary, I think it showed a remarkable amount of self-control.”
Maybe too much self-control.