When she was done, she didn’t settle next to him to cuddle or talk or even sleep. She didn’t say a word. She simply dismounted and went back to her room, leaving him to wonder what had just happened—and why.
Surreal washed away the smell of sex—and him—before putting on a fresh nightgown and getting into her own bed. Then she grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pulled, hoping the pain would settle her, would help her think past the wanting that was twisting into something terrible.
Daemon had always been a demanding lover. He wore the Black and was a Warlord Prince, so that wasn’t surprising. He’d always been a wonderful lover, enjoying the pleasure he gave almost more than his own. He also liked to play, and while that play never physically hurt her, ever since the night when she’d found herself in bed with the Sadist, having sex with Daemon—even being around Daemon—frightened her, because he made her so needy, so desperate for his touch, his kiss, that she couldn’t think past feeling.
He swore the sexual heat was leashed, but she knew that wasn’t true. It was more now, always more, wrapping around her like a cocoon of soft fur that imprisoned, took away choices.
That was what the Sadist did—wrapped his victims in desire that they couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to escape until it broke them. Ruined them. Destroyed them.
She should talk to him again, should demand an explanation for why he was continuing to play with her like this. Like tonight, going to his own room without saying anything. Then that sexual heat drifting from his room into hers, and her waking with hard nipples and a wet need between her legs that wouldn’t be slaked by anything but him.
She had entered his room, ignoring the danger of being there, not sure if she intended to tell him to stop or to take her, but that one word purred in that deep, smooth voice—“Surreal”—took the decision away from her, had her working him, riding him. And leaving him. Escaping before the Sadist woke and decided to play with her.
She should talk to him in the morning and insist that he stop this game. But she was afraid, so terribly afraid, that if she forced him to admit that he had turned sex into an addictive torment, he would apologize with genuine sincerity—and never touch her again. And that was a torment she didn’t want to endure.
ELEVEN
Jillian dumped a pile of clean diapers at one end of the wooden table in the laundry room, then started folding the dry baby clothes. Daemonar and Titian were eating breakfast, and Marian was taking care of baby Andulvar. That gave her a little time to complete some chores before she escorted the children to the Eyrien school.
She liked Lord Endar, but she had learned everything he could offer. How much longer did she have to sit in a classroom, listening to the same lessons over and over and over? But if she didn’t go to school . . . When she was younger, she’d wanted to be a guard, a warrior, but she wasn’t sure she wanted that anymore. And she wasn’t interested in the other work that was usually pursued by Eyrien women, so what was there to do? She liked Marian, but she didn’t want to be someone’s helper forever. She wanted . . . She didn’t know what she felt, didn’t know what she wanted, didn’t know . . .
“What’s wrong with you?” Daemonar asked, approaching the table but not getting too close.
“Nothing is wrong with me.” What did it say about boys that Daemonar, a Warlord Prince who wore a Green Jewel, could plunge his hands into the guts of a deer but got squeamish about touching a diaper—even a clean one? “If you’ve finished your breakfast, you should clean your teeth and get ready for school.”
“Something is wrong,” Daemonar insisted. “You’ve been acting . . . odd. You’ve been acting like . . . a girl.”
Her hands clenched on the little shirt she had just folded. If she didn’t say something, he would keep poking at her until she hit him or started crying, so she said the one thing she knew would rout him. “I used to change your poopy diapers, boyo, so don’t you get bossy with me.”
She watched color rush into his face, darkening his light brown skin, before he rushed out of the laundry room.
Bitch, she thought as she finished folding the shirts. She grabbed the pile of little trousers and kept her head down as she felt the return of a male presence. Then, angry with herself for being bitchy and angry with Daemonar for pushing her into being bitchy, she turned and said, “Look, boyo . . . Oh.” She pulled her wings in tighter, an instinctive reaction when facing an adult Eyrien male. Lucivar Yaslana had a hot, volatile temper, but it was seldom displayed inside his own home. Remembering that, she offered a wobbly smile. “Is there something I can do for you, Prince?”
Lucivar studied her a moment before he started folding diapers.
Relieved to have some of his attention off her, Jillian folded more of baby Andulvar’s clothes.
“You should start thinking of another argument, witchling,” Lucivar said as calmly as if he were pointing out something of interest on the mountain. “Right now the boy is of an age where he’s embarrassed that he needed diapers and doesn’t want to think about who changed them. In a few more months—or years if you’re lucky—he’ll still be embarrassed, but he’ll set his heels down and fight . . . and he’ll fight harder for being embarrassed.”
“It’s none of his business.”
“You’re probably right.” Lucivar gave her a smile that she knew meant trouble. “But now it’s my business. So what’s wrong?”
Trapped. Excuses like being late for school or needing to do something that would get her away from him wouldn’t work. A glance at him told her everything she needed to know—the relaxed wings, the easy stance, the lazy smile. Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t realize he was prepared for a brutal fight. And right now she was the opponent he was focused on.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Lucivar went back to folding diapers. “You must have some idea.”
“I don’t!”
They folded clothes in silence for a minute before Jillian blurted out, “I broke the permission-before-action rule. I kissed Tamnar. And he kissed me back.”
“Oh?” Lucivar didn’t look at her, just kept folding diapers.
“It wasn’t intentional. It just sort of happened. And that’s all we did, so we barely broke the rule.”
“And?”
She was down to matching little socks and wasn’t sure how long she could spin out the task. “And what?”
“Did you like it?”
Relief that he wasn’t roaring at her made her head swim. “It was all right. I think Tamnar liked it more than I did.” She instantly felt disloyal. Tamnar was her friend, and it wasn’t his fault that kissing him hadn’t felt wonderful or exciting. Except . . . “Who else is there to kiss?”
Lucivar folded the last diaper. “That is a question, isn’t it?” A beat of silence. Then he looked at her. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”
“Yes, sir.” He was letting her go. He wasn’t going to push. She hurried out of the room but stopped when he said, “You didn’t eat this morning. Get some food in your belly before you leave here, so your legs don’t give out. Understood?”
Maybe feeling dizzy wasn’t all due to relief. “Yes, sir.”
As she passed through the eyrie’s kitchen, Marian handed her a hollowed-out roll filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese.