“I don’t know. Maybe.” Part of her hoped he could explain it all away the next time she saw him. Part of her remembered how he dismissed her thoughts about things, making her feel her opinions had no value. If her thoughts had no value, if she had no value, then the only reason he wanted to spend time with her was for whatever he could persuade her to give him. That made everything he did a kind of transaction.
She didn’t want to think that of him, because she loved him. Didn’t she?
“It could have been a mistake,” she said, not sure if she was talking about the cakes or about Dillon’s interest in her—and her interest in him.
Surreal smiled, but her gold-green eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “Seems like the day to make them.”
THIRTY
The moment the storm moved on, Surreal left Khary with Jillian and returned to Lucivar’s eyrie, arriving just ahead of the man and the boy.
“Daemonar!” Marian rushed to meet them, then stopped, clearly struggling with whether to treat the boy as a boy—which was what she wanted—or as a warrior youth, which was what he clearly wanted.
Lucivar gave Daemonar a light push. “Hug your mother and apologize for being stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Daemonar, as boy and son, threw his arms around Marian. “I’m not sorry I hit the prick-asses, but I’m sorry I upset you.”
Surreal looked past Lucivar, expecting Daemon to walk in behind him.
Titian, Jaenelle Saetien, and Morghann rushed to the front room from wherever they had been playing.
“What happened?” Titian asked.
Daemonar carefully withdrew from his mother’s embrace. “Got in a fight.”
“Why?”
“Don’t have to say.” There was a finality in the boy’s voice that sounded so much like his father, neither girl pushed for details.
But Jaenelle Saetien pointed at Daemonar’s arm. “What’s that?”
“It’s a shield to protect his arm while the bone heals,” Lucivar said.
Marian made a distressed sound.
“It’s pretty,” Jaenelle Saetien said, hooking her black hair behind her delicately pointed ears.
Daemonar and Titian looked at their cousin like they couldn’t believe she didn’t understand how terrible this was, and said in unison, “It’s blue.”
Titian reached out but didn’t quite touch the shield. “Could you put another shield over it to hide the color?”
Daemonar looked disgusted. “Already tried that. It made the color brighter.”
Surreal studied Lucivar, who was struggling to keep a straight face.
“The color doesn’t matter,” Lucivar drawled. “Daemonar won’t be doing any hunting or weapons training until the bone fully heals.”
“Papa!” Daemonar sounded horrified by that prospect.
“But you and I will be spending your training time reviewing how to properly shield before and during a fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
٭Healing requires food,٭ Morghann said. ٭Daemonar should eat. We will eat with him, to keep him company.٭
Lucivar turned away, coughing.
Marian stared at Morghann, who just wagged her tail and looked hopeful.
“Fine,” Marian said, glancing at Surreal and Lucivar. “We’ll have a snack while I start preparing dinner.” She led the yappy horde into the kitchen.
As soon as they were alone, Surreal hurried over to Lucivar. “Where is Daemon? Was he at the Keep? Why didn’t he come back with you?”
“He went to the Hall for the night. He’ll be back in the morning.”
“I have to talk to him. Can you keep Jaenelle Saetien?”
“Surreal . . . Leave him alone tonight.” A warning, not a suggestion.
Shaking her head, she rushed out of the eyrie and went down to the landing web so fast she almost lost her footing on the wet stairs. Then she caught the Gray Wind and headed for SaDiablo Hall.
Daemon waited while Beale and Holt absorbed what he’d just told them about the headaches, the healing, and what needed to be done. Neither man asked how a Queen who shouldn’t have existed anymore was still present in some way and still giving orders. Maybe they were so relieved to know her strength was still balancing his that they didn’t want to know how it was possible, only that it was.
“There is the suite of rooms deep beneath the Hall,” Beale said. “I believe your father stayed there when he needed a particular kind of solitude. However, I would recommend using the bedroom suite he used when the Queen lived here. You would have sunlight and fresh air. The other suites around that square are empty now, so you could easily put Black shields around the whole square and have access to the garden. I think that would feel less like . . .” The butler finally stumbled on the words.
“Like a cage?” Daemon said.
“Yes, Prince. There is no need to feel walled up in stone when you require solitude for your well-being and ours.”
“That suite would be far enough away from the family quarters you’re using now,” Holt said. “The Black—or the heat—shouldn’t cause problems for Lady Surreal at that distance, especially with Black shields around the rooms.”
He had considered his father’s private study deep beneath the Hall, but Beale had the right of it. He didn’t think feeling walled in would do anything good for his continued healing or control. But if he put Black shields around the whole square of rooms that overlooked the same garden as his father’s suite, he would have the isolation necessary without feeling confined. And he would have another safe way to use the Black.
“Ask Helene to get that suite ready,” Daemon said. “I don’t know how soon or how often I’ll need it.”
“If you’ll permit my discussing this with Mrs. Beale in general terms, she can consider what kind of foods she can prepare that you could heat or eat as is,” Beale said. “I would bring the meals to you.”
“The less interaction, the better,” Daemon replied. “Until we know . . .” He almost felt like himself, but he didn’t have a sense of how much control he had over his power and temper—or anything else.
Beale nodded. “Until we know.”
Surreal’s abrupt arrival at the Hall startled Beale.
“Is he here?” she demanded. A psychic probe would have given her the answer, but she didn’t want to do anything that might seem like a challenge.
“He’s in his suite,” Beale replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. “We weren’t expecting you. The Prince said he would take a plate of whatever Mrs. Beale had prepared for the staff’s dinner, but I can tell her that you’ve returned as well and—”
“Just fix two plates, if there’s enough to spare.” There would be plenty. No one who worked at the Hall went hungry. “We can eat in the family room.” In many ways, that room was where their life together had begun, because that was where they’d been when grief over Saetan’s final death turned into a physical need to give and receive comfort.
Maybe that subtle reminder would help her talk to him.
Hurrying to their suites in the family wing, she knocked on the door of Daemon’s bedroom and walked in before giving him a chance to reply—or deny her entrance—and only then remembered why she shouldn’t be alone in that room with him ever again.
“Surreal?” He didn’t sound angry that she had followed him home, but he also didn’t sound pleased to see her. “Why are you here?”
I live here. Don’t I?
Instead of the tailored black trousers and jacket paired with the white silk shirt—his usual choice of attire—he wore a white cotton pullover. The casual trousers were black but loose. And he wore house slippers instead of his usual polished shoes. Nothing unusual about Daemon being dressed so casually for an evening at home. He’d learned years ago that such clothes were easier to clean after dealing with baby poop or little-girl puke. But, somehow, seeing him like this . . .