“I’m going to be in the other room with Lady Surreal tonight,” he said quietly. “You need to stay in this room. Do you understand?”
٭I will wait here for you.٭
“Yes. You sleep here, and I will see you in the morning.”
He gave her one caress before he rose, walked over to the door that separated the bedrooms, and knocked.
Their lovemaking often began in what Surreal thought of as the social area of her room—the mix of tables, chairs, and love seat where she could read in solitude or talk privately with a close friend or her daughter. Or cuddle with her husband while they talked about their respective days or shared observations made during that evening’s dinner or social gathering.
She had a feeling that Sadi wouldn’t join her on the love seat tonight and might deliberately misinterpret her invitation to discuss things as strictly verbal communication. So she waited for him in bed, propped up with pillows, a book open in her lap.
“Come in,” she said in response to a knock on the adjoining room’s door. Her smile froze when he saw her and hesitated, which meant his saying, “It will be my pleasure,” when they had talked earlier had been an acknowledgment of his duty as a husband.
Hell’s fire! She’d been a whore for decades. She’d been the most expensive whore for decades. Tonight she would need all of that skill to show him he was still wanted, still loved.
She flipped the covers back on his side of the bed. She closed her book but didn’t put it on the bedside table, a subtle way of telling him she didn’t expect him to perform immediately.
He stretched out beside her, propped up on one elbow. Not touching her.
“It’s confirmed now?” she asked. “Lucivar has taken over rule of all of Askavi?”
“He signed the document that gives him the whole Territory,” Daemon replied. “Draca and I witnessed it, so it’s official.”
“How does Marian feel about that?”
“She seemed to take it in stride after being assured that she wouldn’t have to be the buffer between Lucivar and all the Queens in Askavi beyond the ones whose territories are in Ebon Rih.”
“Someone has to arrange for audiences and prioritize meetings.”
Daemon looked amused. “It’s been sorted out. Marian will help Lucivar in his capacity as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, same as she’s done since she married him. Rothvar will be his second-in-command for the whole Territory when it comes to defending the Territory or any of its people from an outside invader or from each other. The Blood in Askavi will have a choice of living by the Old Ways or leaving. If they want to follow Terreillean ways, they can go back to Terreille—or face the Demon Prince on a killing field.”
“Mother Night.”
“There have been some savage fights in some of the Provinces, and several courts have broken. I imagine there will be quite a few people who want to talk to him in the next few days.”
“Who’s going to represent him when he’s not available to talk to the Queens and meet with the First Circles of newly formed courts?”
“Karla.”
Surreal blinked. “Karla?”
“Yeah.” Daemon laughed. “Lady Karla, the former Queen of Glacia, in all her Gray-Jeweled terrifying glory. She is Lucivar’s second-in-command when it comes to the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative duties. With Draca’s permission, she set up an office in the Keep and will command from there.”
“Will she have helpers?”
“I expect so.”
“Will any of them be among the living?”
“I didn’t ask. I played least in sight and let Lucivar deal with her.”
“Well, he did choose her.”
“Not exactly.”
She laughed and set her book aside. Before she could turn to him, he placed a hand over hers, and his mood sobered.
“The rocks at the back of the garden,” he said.
“If you want a rock garden, Sadi, you and Tarl can build it.” The sass in her voice should have made him smile. It didn’t.
“They aren’t there to grow anything. They’re there . . .” He sighed. “It’s dangerous to thin the shields around that chamber beneath the Hall. I must insist that you stop doing that.”
“What’s in the chamber?”
“Nothing that concerns you—and not something we’ll discuss.”
She studied his face, tried to read the warning. “Something Saetan left in your care?”
“Yes.”
She nodded her acceptance, since there was nothing else she could do.
“The rock pile is a place where you can drain your Gray Jewel whenever you need to,” Daemon said. “I’ve laced Black shields around them and filled pockets between the rocks with Black power. You can strike the shields without worrying about damage or danger.”
Meaning she wouldn’t have to engage with him directly for help draining the Gray or the Green. Since she’d avoided asking for his help for months, why did his creating this solution make her sad?
“Well,” he said.
She touched his face, kissed his mouth. “Stay. I need you, Daemon. Stay.”
She could barely feel the sexual heat that had been such a torment and wondered what he had done to quiet it so much that it was barely a sensual warmth tonight.
He didn’t reject her kisses or withdraw from her touch, but it took a while before he began to respond with some excitement, before he began kissing her back with some enthusiasm. Then she pulled the robe off his shoulders and ran her hand down his right arm—and found the scars.
She jerked back and stared at the white, thin ridges. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. What happened?”
He said nothing.
“Why didn’t Nurian heal these wounds so they wouldn’t leave scars?”
“They were meant to scar,” he said quietly. “Just as the one on my left wrist was meant to scar.”
“Why?”
“A reminder.”
Of what? she almost asked him. Then she remembered what he’d told Jaenelle Saetien about a private kind of healing at the Keep and knew who had given him those scars.
He kissed her, a lover intent on pleasuring his woman—or at least pleasuring the one he could touch. He took his time and loved her in all the ways she liked best. And when he finally sheathed his cock inside her, she knew he enjoyed it, knew he wanted her.
And yet . . .
Surreal invited Daemon to her bed each night, and they made love until they were both spent. The sexual heat became more noticeable with each passing day, and she knew Daemon watched her, always assessing whether the pleasure he gave her, and his presence, was still enjoyable or had slipped into torment. On the fourth night, instead of joining her in her bed, he kissed her good night and retreated to the suite that now served as his sanctuary.
He never stayed with her more than three nights in a row. Sometimes he retreated to the suite that had been his father’s. Sometimes he went to the Keep after Jaenelle Saetien fell asleep, and stayed for a day or two. When he returned, the sexual heat was drained to the point that it was just enough to add a fillip of arousal to everyday desire.
The edgy play that had been the merest whisper of the Sadist and had been an exciting part of being in bed with him was missing altogether, even when the heat became uncomfortably intense, and she regretted the loss.
She couldn’t breach the barrier between them—and admitted to herself that maybe she didn’t want to. She felt comfortable being around him again, felt they had reestablished the partnership they’d had for decades. This arrangement gave her breathing room so that she didn’t have to look at the full truth about the man she had married.