Daemon never fully relaxed anymore when he slept with her. Hadn’t fully relaxed in her bed in years. Just like he wouldn’t go beyond the first indication that he was willing to have sex until she said yes. Not an unspoken agreement either. She had to say it. Even when she initiated that particular dance, she had to tell him she wanted him.
She knew why he did it, but Hell’s fire, who would have thought Daemon Sadi would turn into milquetoast in bed, always asking permission, always assessing her reaction to see if what he was doing pleased her? Remembering the thrilling edge that used to be part of his lovemaking, the difference between the man who should be coming to her bed and the man who was coming to her bed grated.
“Problem?” Daemon asked. His deep voice with its sexual purr made all kinds of promises that wouldn’t be fulfilled.
Maybe she could persuade him to give her a little of the old lover again.
She reached under the covers and closed her hand around his cock. Already hard and ready to be ridden. Fisting one hand in his hair just hard enough to sting, she kept working him with her other hand as she gave him a hard kiss, her tongue tangling with his.
Breaking the kiss, she straddled him. “Yes?” she asked, leaning over him but holding his head down to keep him from kissing her.
“Yes.”
She positioned herself over his cock, eased down just enough for him to feel her opening. Teasing. Tormenting.
“Yes?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes,” he snarled, his gold eyes glazing with a hint of temper.
She sheathed him and rode him—and thought she saw, and felt, a glimmer of the man he used to be.
Daemon tucked into his breakfast with enthusiasm—and wondered what had come over Surreal that morning. It was the first time in a long time that she’d seemed to enjoy being with him instead of being overwhelmed by his sexual heat or disappointed in the careful sex he offered.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asked, slicing into a piece of steak.
“Nothing I can’t change as long as Holt isn’t allowed to scold me for not handing over reports and paperwork,” she replied. “Why?”
“I’m on a hunt. Care to join me?”
She set down her knife and fork, and he saw the Dea al Mon side of her nature shining in her gold-green eyes. Surreal did love a hunt.
“What are we hunting?” she asked.
“Art supplies and artists.”
She blinked. Then she picked up her utensils and resumed eating. “When people talk about critics killing an artist, they don’t mean that literally.” She paused. “Usually. So who are we hunting down and why? Garish colors? Poor design?”
“If that were the case, it would be shortsighted of me to make a kill and have the artist end up in Hell. One doesn’t acquire talent by becoming demon-dead, not if it wasn’t there when the person walked among the living.” Considering the artwork he displayed in the Hall located in the Dark Realm as a kindness to someone fulfilling a dream before becoming a whisper in the Darkness, he knew being dead didn’t unleash any latent talents.
He told her about Titian’s interest in art and Lucivar’s desire to encourage the girl—and his offer to help.
“The art supplies are easy,” Surreal said. “You can find those in Amdarh.”
You, not we.
Daemon swallowed disappointment along with his coffee.
“However, I did cross paths with a couple of artists who might be able to offer some advice,” Surreal continued. “One of them is on my list of things to discuss with you. She expressed an interest in teaching art at the school we run for half-Blood children. I gather a relationship of long duration has ended recently, and she wants to get away from the city where they had lived and make a fresh start.”
“Are there any available cottages or row houses at the school?”
She shook her head. “I checked on my way home. But there are a couple of cottages in the village itself that are available. One is in good condition. The other would need some work, but it has a small building at the back of the garden that I think would work as an artist’s studio. Big windows. Lots of light. I think we should look at the cottages and talk to the artist before you choose the art supplies.”
Daemon smiled. An adventure they could share before his heat became too uncomfortable for her to tolerate and they needed to go their own ways. Again. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien strolled down Riada’s main street. At least, he hoped they looked like two youngsters who were checking out the shops.
“Why did you want me to walk around the village with you?” Jaenelle Saetien asked. “Are we going to do something?”
She would wander around the countryside for hours, finding all kinds of things that caught her interest whether it was here or at the Hall. But she needed some kind of goal in order to hold her attention when walking around a village.
“You’re my blind,” Daemonar replied, nodding to Lord Zaranar when the Eyrien warrior stepped out of a shop across the street.
“I’m your what?” Jaenelle Saetien said too loudly.
“Hush. Don’t make a fuss. A blind is a way hunters can disguise their presence and not alarm their prey.”
She thought about that. “So you’re hunting?”
“I am.”
“Who? Why?”
“Someone hurt Titian, and I want to have a little chat with that person without my father or Rothvar figuring out who it was.”
She stopped and stared at him. “Who hurt Titian?”
She was only one-quarter Dea al Mon, but she was a scrapper—and her loyalty to family was as fierce as his own.
“I’ll deal with the who,” he replied. “That’s why you and I are walking around Riada this morning, looking in shop windows and ending up at the bakery, where we’ll buy pieces of fudge cake drizzled with chocolate sauce.”
“My payment for being a blind?”
“Sure.” Also something his father could verify if the question arose about what they’d been doing in the village.
“We could go to the bookshop,” Jaenelle Saetien said. “I’ve read all the books I brought with me.”
“I’ll pay for the fudge cake, but I’m not buying a book,” Daemonar said, drawing a line on how much he was willing to spend for her help.
“I didn’t ask you to.” Her voice turned snippy. “I have my own money.”
“All right, then. But let’s go to the variety shop instead. They have some books there.” Just not as many. Best to avoid bookshop temptation if they wanted enough time to eat a piece of fudge cake before they had to head back to the eyrie. His mother expected them home for the midday meal, and being late would spark his father’s temper, something he didn’t want to do since he had important things to discuss with Lucivar.
They headed for the variety shop that lived up to its name by having a little of this and some of that—and never the same this and that from one month to the next. He had a better chance of finding his quarry there than in the bookshop since she claimed books were dull—a recent change of opinion—but was always looking for something to buy, despite having limited spending money. He’d helped her out a couple of times to spare her the embarrassment of admitting that she couldn’t afford the item she’d placed on the counter, but he wouldn’t do that again. He saw no reason to help someone who was mean to his sister.
As luck would have it, his quarry and her “court” were coming out of the variety shop as he and Jaenelle Saetien approached it.