He heard that under the words—and he knew Surreal heard it too. That, more than the woman’s artistic ability, was probably the reason Surreal wanted to offer Cambrya the job at the school.
“I’d like to purchase four sets of these line drawings,” he said. “I’d also like to borrow this primer. My niece is interested in drawing. I’d like to see how she would use it. If it does what I think it will, you and I can talk about having copies printed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Cambrya blinked back tears. “This is more than I’d hoped for when Lady Surreal contacted me.”
No, Daemon thought, seeing a kind of gratitude—and hunger—in her eyes that could turn into a terrible—and lethal—mistake. Don’t.
He was up and moving before either woman could react. *I’ll be outside,* he told Surreal. *Can you finish this?*
*Of course.*
Daemon walked out of the house. For centuries, he’d used the sexual heat that was an inherent part of being a Warlord Prince as a weapon against the bitches who had used him and tried to control him. Now that the heat had matured to its full potency, it was a damned inconvenience—and the price he paid for wearing the Black. The cold, glorious Black.
With the help of his Queen, he’d developed ways to lessen the impact of the heat on the people who worked at the Hall and the family’s town house in Amdarh, had found ways to lessen the discomfort it caused Surreal—mostly by living apart from her some of the time, even when they were both in residence at the Hall. But dealing with other women who might not realize that the heat was not an invitation for any kind of intimacy always strained the leash on his temper—and put an edge on everything he was.
He felt the Sadist waking, felt a dangerous edge to the undercurrent of desire to spend more time with his wife, and knew that wouldn’t be possible. He didn’t go to her bed when desire had that edge. To keep her safe. To keep her fear of him quiet enough that they could live together.
He heard the door open and close behind him and turned just enough to look at Surreal and measure her fear as she walked toward him. There was some, but the woman who had backbone and sass, the witch who was his second-in-command, had that fear under control.
“I’ll return tomorrow and take Cambrya over to the school and show her the cottages.” She held up a package wrapped in brown paper. “And I have the sets of drawings and the primer you wanted.”
He nodded. “Surreal . . .”
“No.” She stepped close to him and lightly touched his face. “Let’s stay at the town house tonight. It’s closer than going back to the Hall. Stay with me, Sadi.”
“I can’t tighten the leashes any tighter than they are. I can’t promise you’ll be safe in the way you want, and need, to be safe.” He hated that she feared him even when simple precautions would keep her safe, but that, too, was the price he paid for being who and what he was.
“I know. But I’d still like you to stay with me tonight. Can’t we try?”
She wanted him to stay with her, to be her lover tonight. He wasn’t picking up anything in her psychic scent that said otherwise.
Then he brushed his lips against hers and felt her shiver. There was fear, but it was mixed with a spike of anticipation and desire. And something else he couldn’t quite name.
“We can try.”
Lucivar spent his first hour at the Keep reviewing the week’s business with Karla, the demon-dead Gray-Jeweled Black Widow Queen who was now the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative second-in-command. Askavi’s Province Queens would have chafed at dealing with Marian—and his darling wife would have been unhappy and uncomfortable dealing with them. But Karla had ruled the Territory of Glacia, had been in the First Circle of the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi—and had been one of Witch’s closest friends. Any Province Queen who sat down with her knew she wouldn’t be intimidated by their bloodlines and wouldn’t be wary of their power because she had known a Queen who had power.
Still knew that Queen.
“I heard your boy slapped at a young Queen,” Karla said once they had reviewed the decisions she had made on his behalf.
Lucivar sighed. “Yeah, he did.” He should have known she would have heard about that. How she knew? That he couldn’t say. But very little happened in Ebon Rih that wasn’t known by the residents of the Keep.
“Did she deserve it?”
“She said something that made his sister cry. As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough.”
Her smile was sharp and in no way friendly.
He didn’t move, but he saw that smile and prepared himself for battle. Ebon-gray could, and would, win against Gray, but Karla wasn’t someone he wanted as an adversary—and not someone he wanted aiming any kind of dagger at his boy.
“Just as well he was the one who tangled with her since they’re the same age or close enough not to matter,” Karla said. “Any one of the boyos in the First Circle would have done the same. Hell’s fire, all of them would have shown up to explain, in their polite and lethal way, that the next time she acted the bitch, they would give her a reason to cry. And then they would have done it.”
Interesting. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but Karla was right. He’d known those Warlords and Warlord Princes when they were on the cusp of becoming men. Given a reason, they could have, and would have, committed a devastating social execution without spilling a single drop of blood.
Karla’s smile sharpened a little more. “Unlike her brother, who can be bossy and overbearing because he’s her brother and she has to put up with him, you have to encourage Titian to stand up and fight her own battles—and learn how to get up again after she’s bloodied.”
Lucivar snarled at her, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t like that she was right.
“Of course, knowing her father is standing right behind her, ready to step up and protect her if she needs him, will help her grow a backbone.”
“You don’t think that will keep her dependent?”
“About as dependent as your wife,” Karla said sweetly.
Which meant not at all. Being dependent was very different from depending on someone, and he depended on Marian as much as she depended on him.
“Well, the boy’s actions are something I need to discuss with the Queen.” He pushed out of the chair.
“Daemonar is his father’s son,” Karla said. “And his uncle’s nephew.”
That, more than anything, was the reason he needed to talk to Witch.
He walked through the corridors until he reached the ornate metal gate that separated the Queen’s private rooms from the rest of the Keep. He stayed away from the Queen’s bedroom and the adjoining Consort’s suite. Those rooms had become Daemon’s territory. But the sitting room across from those rooms had become the place where someone could have an audience with the Queen who shouldn’t exist—and yet did.
The body had died decades ago after a long and love-filled life, but the Self—the mind, heart, personality, and power—that was Jaenelle Angelline, and Witch, had remained in a deep part of the abyss she called the Misty Place. There, for decades, she had been a hope, a dream, a song in the Darkness for those who still needed her. For Daemon most of all.
But she’d been more than that for his boy because she’d understood the young Warlord Prince had not had enough time with her when she’d walked among the living and needed more from the Queen whose will was, and would always be, his life.
Lucivar entered the sitting room and waited. She would feel his presence. Whether she chose to respond, well, that was always her choice.