All she’d done last night was prove he knew her better than she knew herself. At least she could show him that she wasn’t going to run away again. She had enough spine—and pride—to do that.
Surreal rushed down the stairs, handing the coat to Helton on her way to the town house’s breakfast room. She paused at the door long enough to use a psychic tendril to confirm that Daemon was in the breakfast room. Then she walked in.
No warmth or welcome in Daemon’s eyes, but she hadn’t expected any.
Her nerves danced. Who watched her? Sadi? Or the Sadist? His eyes weren’t glazed in the chilling way that was distinctive of the Sadist, but Daemon was definitely in a predatory mood—and his heat was becoming too potent again to be around him in a place the size of the town house. Ignoring her physical response and discomfort, she filled her plate, then sat across from him. After the footman poured her coffee, she thanked the man and told him to leave, giving him the escape that she couldn’t give herself.
“I’ll take Cambrya to the school this morning so that she can look around and meet the staff, and then show her the available cottages.” She took a bite of her omelet. Chewed. Swallowed. “Are you going to pick up the art supplies and then go on to Ebon Rih?”
“I am.” A clipped reply.
“Will you be staying at the Keep for a day or two?” She kept her voice matter-of-fact—just a second-in-command confirming their schedules in case she needed to reach him.
“Yes.”
Last night had unsettled him and sharpened his temper—and no one in Kaeleer could afford to have Daemon Sadi unsettled for long. Even after all these years, his mind was still healing; his sanity was still fragile. If he fell into the Twisted Kingdom, he would inflict devastation on the Realm and on the Blood.
She couldn’t help him mend what had been broken, so his spending time at the Keep was best for all of them.
“When you’re ready to return to the Hall, Jaenelle Saetien should come home with you. She’s had her turn at visiting.”
He nodded.
She couldn’t say he was eating with any enthusiasm, but at least he was eating.
She selected one of the iced cinnamon rolls and took a bite. Still warm . . . and delicious. “Hell’s fire, these are good.” She reached across the table and held it out to him—and hoped her hand wouldn’t shake. “Taste this.”
His eyes never left hers as he leaned forward enough to take a bite. He chewed. Swallowed. And relaxed enough to take a cinnamon roll for himself. “Those are good.”
As she told him her schedule for the next couple of days, she watched him finish most of the food on his plate.
Having eaten her fill, she pushed away from the table and walked around to his side. She gave him a soft kiss that made no demands, then eased back. “Try not to get your brother into too much trouble while you’re in Ebon Rih.”
“That’s like expecting water not to be wet.”
She grinned. “Then you’d better pick up some fudge for Marian before you leave town.”
There was some warmth in his eyes when she stepped away. “An apology before the fact?”
“Absolutely.”
His quiet laugh soothed her. When she left the town house a few minutes later, she almost believed there was a way to mend things between them.
Daemon walked into the art supply shop, saw the way the two shopkeepers—a Blood male and female—almost drooled at the sight of him, and felt his temper sharpen until he stood a heartbeat away from the killing edge. He smiled at them—a cold, cruel smile—and watched lust and greedy anticipation change to fear.
Good. It would annoy Lady Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh, if he splattered these people over the walls—or worse, much worse, if he let the Sadist off the leash to play with them.
“I’m looking for some art supplies for my niece,” he said.
“Of course, Prince,” the man said. “I can show you—”
“No, I’ll show him,” the woman said.
Or I can show you something you’ll remember for the rest of your blighted existence, because once I’m done with your bodies, I will make sure I see you in Hell—and then we can have a proper chat.
“Art supplies for a beginner?” a young voice said. “I can show you, Prince Sadi. I have a list.”
Daemon turned toward the girl standing in the aisle, holding up a piece of paper. About Titian’s age. Sweet smile. Determined smile.
As he breathed in, he sent a tendril of power toward her and caught her psychic scent.
A Queen. He’d seen her before, but where . . . ?
Then he remembered being introduced to Zhara’s granddaughter a few years ago. “Lady Zoela.” He gave her the small nod of respect that a Warlord Prince of his rank would offer to any Queen who wasn’t his own.
She came forward and kept her eyes on his. She was too young to be affected by his sexual heat. The guard who trailed behind her wasn’t that lucky. The heat washed over him, and Daemon was aware of the man’s efforts not to sink to his knees under the weight of unwelcome lust. Then the guard pulled back his shoulders and looked at Daemon, silently acknowledging that he might die in that shop trying to protect the young Queen.
“Want me to show you?” Zoela asked. “I’m just starting drawing lessons, so I have a list of the supplies I’m supposed to purchase. Grandmother said I was old enough to make the selections, so I’m here on my own.” She looked back at the guard and grinned. “Well, not by myself on my own, but I’m making my own choices—unless I ask for advice.”
She delighted everything in him. Wherever she’d been in the shop, she had felt him rising to the killing edge and had come forward—a young Purple Dusk–Jeweled Queen determined to do what she could to quiet that rage.
The guards assigned to her must weep with exhaustion at the end of the day, trying to keep up with, corral, and protect her while she followed her instincts and did her best to embrace the people in her grandmother’s city.
Zoela stepped closer, grabbed his hand, and tugged him down an aisle. “I’ll show you.”
“Thank you, Lady.” What else could he say? She was practicing her lessons in how to be a proper Queen, and it was part of his duties as a Warlord Prince to respond correctly and allow her to have that practice. So he really didn’t have any choice but to follow her.
It occurred to him that Jaenelle Angelline must have run over his father in much the same way when she’d been an equivalent age.
And it occurred to him that he should talk to Zhara about introducing Zoela to Jaenelle Saetien. Knowing his daughter’s sense of adventure and having this glimpse of Zoela, he would offer to pay the bonus he was sure would be required to have any guards accept that escort duty.
“What is your niece’s name?” Zoela asked.
“Titian.”
“That’s a lovely name. My friends call me Zoey.” She looked up at him and smiled—and Daemon wished he could leash his heat tighter and spare the guard that much discomfort. The man didn’t need to waste energy fighting against unwanted sexual desire.
Zoela consulted her list, then turned him and her guard into pack mules while she explained which kind of paper was used with charcoal and which was used for pencils and why one should have a sketch pad of less expensive paper for practice and experimenting and . . . and . . . and . . .
“Lady Zoela.” He wedged the words into her explanations. Did the child never take a breath? “I appreciate the advice, but Titian is just starting to explore drawing pictures. I don’t want to scare her with all of this.”