The slaughter would be horrific.
For everyone’s sake, she couldn’t leave Sadi without the protection of having a wife. But sometimes—often, lately—she wished Jaenelle Angelline hadn’t made being Sadi’s wife look so damn easy.
Daemon felt Surreal’s return to the Hall a few minutes before he felt the departure of the Ebon-gray.
Dhemlans, Eyriens, and Hayllians were the three long-lived races, their life spans measured in thousands of years. Too many years. While generations of other races bloomed and faded like summer flowers, the long-lived grew slowly—spurts of growth followed by long plateaus before reaching the next level of maturity. But races that measured their lives in centuries also needed more time to let go of words or actions that had caused a wound.
On the surface, Lucivar behaved toward Surreal as he’d always done, with a mix of caution for the Gray-Jeweled witch who was a highly skilled assassin and a willingness to fight her into the ground if that was what had to be done. But under the surface, Lucivar was still pissed off that Surreal’s choice to suffer in silence when she’d been overwhelmed by her husband’s sexual heat instead of talking to someone—anyone—had led to Daemon making mistakes that had resulted in his coming too close to shattering his mind again and sliding into the Twisted Kingdom.
There had been hurt on both sides, and if Surreal had talked to him after he’d made the mistake of allowing the Sadist to play as lover, their lives and marriage might have been very different. But they all knew if someone had told him outright that he would have to endure hideous pain for months and almost lose his sanity in order to bring Witch back into his life in any way, he would have done it without a second thought, would have embraced that pain and paid any price.
Not a body he could touch or hold or physically love. Not anymore. But the embrace of mind to mind, to be seen and accepted for everything he was in all his terrible glory, whether he was Daemon Sadi or the High Lord of Hell or the Sadist . . . That had saved him and continued to save him. Jaenelle Angelline, his Queen and the love of his life, might use those different labels to acknowledge aspects of who he was, but she saw no distinction. Sometimes he was more of one thing than the other, but for her he was always Daemon. Just like Saetan had been Saetan, whether he was going by the title of High Lord or Steward of the Dark Court . . . or father.
It hadn’t been her intention, but Surreal’s choices had brought Witch back to Daemon, and for that alone, he had been willing to work hard at being a good husband. A careful husband. Staying connected with the living and working on his marriage had been part of the bargain he’d made with Witch in order to spend time with her at the Keep, where her Self, using the enormous reservoir of power still at her command, could create a shadow of the dream that had lived within flesh.
So he worked on his marriage—or his partnership, as Lucivar called it—with Surreal, and Lucivar worked to let go of the kernel of anger that the Eyrien still felt toward Surreal.
Returning to his suite of rooms in the family wing of the Hall, Daemon took a quick shower and dressed in fresh clothes—his usual black trousers and white silk shirt. He debated for a moment about adding the black jacket, then decided that would look too formal, too official. He wasn’t looking for a report from his second-in-command; he was offering to spend the evening with his wife, doing whatever she wanted to do.
As he styled his thick black hair, he noticed the first threads of silver at the temples. At nineteen hundred years old, he was a little young for his hair to start changing color, but if he ended up with the silver wings at the temples that his father had, well, he wasn’t going to kick about that. Besides, his face, while still beautiful, looked mature now, but it was unlined except for faint lines at the eyes. Laugh lines. Couldn’t kick about acquiring those either.
He studied himself in the mirror over the dresser. Gold wedding ring on his left hand. Black-Jeweled ring on his right hand. Thinking about the woman in the adjoining bedroom, he vanished the pendant that held his Black, replacing it with his Birthright Red. Less intimidating.
Finally he took stock of the leashes—the self-control and self-discipline—that controlled his temper, power, sexual heat . . . and the Sadist. Everything was quietly leashed, comfortably leashed. He couldn’t tighten those leashes anymore to the point of harming himself. A barrier formed from Witch’s power made certain of that.
Since she’d been away for several days, Surreal might not mind the sexual heat that, even leashed, could overwhelm a woman and make her desperate for a lover’s attention.
Only one way to find out.
He knocked on the door between their rooms and waited for her invitation.
She had taken off the matching jacket but still wore the long dress—a simple design in a rich shade of green that looked marvelous with her light brown skin, gold-green eyes, and black hair pulled up with decorative combs to reveal her delicately pointed ears.
“I saw Lucivar as he was heading home,” Surreal said. “Official visit or family visit? Or . . .” She paled. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. The children?”
“They’re fine. Lucivar probably aged a decade by witnessing it, but they had a thrilling adventure riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”
She plunked down on the small sofa in the sitting area of her room. “Mother Night.”
Crossing the room, Daemon sank to his knees in front of her and removed her shoes. “Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”
“Did you when he told you?”
Daemon huffed out a laugh. “Eventually.” His hands moved up her legs, massaging her calves. “If they had been in any real danger, Lucivar would have intervened.”
“And if he’s not around the next time they get an idea?”
“Then this experience has taught them how to protect themselves.” His hands moved higher, his fingertips lightly caressing her outer thighs from knees to hips and back again. Then that teasing butterfly caress moved to the tops of her thighs as he watched her face and read the look in her eyes. When he shifted from sitting on his heels to an upright position, she opened her legs to accommodate him.
He stroked her inner thighs, coming close to the juncture but not touching—not because he was playing with her, but because he was waiting for her invitation.
She leaned forward. One hand fisted in his shirt and pulled him toward her. “Sadi.”
When there was barely a whisper of space between his lips and hers, he resisted the pull and said, “Yes?” A question. A requirement.
“Yes.” Damn you.
He heard the unspoken sentiment, but when his thumb stroked the damp silk and lace of her panties and she gasped, he closed his mouth over hers and let his kiss fill her with the heat of his desire and need. He gave her what her body and emotions told him she wanted—and he loved her until she was too sated to want more.
TWO
Surreal woke at first light and looked at the man sleeping beside her. Maybe still sleeping. His awareness of her was such that he usually woke before she did, sensing some change in her body or her breathing or her psychic scent.