Last night he’d dominated, possessed, kept her under his body and under his control. Now he had a sudden image of her riding him, her body a teasing shadow covered by the shift, her legs sheathed in those sheer white stockings, his fingers moving up her legs to the damp skin above the stockings, moving up to the wet heat that sheathed him.
That image stayed in his mind, but the tone changed, becoming a dark, spicy thrill when she realized she wasn’t the one in control, that he was still . . .
He jerked back, snarling, as fingers snapped in front of his face.
Jaenelle stared at him. “I don’t know where your brain went just now, but, Mother Night, Daemon, judging by the way your eyes glazed, we don’t have time for whatever you were thinking.”
They had all the time they wanted. Who would dare interrupt them?
“I’m going to Dharo today, remember?”
Leave? She was going to leave?
“Daemon. You have a guest, remember?”
Theran. Stranger. Male. Rival.
“Daemon.”
Her hand clamped over his wrist. Physically, he could break the hold without effort. But her touch, her will, was the only chain strong enough to keep him leashed.
He shifted on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, trying not to snarl at her for denying him the right to eliminate a rival.
She blew out a breath and kept her hand clamped on his wrist.
“You won’t be able to settle if I stay here today, and if you don’t settle, Prince Theran is going to end up dead.”
She was right, and they both knew it.
“And you need to get out of this room until it’s been cleaned and aired.”
She was right about that too. But . . .
He wasn’t Daemon anymore. Not completely. That other side of him was swimming close to the surface, wanting to dance, wanting to play, wanting to give her a little taste of fear while he aroused her body and produced a banquet of climaxes ranging from wild screams to soft, helpless moans.
He caught the back of her neck and pulled her forward gently, carefully, implacably. His mouth opened and hovered a breath away from hers.
“Kiss me.” Not a request. A purring command.
She trembled a little as her mouth touched his. As her tongue touched his.
A soft kiss. A lingering kiss that soothed with the promise of fire at the end of the day.
He eased back and shoved his brain and libido—and the Sadist—away from all the thoughts of what his body wanted to do with hers.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“For last night? Yes. For eating the last bite of the seafood omelet? I’ll have to think about that.”
He looked at the tray and realized they’d done a fair job of cleaning the plates. “I didn’t drink any of the coffee,” he muttered.
Jaenelle bared her teeth in a feral smile and lightly pinched his cheek. “That’s why you still have all your fingers.”
Daemon stepped out of the Consort’s suite and felt the dark presence in the rooms across the corridor. He shivered as he stared at the door to his father’s sitting room.
As much as he’d told Jaenelle in an effort to explain last night, there was so much more he hadn’t said. Couldn’t say. Not to her.
For one thing, he wasn’t stable, wasn’t sure he could be trusted around her—and that scared him to the bone.
He crossed the corridor, knocked on the door, and waited for his father’s deep voice to give him permission to enter. Barely pausing to close the door, he hurried to the chair where Saetan was reading a book, and sank to his knees.
“Father.”
Saetan closed the book, then removed and vanished his half-moon glasses. “What’s wrong?”
Jaenelle’s lack of anger and her willingness to understand had helped him maintain a crust of calm, a thin layer of control, that had hidden a seething ugliness for a little while.
But here, now, he faced a man who wouldn’t hesitate to punish him if he needed to be punished, who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him if that was needed to pay the debt. Who would understand the depth of what he’d done wrong.
“Father,” he said, his voice breaking. “I hurt Jaenelle. I scared Jaenelle.” Those words would mean little to most people, but Saetan would know what it would take to frighten Witch.
“Tell me,” Saetan said.
He told Saetan everything. Everything. And when he was done, he pressed his face against his father’s legs . . . and wept.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful, Saetan thought as he stroked Daemon’s hair, the movement of his hand weaving a soothing spell around his son.
It could have been worse. Could have been much worse. This was a painful reminder that Daemon’s mind and sanity had been shattered twice—and no matter how strong the man, no matter how well he healed, there were always scars, always permanent damage. But he could help his boy deal with the fears stemming from last night.
“Are you ready to listen?” Saetan asked quietly.
What worried him was the certainty that if he told Daemon to strip and lie on the floor to be whipped until there wasn’t any skin left on his back, Daemon wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t question—as long as the punishment came with the promise that Jaenelle would truly forgive him for last night.
Daemon nodded, his face still pressed against Saetan’s legs.
“I’m here because Jaenelle asked me to come—not because she needed me, but because you did.”
“She needs a Healer,” Daemon whispered.
And you need more than a Healer. And the witch who had the skill to mend what had been broken was currently in the suite across the hall. “I’ll see to it, and I will tell you what is needed. I’ll also find something to do with your guest.” And wouldn’t that be fun?
“Now,” he said, giving Daemon’s hair a tweak, “you need some rest, so I want you to wash your face, strip down, and get into my bed.”
He felt the jolt, recognized the reason. A Warlord Prince was what he was, and letting another male in his bed for any reason was an unspoken testimony of love. His bed had been forbidden ground, but every one of his boys had been allowed to have a nap there when they were feeling shaky or heartsore. Sometimes he had joined them, had held them while they whispered their little hurts and secrets; sometimes he sat in a chair by the bed, reading. Either way, his boys knew they were safe there, protected there. And sometimes knowing that was all they needed.
“Really?” Daemon asked, with just enough doubt to rip at Saetan’s heart.
“Really. I’ll even read you a story after I take care of a couple of things. Go on, now.”
Daemon got to his feet, unable to hide how shaky he was physically and emotionally. He swallowed once, twice. Then he rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
A moment later, aural shields went up around the bathroom to hide the sounds of Daemon being violently sick.
Sighing, Saetan went across the hall and knocked on the door to Jaenelle’s sitting room.
Fresh from a bath, she was bundled in a robe, her golden hair still damp. He saw no fear in the sapphire eyes that assessed him, but he did see worry.
Using Craft, he floated a footstool over to her chair and sat down in front of her.
“How is he?” Jaenelle asked.
“First things first. Was this rape?” Am I going to have to execute my son?
He saw the shock in her eyes, quickly followed by anger. “No.”
“Are you saying that to protect him because he’s your husband?”
“No.” Her voice was icy and knife-edged. “I’m saying that because it wasn’t. He gave me a choice, Saetan. He asked me to stay, but he told me I could go. I chose to stay.”