But she had to know—had to—if Sadi’s threat had been an empty one. She’d gone to her Healer and was assured there was nothing wrong. She’d gone to a Black Widow, who assured her there was no sign of any kind of spell around her.
Assurances. But not enough assurance, not when the person aiming a spell at her was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. She had to know if Sadi really could strip her of the ability to get any pleasure out of sex.
She’d picked the Warlord at this house party because he was married and he’d made it clear he wanted to romp. At any other time, she wouldn’t have done more than flirt with him, because he wasn’t wealthy enough or influential enough to do her favors. But he would help her prove that nothing would happen to her—as long as she avoided crossing paths with Sadi.
The candle-light in the lamp on the table beside the bed was on a low setting and, oddly, lit only one side of the room, leaving the other side midnight dark. She shrugged off that detail even quicker than she stripped off her clothes until she was down to high-heeled shoes and sheer panties.
And wasn’t that considerate of him? she thought when she noticed the shirt draped over a chair.
Heavy silk, lovely to touch. She hadn’t seen him wear anything like this, wouldn’t have guessed he could afford a shirt like this.
Unless this was the shirt he offered women for a romp.
The thought wasn’t appealing, and even less appealing was the possibility that he might not think her being here was anything special.
But there was a hint of spice rising up from the shirt where her hands had warmed the silk. Not cologne, just a spicy male scent that made her feel fluid and female.
She slipped on the shirt, loving the way it settled over her skin. She buttoned the cuffs, then buttoned half the buttons down the front.
She twirled once, twice. The shirt caressed her skin as it settled around her.
A bead of sweat tickled her as it followed the channel of her spine.
Damn, damn, damn. She didn’t want to sweat. At least, not before she and the Warlord were heavily into the romp part of the evening.
Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table.
Dark specks on the shirt, growing bigger by the moment.
More sweat trickling down her spine.
What in the name of Hell was going on?
She walked over to the mirror to get a better look. The shirt was clinging to her shoulders. As she reached the mirror, she pressed her fingers on a patch of now-dark silk.
When she raised her fingers, they were wet—and red.
She was sweating blood. How could she be sweating blood?
The shirt. Had to be something in the shirt.
She grabbed the fabric with both hands, intending to tear the shirt off.
Blood gushed from her hands.
She released the fabric and stumbled toward the door.
Help. She needed help.
The door wouldn’t open.
She pounded on the door, leaving bloody handprints.
“Help me! Somebody, help me!”
No response from the other side of the door.
“They can’t hear you,” a deep voice said in a singsong croon. “They won’t help you.”
She turned toward the voice coming from the dark side of the room. “My lover will be coming up to bed at any moment.”
Movement. Then a man appeared on the edge of the dark side of the room. Most of his face was still in shadow, but his smile was viciously gentle. “The Warlord? No, my dear, he won’t be coming up here. He was encouraged to leave and is, by now, on his way home.”
“What do you want?” she cried.
The shirt got wetter and heavier, clinging to her skin. Her legs trembled with the effort to remain standing.
“Odd how much terror can be produced by a piece of cloth,” he said in that singsong croon. “Don’t you think it’s odd? A simple shirt can destroy a person’s life. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of that fear?”
She heard the splat of blood dripping off the shirt and hitting the carpet.
“I’ve learned my lesson. Do you hear me? I won’t play with married men ever again.”
“I know you won’t.” There was nothing gentle about the gentleness in that deep voice.
“Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “I never played with you!”
He took a step closer. Got a good look at her face.
And felt something inside him snap.
A man’s anguish. What was left of a child’s face. A ceremony. A betrayal. Rage.
Memories collided, spun, became a twisting storm that hurled him over the border and into the Twisted Kingdom—where a terrible, and familiar, clarity waited for him.
“Who are you?”
She knew. How could she not know? But he would play her game a little longer, since it would be the last time.
“I’m the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell. And Daemon Sadi’s father.”
The storm inside him gathered speed, gathered power, gathered the cold, deadly rage. The sweet, cleansing rage.
“You took my boy.”
She shook her head.
Lying bitch.
“You tried to hurt my son.”
“I wouldn’t have done anything,” she cried. “It was just a game!”
“It’s always just a game, isn’t it?” he said too softly. “You like playing games, shattering lives.”
“I—” She sank to the floor, too weak to stand.
He breathed in the exciting scent of blood but had no desire to taste it. Not hers. Not that disgusting, foul brew that flowed in her veins.
But after this first payment was made . . .
She was . . . but she wasn’t. It didn’t matter. She and the other were enough alike.
She tried to hurt his son—and everything has a price.
He smiled a cold, vicious smile. “Dorothea, my darling, it’s finally time to pay the debt.”
CHAPTER 26
Someone tapped lightly on the first of Daemon’s inner barriers, waking him from a sound sleep.
*Prince Sadi?*
*Beale?* The butler wasn’t in the bedroom, but Daemon still pulled the covers up around Jaenelle’s delightfully naked body before he shifted far enough to turn over without disturbing her. *Beale?*
*You’re needed downstairs, Prince,* Beale said.
He took a moment to sift through the messages coming from the controlled tone of Beale’s voice on the psychic thread as well as the butler’s psychic scent. Whatever brought Beale up here to wake him required his immediate attention but didn’t require a Warlord Prince rising from sleep primed to fight.
Understanding the careful line the man needed to walk in order to get the desired response rather than the instinctive one, Daemon realized just how skilled Beale was at his job. *What time is it?*
*A little after three in the morning.*
Daemon slipped out of bed, pulled on his robe, and went into the Consort’s bedroom, where Beale waited. After putting an aural shield around the room so Jaenelle wouldn’t be disturbed, he said, “What’s wrong?”
“A Warlord arrived a few minutes ago,” Beale said, keeping his voice quiet despite the shield. “From the Province Queen’s court.”
Dhemlan had several Provinces, each ruled by a Queen. But there was an edge in Beale’s voice that told Daemon exactly which Province Queen was asking for help.
Something must have happened to make Rhea desperate enough to ask for his help.