Saetan pressed his lips together to hide his smile. Daemon’s robe. Daemon’s socks. The clues had been there, but neither Jaenelle nor Daemon had recognized the significance.
“That’s not the only time it’s happened,” Jaenelle said. “It’s a comfort.”
“How so?”
So much understanding in those sapphire eyes. “I don’t ever want him to feel like sex is a duty. The fact that he’s sometimes blind to an invitation means he doesn’t feel obliged to perform.”
“Did you wear that outfit on another night?”
She hesitated a long time. “Yes.”
“And did you get the response Surreal said you would?”
“Not exactly.”
But judging by the sudden color flaming her cheeks, she had definitely gotten a response.
He stood up, kissed her forehead, picked up the frame with the web, and walked to the door. Then he turned back. “Are you sure there are no other injuries, witch-child?”
“I’m sure.”
That assurance helped, especially when he walked out of Jaenelle’s sitting room and found Beale, Helene, and Jazen standing in the doorway of the Consort’s bedroom, a look of shock on their faces.
“Problem?” he asked softly. When they turned toward him, he raised a finger to his lips. “Prince Sadi is in my suite. It would be best not to disturb him.”
Helene looked from him to the bedroom and back again. “Was anyone hurt?” she asked in a hushed voice.
They stepped aside for him, and when he stood in that doorway, he understood the question.
Nothing outwardly wrong with the room. Nothing broken or damaged. Even the bed didn’t look unduly messy.
But the psychic scents in the room, combined with the muskiness of sex, made his own body tighten. Rage and fear filled the room, along with a hatred so deep it caught in the back of the throat like a bitter mist. If he’d walked into that room without already knowing both people were safe and unharmed, he would have been tearing the Hall apart to find Daemon and Jaenelle, certain one or both would be desperately hurt.
And there was something under all those other scents that he recognized, that he—and Daemon—would have to deal with.
But not yet. Not until his boy was feeling steady again.
He turned his back on the room and gave Helene the frame that held the cleansing web, and explained what it would do.
“Please give my thanks to the Ladies,” Helene said. “This will help to clean the room.” She looked at Beale and Jazen. “The fewer women in the room right now, the better.”
“I’ll help with the cleaning,” Jazen said. “And I’ll make sure the clothes don’t need to be aired.”
“I’ll send up Holt to assist,” Beale said.
Helene turned to Saetan. “We’ll have the room done in a few hours.”
“Good,” Saetan replied. “Jazen, leave a complete change of clothes in my sitting room for the Prince.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beale? Is there something else that needs my attention?”
“Prince Aaron is down in the breakfast room, waiting for Lady Angelline,” Beale said. “The Prince’s guest is pacing in the formal receiving room, muttering to himself.”
“Inform Prince Theran that someone will be available in an hour if he wants to discuss anything.”
“Very good, High Lord.”
There was a look in Beale’s eyes that told him plainly enough that the butler wasn’t going to inform Theran about who would be available for that discussion.
What was it about the Dena Nehele Warlord Prince that raised the hackles of Kaeleer males?
Still wondering about that, he walked back into his bedroom and found Daemon tucked in his bed. The body belonged to a full-grown man, but the eyes that watched him, so full of despair, belonged to a boy.
He sat on the side of the bed. “She’s all right,” he said softly. “In better shape than you are, actually.”
“There were bruises,” Daemon whispered. “On her wrists. I saw them.”
Saetan nodded. “Yes, there are. And there are a few love bites, which I didn’t see. And her leg muscles are sore, but you and Nighthawk are being given equal blame for those.”
“Oh.”
The smallest twitch of lips; a hint of amusement in the golden eyes; the tight muscles in the shoulders beginning to relax one breath at a time.
He knew the signs, had watched this son struggle to repair himself once before when he’d believed Jaenelle had been lost forever.
“Now,” he said, “you and Nighthawk may be equally to blame for the sore muscles, but you’re the only one with hands, so I suggest that you be the one who offers to give Jaenelle a back rub this evening.”
An unspoken question hung in the air. He waited.
Finally Daemon gave him the tiniest nod. The Steward of the Dark Court wouldn’t tell the Consort to take care of the Queen if there was any doubt about the Consort’s welcome.
Having done as much as could be done for the moment, Saetan called in a book, opened it to the table of contents, and pointed to the titles of two stories. “Which one would you like to hear?”
“Both?”
The answer made his heart ache—and also gave him hope that Jaenelle was right and Daemon was emotionally battered right now but not truly broken.
Daemon didn’t remember giving the same answer so many times as a boy that it had become a ritual between them. But he did. And because he remembered, he called in his half-moon glasses, took his time settling them on his nose just so, and completed the ritual with the same words he’d always said. “Yes, I think we can read both this time.”
CHAPTER 6
KAELEER
Agitated and feeling reckless, Theran rapped on the study door and walked in before he was invited.
“Hell’s fire, Sadi. Are you serious about these conditions you’ve set?”
The man sitting behind the blackwood desk wasn’t Daemon Sadi. It was the pissy old c*ck from the Keep. The assistant historian /librarian—who no longer looked like a somewhat benign clerk whose Red Jewels and caste could, mostly, be ignored.
Now he saw the resemblance between Sadi and the Hayllian Warlord Prince, who set a piece of paper on the desk and removed the half-moon glasses, whose gold eyes never left Theran’s face.
Fear shuddered through Theran when he noticed the Warlord Prince’s right hand, with its long, black-tinted nails and the Black-Jeweled ring.
“You managed to hone my temper before I walked into that sitting room at the Keep, so we never did finish the introductions. I’m Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, the former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and still the High Lord of Hell.”
Theran’s legs buckled. He hit the edge of the chair in front of the desk and grabbed the arms to push himself back in the seat.
“I—” What was he supposed to say to the High Lord? Apologize for not being more courteous when he’d been at the Keep?
“I’m assuming by the way you entered the room that you want to discuss the terms Prince Sadi set for having a Kaeleer Queen rule Dena Nehele.”
“Sadi . . .”
“Is indisposed this morning. You may discuss this with me.”
May the Darkness have mercy. All he wanted right now was to get out of this room.
Jared wouldn’t have run. Blaed wouldn’t have run.
“The terms are . . .” Sadi had accepted the position of Warlord Prince of Dhemlan a few months after his father resigned. Theran remembered hearing that last night at dinner. How was he supposed to voice his objections to the terms without sounding like he was criticizing the son? Because this was one father he did not want to offend.
“Unreasonable? Insulting? Barbed?” Saetan offered with a hint of a sharp smile. “Everything has a price, Prince Grayhaven. The man who wrote up these terms has a good understanding of Terreille. A better understanding than you do, since yours, I suspect, is confined to your own Territory. Prince Sadi also has a fine understanding of how the males in Kaeleer, especially the Warlord Princes, respond to any threat to a female, let alone a Queen. You may feel hobbled by these terms, but they were thought through carefully and are designed to protect your people as well as the Queen who comes to rule.”
Realizing he’d dropped the paper when he’d grabbed for the chair,Theran retrieved it and stared at the list of conditions.
“A year? She only stays a year?”
“A year is enough time for both of you to know if your people can accept an outsider ruling over them—and if your people really want to go back to following the Old Ways of the Blood.”
“If we didn’t want to go back to living the way we did when the Gray Lady ruled, we would have settled for . . .” For one of the Queens we have—who would destroy what’s left of us as surely as one of Dorothea’s pet Queens would have done.
Theran slumped in the chair, his hands dangling between his knees. “Grayhaven is my family’s home—and my inheritance. What’s left of it. She can have the use of it. As for a tithe . . . Hell’s fire. We’re just trying to get enough food planted and harvested so that everyone has enough to eat this winter. The Queens who ruled bled the land and the people dry. I told Sadi that last night.”
“That doesn’t change what is needed for a Queen’s court,” Saetan said quietly. “She deserves something for her effort, and the court needs some way to pay for its expenses.”
“Couldn’t the tithe be paid in goods and services?” Theran asked.
“If the Queen and the First Circle are agreeable to that condition, yes, a high percentage of the tithe could be done that way.”
Hopeful that there might be more flexibility to these terms than he’d first thought, Theran looked at the sheet of paper again. “Inspections?”
“And weekly reports from the Queen.”
“Why does she have to answer to anyone? And why should my people be treated like children who get surprise tests to see if we’ve learned our manners?”