FOURTEEN

Propped on one elbow, Dillon watched the woman sleep.

He hadn’t been looking for anyone during the days of Winsol, and it had taken him a couple of days to realize the witch who was a decade older than he had focused on him for more than brief conversation. He hadn’t thought much of her interest in him until she began sharing her sad tale about the lover who had jilted her. They had been handfasted and were going to marry, were going to have children and be together forever. But he’d abandoned her, had packed up his things and had left one minute after the handfast expired.

After being with her a couple of days, Dillon didn’t blame her former lover for running. He’d accepted her invitation for “company”—which, it turned out, had meant sex—because he was lonely and still hurting from his own family’s rejection during the days of the Blood’s most important celebration. In the days since then, he’d likened her to one of those plants that ensnared its prey and then sucked the life out of it.

She constantly compared him with her previous lover. Favorably, yes, but he felt like she was ticking off boxes on a list. Or, worse, was simply desperate to acquire another lover to prove the other man was wrong about her and whatever had been said wasn’t true. What had, at first, seemed like a need for reassurance now felt smothering.

She’d asked too many questions about the cottage and village where he claimed to live, had pouted when he hadn’t leaped at her suggestion of coming for a long visit, and had started making “teasing” remarks about him having another woman as the reason for his lack of enthusiasm. She’d mentioned too many times how she longed to have children, making him glad that he kept the contraceptive brew he used hidden and shielded. He wondered if she’d tampered with the brew her former lover used, intending to get pregnant and hold a child for ransom to ensure the man would dance to her tune until the Birthright Ceremony, when he would either gain legal rights to his child or be denied forever.

He’d told himself he wanted a handfast, wanted a way to begin restoring his reputation and honor. But not with her. All he could see with her was a year, or a lifetime, of misery.

He did want a handfast, but he didn’t want to be the one feeling the knife’s edge. Not again. He needed someone he could control.

His thankfully temporary lover opened her eyes, smiled, and reached for him.

Her fingers were skilled. But the desperation and calculation in her eyes confirmed that he needed to convince her to let him leave. Time to find out how well that spell worked and whether it was worth what he’d paid to learn it.

If you loved me . . . If you loved me . . . If you loved . . .

* * *

* * *

Surreal dreamed of hands that caressed her until she felt helpless with pleasure, dreamed of long black-tinted nails that were sharp as a razor slicing her thighs. She dreamed of her husband pleasuring her as he watched her bleed out—and woke in a panic, on the verge of a savage orgasm.

Using her own hand would take away the worst of the need, but it wouldn’t satisfy. She’d learned that the hard way. Everything else was a pale substitute for Sadi’s touch.

Tersa wasn’t in bed, wasn’t in the room. Surreal had no idea how long the Black Widow had been gone, but she’d find Tersa later. Right now her husband needed to fulfill one of his duties. The bastard.

Daylight but still early. She hurried through the eyrie’s corridors to the primary guest room, grateful she hadn’t run into anyone—and wondered why Lucivar, at least, wasn’t up and about yet.

She didn’t knock on the door. She just walked in and took a step toward the bed before she stumbled and stared.

Daemon in the middle of the bed, his chest bare, his face turned away from the door, his cheek resting against Lucivar’s head. And Lucivar, asleep, his head on Daemon’s shoulder, one arm draped across Daemon’s belly.

Sadi and Yaslana didn’t talk about their past—especially not their past with each other. She’d been a whore for decades before coming to Kaeleer, had accommodated the kind of sex play that required discretion. As she stared at them, she didn’t wonder what they had been to each other in the past; she wondered if they still . . . indulged . . . on occasion.

Then, finally, she noticed Daemonar tucked in with them.

No matter what Daemon might do with his brother, she couldn’t see either man playing any kind of sex game when the boy was in the room.

Realizing they’d slept together for comfort and not sex, when she desperately needed sex, made her furious with both men.

She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, staring at them, when Tersa said behind her, “Puppies in a basket.” Then Manny let out a huffing laugh and said, “Huh. Some things don’t change.” As if seeing Lucivar and Daemon together was nothing special—was, in fact, ordinary.

She’d been distracted by the older women for a moment, just a moment. When she looked back at the bed, Daemon still slept, but Lucivar’s gold eyes were open and fixed on her—a predator assessing a potential adversary.

Surreal backed away. Turned and ran to her own room.

As she dressed, she tried to decide if she was distressed or relieved that the sexual heat that pumped out of Sadi these days had ensnared the Ebon-gray, even if it was for nothing more than comfort. What chance did she have of escaping if someone as strong as Lucivar could get pulled in?

* * *

* * *

Daemon pulled casseroles out of the cold box. One had eggs, ham, and some vegetables. Suitable for breakfast. He put that dish and another one in the oven to heat, then started making the coffee.

Marian’s condition hadn’t changed overnight. At this point, he’d take no further decline as a good sign—just as he recognized Lucivar’s temper running sharp and hot as a sign of trouble. Something had sparked that temper. Or someone.

He’d picked up a hint of Surreal’s psychic scent in the room when he woke. He didn’t know who had still been in the bed or in the room when she walked in, but he suspected that her coming in and looking for a morning ride was the reason for Lucivar’s temper. Not because she wanted the ride but because she didn’t want to share a bed with her husband for any other reason.

Or had she seen them and said something? Sweet Darkness, please don’t let her say anything to Lucivar. If she wants to stick a verbal knife into someone, let it be me.

Tersa wandered into the kitchen. He managed to get half a slice of toast into her and a couple sips of tea before she wandered off again. Lucivar had an Ebon-gray shield around the eyrie, effectively locking everyone in, so Daemon wasn’t worried about Tersa beyond the usual worry of coaxing her into eating enough.

When Jillian entered the kitchen, with fatigue smudging the skin under her eyes, he said, “Scrambled eggs for the children?”