The Queen's Bargain Page 33

  And the Black? Daemon’s power felt like it had when she’d been pregnant, after he’d carefully drained her Gray and Green Jewels to make her comfortable and protect the baby. He’d had to use his Black power to siphon off her Gray, and when it was done, they’d often cuddled for the whole evening, content to be in each other’s company.

  Seeing him like this, feeling him like this, made her consider that maybe the overwhelming sexual heat had been a symptom of whatever had been causing his headaches.

  “Daemon . . .” How to explain what he’d overheard that morning?

  He looked away. “I’ve caused you significant distress over the past few months. I am sorry for that. Despite what you think, it wasn’t deliberate.”

  “I didn’t know the headaches were causing you to—”

  “The headaches were a symptom, not the cause. I learned today that a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat continues to gain . . . potency . . . until he’s fully in his prime. I had been trying to keep it leashed to what it had been instead of accommodating this final stage. It’s reached its peak now and will remain at this level.”

  “For how long?”

  “Centuries.”

  Mother Night. How will I endure it?

  “I’ve known that your visits to the family’s other estates weren’t about you fulfilling your duties as my second-in-command, that they were excuses to stay away from me,” Daemon continued quietly. “You were unhappy being around me, so I assisted in making whatever arrangements kept us apart. The truth, Surreal? It was a relief whenever you weren’t home, because I didn’t have to provide sex to a woman who wanted me and hated me at the same time.”

  “I didn’t hate you.”

  He gave her a bitter smile. “Yes, you did. Maybe you still do.”

  Surreal shook her head. Why hadn’t she said something beyond demanding that he leash the heat?

  “There is nothing I can do about the sexual heat that won’t threaten my sanity,” Daemon said. “That was another truth that was impressed on me today.”

  The words shocked her. Terrified her. His sanity had been threatened?

  “But there are things that I can do to protect you and keep you from being overwhelmed by it. To that end, I am making some changes.”

  “What changes?” she whispered. “Are . . . Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I still love you, Surreal, and I would like to remain married to you. But if you want to end the marriage, if you need to do that, I won’t make it difficult for you.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  He seemed relieved, and she relaxed a little.

  Then he said, “It will benefit both of us to have some time alone—a few days each month. That will give us a chance to rest from the pressures produced by the heat. Even when we’re both in residence, some . . . distance . . . at times will be required.”

  “You want to live apart?” Would she and Jaenelle Saetien live in Amdarh most of the time, with Daemon staying at the town house a couple of days a week to see his daughter and have sex with his wife? Or would he and Jaenelle Saetien live here while she was the one who became the guest?

  “Nothing so drastic, unless that is what you’d prefer. I’m taking over my father’s suite and will reside there part of the time. It’s far enough away from these rooms that, with the use of Black shields around the suite, the heat shouldn’t cause you discomfort.”

  “Sadi . . .”

  “My control over my temper and . . . other things . . . is not what it used to be. Will never be what it used to be. I will need solitude at times, and that’s when I’ll use the other suite.”

  She struggled to find her voice. “And the rest of the time?”

  He looked around the room. “Here. Or with you when you want company.”

  “So I’m supposed to invite my husband to my bed every time I want him to provide me with sex?” Fool! Don’t challenge him!

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “No,” she snapped, embracing temper and itching to call in her crossbow. “I am perfectly capable of telling you if I’m not in the mood for a ride. I can take care of myself.”

  “Except you didn’t.” His voice sharpened, grew colder. “You didn’t, Surreal. You felt tormented by your response to the sexual heat and said nothing. You felt tortured. Wasn’t that the word you used?”

  She flinched.

  “I can trust you to draw a line and defend Jaenelle Saetien. You’ve done that since the day she was born. But it’s painfully clear that I can’t trust you to stand up for yourself. Not against me. I thought I could—I thought you would—but you proved me wrong.”

  “Don’t do this, Sadi,” she warned.

  “Do what?”

  “Play games with me. Break the promise you made when we married that you would be a husband in every way.”

  She saw the change in his eyes, felt fear shiver through her. Remembered again where she was standing at that moment and what it meant when dealing with a Warlord Prince.

  “No games, Lady,” the Sadist said. “Not with you. Never again with you. At least, not for fun. But if you try to play with me . . .” He smiled that cold, cruel smile.

  Then he looked away for a moment, and the feel in the room changed—and Daemon looked back at her. “Whether I remain your husband is your choice. Whether I remain your lover is your choice.”

  “But when you’re available to be a lover is your choice?”

  “Yes. It has to be that way now. But I give you my word that I will not refuse your invitation without reason.”

  Something had happened to him today after he left Lucivar’s eyrie. He didn’t quite feel like the man she’d known for the past few decades. His psychic scent was a bit . . . feral. But this wasn’t the Sadist. This was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, in absolute control of himself, offering to provide his wife with sex out of duty to his marriage vows.

  That was a knife in the belly.

  Daemon studied her. “As I said, this change is nothing drastic.”

  And that was twisting the knife.

  Nothing drastic? Maybe he believed that. But he hadn’t taken one step toward her since this conversation began.

  “It simply restores the distance that had previously been between us—the distance that kept you safe from dealing with the full measure of what I am,” Daemon continued.

  ٭Lady?٭ Beale said on a psychic thread. ٭Dinner is waiting for you.٭

  “Dinner is served in the family room,” she said. “Unless you prefer to eat here.”

  Now, finally, he moved toward her, but his smile was the same one he gave other women—a warning that he would remain friendly as long as they kept their distance. “In the family room is fine.” Then amusement warmed his gold eyes. “While we eat, you can tell me just how disgusted Daemonar is with having a bright blue shield around his arm.”

  * * *

  * * *

  She put on a nightgown that he always admired.

  At dinner, they had talked the way they used to—the way they hadn’t talked in weeks—sharing information and thoughts about family and books, and Jillian’s first love, and so many other things. His presence didn’t overwhelm her, and while the things he’d said worried her, she thought he would want to reestablish a feeling of physical closeness, and had made it clear that she would like his company that night.

  She needed to show him that she loved him, that she desired him. That she didn’t hate him.

  But she waited and waited . . . and waited.

  She went to the connecting door, wrapped her hand around the handle. What if he didn’t let her in? How could she show him she still wanted him if he locked her out?

  Relief filled her when the door opened. No lights were on in the room, but the heavier drapes didn’t cover the glass door that led out
to the balcony, so there was enough natural light to see that Daemon was in bed and clearly preparing to sleep in his own room, despite her invitation—and despite his assurance that he wouldn’t turn down an invitation.

  “Daemon?” Surreal whispered.

  He turned his head. “Something wrong?”

  You’re here.

  This was dangerous. Potentially lethal. Being in his bedroom invited him to play with her. And if he took offense and thought she was playing with him? He’d warned her—he had—but she couldn’t allow herself to believe he would unleash the Sadist and really hurt her over what amounted to a marital quarrel. If she allowed herself to believe that, she’d run and never stop running.

  Slipping into his bed, she leaned over to kiss him as her hand stroked down his chest and headed for the part of him hidden under the covers.

  His hand caught hers a moment after she touched the fabric at his waist and realized he was wearing pajama bottoms—something he did only during the winter or at the rare times when he didn’t feel well or when he slept with her doing her moontime, turning a piece of clothing into a visual reassurance that he wasn’t offering, or looking for, anything but her company.

  “I’m tired,” he said quietly.

  During the whole of their marriage, he had never refused her when she wanted sex or lovemaking. He had never been too tired. Not even when she’d been relentlessly demanding, caught in the addiction his sexual heat had produced. He must have been in pain from the headaches, but he hadn’t denied her his attention. Was he really going to set limits on when he was available to make love?

  “Can I stay with you?” she asked, shaken.

  A hesitation. “Of course.”

  Words politely spoken. In some ways worse than a slap, because it was duty, not desire, that said the words.

  He raised his hand. Hopeful, she moved her hand once again to touch him, stroke him, invite him to take pleasure in their bodies coming together. But his hand closed over her wrist again, his touch now so cold it burned.

  “No,” he snarled.

  All kinds of messages in the finality of that word, and none of them good.

  She lay down, far enough away that she wasn’t touching him, but still close enough that if he changed his mind and reached for her, she would be there to tell him without words that she did love him, that she hadn’t meant the things she’d said about him torturing her with sex.

  Eventually she fell asleep. When she woke in the still-dark hours of early morning, Daemon was gone. Worse, a quick look through his dresser and dressing room confirmed that he’d taken several sets of clothes with him.

  Worse than that, when she found Holt and Beale already awake and working—and pretending they weren’t aware of the potential collapse of her marriage—neither man knew where Daemon had gone. Neither had been given instructions about how to find him. All Daemon had said before he left was they should contact Lucivar if they needed to reach him.

  * * *

  * * *

  A single ball of witchlight softly illuminated the stone steps that led down to the sunken garden Saetan had built long ago as a place for private meditation. A place meant to offer peace.

  Carrying a large mug of coffee heavily flavored with cream and sugar, Surreal walked down the steps. She had never felt peaceful in this garden. Too much grief had been absorbed by the ground for her to feel any peace. That wasn’t why she came to this spot in the Hall.

  Ignoring the statue of the crouched male that was a blend of human and animal, she walked over to the fountain where a woman with an achingly familiar face rose out of the water. Then she raised the mug as if to catch someone’s attention.

  “I brought you coffee.” Setting the mug on the grass beside the fountain, Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. “Hell’s fire, Jaenelle. I made a mistake, a bad mistake, and I don’t know how to fix it. But how was I to know that—”

  The ball of witchlight disappeared. The cool predawn air turned viciously cold. And for just a heartbeat, maybe two, Surreal felt as if she was falling in the abyss, felt as if she was being crushed in body and mind because she was falling deeper than she could possibly survive.

  Then a pale light returned and the air was chilly but no longer viciously cold.

  Stone and mist. A slab of dark stone that looked like an altar. More slabs that were low enough to be seats.

  “What I’m wondering,” said a midnight voice, “is why you ignored the signs and let this go on for so long.”

  Chilled to the marrow, Surreal watched the figure shaped out of dreams walk out of the mist.

  “Mother Night,” she whispered. “Jaenelle?” She looked around. “Where . . . ?”

  “This is the Misty Place.” Witch approached the altar and stood within reach. “Why, Surreal? You’ve never backed down from anything. Why back down because of something that should have been simple? It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”

  The tartness in the words scratched Surreal’s temper enough for her to ignore questions about where she was and if she could get back to the Hall. Focusing on those ancient sapphire eyes allowed her to ignore the rest of Witch’s shape and pretend she was dealing with the friend she remembered. “Let me tell you something, sugar. I’ve never felt like I was being swept away and drowned by a man’s lust. I’ve never felt desperate to ride a cock. So you’ll have to forgive me if I missed the warning signs. And when, in the name of Hell, have I seen this before?”

  “You and Rainier were sharing a house when he came into his full prime and went through the same thing,” Witch replied with razor-sharp sweetness. “You shrugged it off despite living with it every day.”

  “Rainier did not go through this,” Surreal snarled.

  “Of course he did. All the Warlord Princes did. But Rainier wore Opal and you wear Gray, so the increase in his sexual heat rolled off you, barely noticed, let alone acknowledged. Also, you and Rainier weren’t lovers, so you weren’t primed to be aroused by his sexual heat as you are to your lover’s interest in you.” Witch huffed out a sigh. “But even the Gray can’t ignore the Black when the sexual heat’s potency matures, so it’s not surprising you felt swept away. What is surprising is that you and your crossbow didn’t meet Daemon in the bedroom one evening so that you could tell him that something felt wrong before things had gone so wrong.”

  “But this fever of sex has opened the door for you to reclaim him, hasn’t it?” Surreal snapped.

  She regretted the words the moment she said them.

  The air turned so cold it was hard to breathe—and the feeling of pressure being held at bay by something, or someone, reminded her that she was so deep in the abyss that she had no chance of surviving on her own. “Jaenelle . . . My apologies, Lady. Those words were unkind—and untrue.”

  “I didn’t intend to come back,” Witch said too quietly. “I didn’t expect Daemon to need me beyond my being a song in the Darkness that reminded him that he wasn’t alone and helped him stay connected to the living. Do you think this is easy, that I welcome this? Solitude is like ice, Surreal. When it’s thick and unbroken, the world beyond it is muted, a memory that can be offered gifts that reach the living in dreams. But when that solitude is smashed, like it is now? When I know the ice will have to be smashed again and again because the survival of so many now requires it, and I will be reminded again and again that I may still be heart and mind and a great deal of power, but this”—she swept a hand down to indicate her body—“is a shadow, an illusion, not flesh that can be held. Do you really think I wanted this continual contact with the living when I had every reason to believe that you and Daemon would be happy being together?”

  “I . . .” Surreal looked away, aching for both of them. All of them.

  “But this is where we are now, you and I—and Daemon. Married to you, he could have survived with me being nothing more th
an a comforting dream, and Kaeleer could have survived him without me. But a vital kind of trust has been broken and will never again be strong enough to do what it could have done. What it should have done.”

  “He said his sanity is at risk.”

  “It was. It is. It will be, even beyond his last day among the living.”

  “All because I demanded that he leash his sexual heat.”

  “Not because you demanded it, but because you didn’t believe him when he told you it was leashed.”

  “Would you have believed him?”

  “Yes. And then I would have looked for another reason for the change in my reaction to the heat. The knowledge was available, but neither of you asked the right questions—or asked the right people.” Witch sighed. “Some practical adjustments in your living arrangements will have to be made, and the lingering pain of the past few months will leave a coating of bitterness on your marriage that will take time to fade. You have to decide if you love him enough to give him—and yourself—that time.”

  “I do love him.” She looked at Witch. When Jaenelle had walked among the living, she had made living with Daemon seem so easy. But living with that much power day after day after day wasn’t easy. Would never be easy. “What can I do?”

  “You’re still his second-in-command.”

  She nodded, although the words were a statement, not a question.

  Witch studied her. “I made a conditional bargain with Daemon. Now I’ll make one with you. Continue being his second-in-command, whether you remain married to him or not. Continue being the buffer between him and women who would ignite his temper by trying to push themselves into his bed uninvited. In other words, do for him now what you did for him when he and I were married. In return, I will be the buffer between you and Daemon, giving him a place at the Keep where he can exercise all that he is without any constraints and also draining the Black enough to keep him, and everyone else, safe.”