“Doesn’t that sound a bit too much like the stories Lady Fiona writes about Tracker and Shadow?” Surreal asked.

“I believe it was Fiona’s success that spurred him to write this new story line. Jenkell is a well-known writer in landen artistic circles, and he’s become quite wealthy writing his mysteries. I’ve read a few of the books in the other series; they’re entertaining stories.”

She huffed out a breath and shook the book. “But this! The man has never been in the same room as one of the Blood. At least, not the kind of Blood he’s trying to write about. You can tell he doesn’t understand a damn thing about us.”

Daemon smiled. “I know. For years he’s been considered the top writer in his field, mostly because his characters were clever and found imaginative ways out of difficult situations.”

“And entertained both landens and Blood.”

Daemon nodded. “Then ego or temper overwhelmed sense when Fiona’s Tracker and Shadow stories became popular with landens as well as the Blood, and he began writing this new series about a Blood male and his kindred partner.”

“And he’s still popular with the Blood?” She put as much disbelief in her voice as possible.

“He is, but not because he’s telling a good story anymore.” Daemon lifted his glass in a salute. “His portrayal of the Blood is so bad it’s hysterically funny. At least, a good number of people have thought so.”

Apparently Daemon wasn’t one of them. “Does he know the Blood are buying the books to laugh at the characters? That must be biting his ass.” She riffled a few pages until she got to the next chapter.

“I imagine it is. What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see what other Blood things he’s doing wrong.”

“The point of one of these stories is to read it in order to see the clues as they’re revealed.”

He was getting that bossy tone in his voice. She wasn’t sure if it was family bossy or Warlord Prince bossy, but he’d stare her down if she tried to ignore him. Once he went home, she could…

Shit.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel, considered the man now studying her, and decided not to waste time being subtle.

“You have to go home now.”

“No.”

She hadn’t thought giving him an order would work, but he didn’t have to sound so politely unyielding about it. Now the only way to get rid of him was to tell him why he had to go.

“Rainier will be here soon,” she said.

“So?”

Something under the pleasant tone made her think of a cat sharpening its claws before it went out to play with the mouse.

“You like Rainier,” she said. “Heworks for you.”

Daemon settled back on the sofa, making himself more comfortable. “I’m aware of that.” He waited a beat. “Why is he coming here this evening?”

For the same reason you’ve got your ass snuggled into the sofa.Which was not something a witch said to any male relative who was bigger than she was and wore darker Jewels than she did.

“Doesn’t he have family of his own to fuss over?”

Hell’s fire. He was going to get pissy about this.

“Actually,” she said, “he doesn’t.” A flicker in Daemon’s eyes warned her he was aware of the lie within the words—he knew perfectly well Rainier had family living in Dharo—but he didn’t know why the words were also true. And she wasn’t looking forward to being the one to tell him. “His family prefers that he stay away.”

“Because he prefers to warm a man’s bed rather than a woman’s?”

It was like seeing a storm coming and knowing you couldn’t get out of the way in time.

“No,” she said softly, “it’s because he’s a Warlord Prince.”

A heartbeat. That’s all it took. Daemon, the amused male relative, was gone. The Warlord Prince who looked at her…Not the Sadist, who could be so elegantly vicious. Thank the Darkness, it wasn’tthat facet of Daemon’s personality that had surfaced. No, this was Prince Sadi, ruler of Dhemlan, who was considering the depth of the insult contained within her words.

“They aren’t like our family,” she said hurriedly.

A moment of silence. Then, too softly, he said, “Explain.”

She didn’t dare look at the clock to see how much time was left. It didn’t matter. This discussion had to be over, done,fast.

“Most of the males in the SaDiablo-Yaslana family are, or were, Warlord Princes. So none of you are different from the rest. You know how to live with a Warlord Prince. The women in this family know how to live with a Warlord Prince. But Rainier…From what I gathered, there had been a couple of Warlord Princes in the family bloodlines over the generations, but they’d worn lighter Jewels, so the more aggressive, predatory nature”—Shit! Don’t remind him of that!—“of a Warlord Prince was balanced by not having as much power. But Rainier wears an Opal Jewel that’s considered a dark Jewel. His family didn’t know what to do with him when he was young and wore Purple Dusk as his Birthright, and as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, they don’t know what to do with him now.”

“So they turn away from him.”

Oh, yeah. This was turning into afun discussion.

“To his benefit, since they don’t deserve to have him.” She put some snap in her voice, hoping for a flash of amusement from him.

Nothing.

“A Warlord Prince needs a female to fuss over—if not family, then a friend,” she finished quietly.

“Having his company for the evening is fine, Surreal, but—”

“He’ll be staying for breakfast.”

Long pause. “You trust him that much?”

Now they had gotten to the core of it. Did she trust a man who wasn’t family during the hours when she was asleep and would be the most vulnerable? “Yes, I trust him that much. So go home to your wife, Sadi.”Then I can read this book however I want to.

Another pause. Then the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan took a deep breath—and Daemon let it out in a sigh as he stood up.

“All right, then.” Using Craft, he vanished all the papers and called in his black jacket. He slipped on the jacket, then ran his fingers—with their long, perfectly manicured, black-tinted nails—through his hair. Now the hair looked bedroom-disheveled. Now the partially unbuttoned shirt looked like a lure to attract and entice.

Which was insane, because the only woman who could safely have Daemon Sadi as a lover was Jaenelle Angelline, since she was the only woman hewanted for a lover.

Don’t just sit here. Get up. Move. You’ve got no fighting room in this position.

Then a little flash, a blink of light near the floor. Nothing there, but…

He was still barefoot. There was something too sensual about him still being barefoot when he was wearing that silk shirt, the expensive jacket, and the too-well-tailored trousers that taunted women with a hint of what they couldn’t have.

She pondered the feet and not the significance of their movement until he was leaning over her, one hand resting on the arm of her chair, the fingertips of the other hand drifting down the page of her book, then over her thumb and wrist.

She actually felt her heart skip a beat in anticipation of a kiss before it began pounding like a rabbit’s.

Why was he doing this? What did he want from her? Those golden eyes held hers, demanding her attention. The way his mouth curved in a hint of a smile seemed to promise all kinds of delights. Which was probably the exact look the Terreillean Queens who had used him saw right before he killed them.

Then his lips brushed her cheek and lingered there as his chained sexual heat washed over her.

“Enjoy your evening, cousin,” he said.

He eased back—and glided out of the room.

Had he used Craft to open and close the door, or had he used the power that lived within him to simply pass through the wood? She didn’t know, didn’t care. She felt a bit breathless—and more than a little scared. When Daemon was the Sadist, he used sex as a terrifying weapon. She felt as if she’d brushed against that side of his temper, but she didn’t know why he’d be angry with her.

Maybe nothing. Probably hadn’t even been aimed at her. Just feeling pissy about Rainier’s family was all.

Which reminded her.

Shaking off the sexual haze—which she wasn’t in any mood for anyway—she glanced at the clock. Rainier was late. Wasn’t that lovely? Now that she knew the book was meant to be silly, she wanted to read a little more. And she wanted to flip through and discover some of the other stupid things this Jarvis Jenkell thought the Blood did.

She picked up the book and tried to flip through the pages.

Tried to flip through the pages.

Tried to flip through the pages.

“That whoring son of a whoringbitch !”

As he walked down the town house’s steps, Daemon reached inside his black jacket. Then he stopped, baffled that he’d been reaching for a cigarette case he hadn’t carried in several years.

He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped smoking the black cigarettes. Sometime during the years when his mind had been shattered and he’d wandered the paths of madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom. During the years when he was slowly regaining his sanity and lived in hiding with Surreal and Manny, it hadn’t been prudent to call attention to themselves by adding an expensive item to their supplies when the invalid—and fictitious—owner of the island had never ordered cigarettes before. Now the only way to get the things would be to buy them from a supplier in the Realm of Terreille, and there was nothing he wanted from Terreille. Nothing.

Which didn’t explain his suddenly slipping into the movements of an old habit.

Then he looked up at the town house’s sitting room windows—and smiled.

His reaching for a cigarette had been a response to memories of the hundreds of times he and Surreal had spent an evening together in exactly the same way—enjoying each other’s company while pursuing individual interests. Which meant the two of them had finally circled back to being the friends they had been once upon a time.