The Shadow Queen
Page 45

Hot. Cold. One moment he was Daemon, feeling furious and cornered; the next he was the Sadist, wanting to step up for this dance. And, oh, how he wanted to dance!
That particular truth scared him enough to be furious with her, so he dropped the Black shield and punched up his temper for the kind of fight that would get her angry enough to storm out of the room. Which would be the safest thing for both of them.
Turning his back on her, he removed his black jacket.
“You don’t want to be in this room right now,” he said in the cold, brutally dismissive voice that used to flay women’s feelings so successfully.
“Why not?”
Her tone was so snippy, he saw the room through a red haze and stopped thinking.
“Because you can’t defend yourself against what I am!”As he said the words, he swung the jacket at her, intending to smack her with it and prove that she shouldn’t be in a room with him when his temper was barely chained.
Her right hand lashed out.
Hell’s fire.
Daemon stared at the slices that went all the way through the back of the jacket. He flicked a look at her right hand. Had he really seen claws instead of fingernails for just that moment when she lashed out?
“Tell me again I can’t defend myself,” she said too softly.
Not while he still wanted to live.
His temper fizzled and a giddy joy filled him as he acknowledged that truth.
It was completely ruined, but he hung the jacket on the clothes stand to have something to do.
Mother Night, those claws were impressive. She was impressive. And such a vital, needed part of his life.
How could some bitch think a few superficial tricks could make her a substitute for Jaenelle?
That thought brought his temper roaring back to a cold, deadly edge.
Which his Lady recognized—and chose to ignore.
“You went to visit two of the Province Queens,” Jaenelle said. “You came home a day early and furious. What happened?”
He vented some of his temper in sheer volume. “This evening when I walked into my room at Lady Rhea’s house, that bitch Vulchera was wearing one of my shirts!”
There was a look in her eyes he’d never seen before, a kind of pissed-off incredulity.
“When in the name of Hell did you get so damn possessive about a shirt?” she yelled. “If you don’t want me wearing one of your precious shirts, say so. Or have Jazen tell me, since he seems to be just as possessive of anything that resides in your closet.”
“That’s not—”
She ripped open the shirt, sending the buttons flying. Stripping it off, she scrunched it up and threw it behind her.
He wasn’t sure what she was wearing under the shirt, except that it was a combination of sheer fabric and lace that veiled her nipples without hiding them.
His mouth watered, and his mind went wonderfully blank of everything that didn’t concern having their two bodies come together in particularly delicious ways.
“Daemon.”
Which was a problem, since he’d finally managed to get her well and truly angry with him.
You started this fight, old son, so pay attention.
Besides, the sooner he figured out a way to end the fight, the sooner he could apologize for being an ass and they could put all that energy and emotion to better use.
“Let’s start with some basic truths, Prince,” Jaenelle said.
He winced at her tone of voice.
“You’re a beautiful man, Daemon. It’s more than your face. It’s the way you move, and the timbre of your voice, and the sexual heat that comes off you even when you’ve got it leashed. All of those things are part of what you are. And women are going to be drawn to you because of it. Hell’s fire, I was drawn to you because of those things. I still am, you ass.”
His lips twitched, trying to smile.
“And you can’t deny that the times when you walk into the bedroom wearing leather pants and nothing else, you aren’t looking for the reaction you get.”
Just remembering her reaction was making him hard. Harder.
“No, I can’t deny it.” His voice turned husky, almost a purr.
“A lot of women are going to want the body they see. Some of those women will also want the man who lives inside it.”
“The man they think lives inside it.”
“Point taken.” She sighed, and the sound made him hopeful she was shaking off the anger. “Aaron runs into the same problem on occasion when he’s an overnight guest, especially when Kalush isn’t with him. I don’t know what to tell him either, except to make his refusal so embarrassingly public the woman won’t dare go near him again.”
“It wasn’t that,” Daemon said, looking away. “Not all of it anyway.” His fury returned, but he worked to keep it leashed. “Vulchera is a woman, not a girl, and can’t use the excuse of being young for being stupid. She’s a trusted friend of Rhea’s, so she was among the aristos Rhea had invited to provide conversation and company after she and I reviewed the business I was there to review.”
“Was there any business?” Jaenelle asked.
“Some. Anyway,Vulchera’s flirting was too pointed and obvious from the moment we were introduced—and not the friendly kind of flirting your coven indulges in that’s meant to be nothing more than fun. Your friends taught me that there are ways a woman can flirt with a man that lets him know he’s safe.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “This woman wasn’t interested in doing anything that was safe, and she certainly wasn’t interested in my reputation or my feelings. She used the same scented soap that you had purchased the last time we visited Lady Rhea’s court.”
“It’s not an exclusive soap or an exclusive scent. It’s not even exclusive to the shops in that Province.”
“Vulchera wasn’t wearing that scent the first day,” Daemon said softly. “Since we were at Rhea’s country home, there was only one shop that carried items suited for an aristo purse. She paid one of the clerks to find out what scent you used.” And he intended to have a little chat with that fool very, very soon.
“And then she put on one of your shirts,” Jaenelle said, nodding as if she understood.
But she didn’t. “Do you know how I feel when I see you wearing one of my shirts?” he asked. “Do you understand how aroused it makes me, how much possessive pleasure it gives me? Because of who you are, when you wear one of my shirts, you’re telling the whole household that you’re mine. And more than that, that I’m yours.”
“I feel surrounded by you,” she said quietly. “Comfortable. Safe. Loved.”
“And aroused?” he asked just as quietly.
“Only if I picture you wearing it,” she muttered.
Her answer made him smile—and smoothed some of the jagged edges inside him.
“Well, this bitch did understand. Before we got through dinner that first evening, she realized I wouldn’t invite her to my bed or accept an invitation to hers. So she used a scent I associated with you, put on a piece of clothing that would carry my own scent. She wanted me to pretend she was you. She wanted me to believe she could be a substitute for you.”
Jaenelle studied him. “So you were insulted on my behalf?”
Rage flashed through him before he got it back under control. “Of course.”
For the first time since she walked into the room, she looked wary. With good reason. He might overlook an insult aimed at himself, but he would never tolerate an insult aimed at her.
“Is she still alive?” Jaenelle asked.
“She’s alive.” The Sadist smiled a cold, cruel smile. “But I did inform her that the next time she tried to seduce a married man, she would lose all feeling between her legs, guaranteeing a total lack of pleasure and no possibility of climax until the spell ran its course.”
Jaenelle swallowed hard. “How long?”
“Six months for every married man she had tried to seduce, and a year for every one she had successfully seduced.”
“Can . . . can you do that?”
“The spell is already in place.”
She looked stunned. “Mother Night.”
He stepped closer. Slipped a finger under a strap of that whatever she was wearing.
“I don’t want to talk about Vulchera anymore,” he crooned. “I don’t want to think about her. Not her.”
He knew his eyes were glazed, knew which side of himself wanted to play.
And so did Jaenelle.
“Stay with me tonight,” the Sadist purred. “Here. In this room. Let me play with you.”
“What . . . wh-what does that mean?”
The stutter pleased him. So did the nerves.
“Leave this on. I find it intriguing. With it, I want you to wear one of my shirts and those sheer white stockings. Nothing else.”
She made a small sound. Might have been a whimper.
“I’m going to plump up the pillows and make myself comfortable. You’re going to straddle me. Sheathe me. And then, my darling, I am going to make you stay perfectly still. I’m not going to let you touch me in any way except to give me sweet kisses while I enjoy touching you. I’m going to play with you, lover. I promise I’ll be very, very gentle, and by the time I’m through, I’ll make you very, very happy.”
Her eyes were glassy, and she looked dazed by the force of sexual heat now surrounding her.
“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and get ready?” he said, taking a step back.
He hardly dared to breathe until she closed the bathroom door.
He wanted her desperately at that moment, but he knew what he was asking, knew what he was going to do. He had to give her enough time to think clearly and decide if she was willing to play.
He took off his shoes and socks, removed his belt. He pulled back the covers, plumped the pillows into a mound, and reclined against them, waiting.
The Sadist as lover.
Oh, yes. He wanted to play.