The Shadow Queen
Page 9
She’d sat on the bed dozens of times, talking to him while he got undressed, before they both retired to her bedroom. Their bedroom, since he used this room only when she wasn’t home. But tonight it bothered him, scratched on his skin. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scraping at those pus-filled wounds.
“Say that again,” Jaenelle said.
“Dena Nehele needs a Queen who knows what it means to be a Queen, who knows Protocol and remembers the Blood’s code of honor. Who knows how to live by the Old Ways.”
“And if he doesn’t find a Queen like that?”
Daemon sighed. “If he doesn’t, I think what’s left of two races—Dena Nehele and Shalador—will wither and die.”
He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets, then called in some coins to provide an excuse for why he was still standing at the dresser, emptying his pockets, and delaying the moment when he had to tell her he was too churned up to be of use to her.
“What did you tell him?” Jaenelle asked.
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Will you?”
“No.” When Jared had answered his summons that last time, Daemon had known Dena Nehele would fall under Dorothea’s relentless campaign to rule all of Terreille. Had he done the Shalador Warlord any favor by encouraging Jared to hold on to love for as long as possible? “The males in Kaeleer won’t tolerate one of their Queens going to Terreille.”
A hesitation. “I know a Queen who might be willing,” Jaenelle said. “She knows Protocol, although she prefers to ignore it as much as the rest of us.”
Daemon snorted softly as he fiddled with the coins, stacking and restacking them. The Territory Queens in Kaeleer belonged to Jaenelle’s coven. They had been her First Circle and they were still her closest friends. Thanks to Saetan, every one of them knew all the nuances of Protocol and the give-and-take of power between males and females. Thanks to their own perversity, the Ladies ignored the formality of Protocol every chance they could. And it was that blend that made them so formidable—and made them such good Queens.
“She’s a distant cousin of Aaron’s,” Jaenelle said. “She’s a few years older than me. She’s not a close friend, but I like her. As part of her own apprenticeship, she lived at the Hall with the rest of us for four months to get ‘court polish.’ ”
Since Jaenelle’s court had been the most informal gathering of power he’d ever seen, the humor of sending anyone there for training eased the tightness in his stomach a little. “Did she acquire any polish?”
“She got lessons in Protocol from Papa,” Jaenelle replied. “Those will polish anybody.”
It was easier to talk to her reflection, so he kept his back to the room while he continued to fiddle with the items on the dresser. “What will her court say about relocating to Terreille?”
Jaenelle hesitated. “She doesn’t have a court at the moment. That’s why I think she would be willing to do this.”
He looked at her exotically beautiful face, which only hinted at the wonderful and terrifying Self that lived beneath the human skin. She was capable of cruelty, but the cruelty was always entwined with justice.
What had she seen in her tangled web?
And why was the arm that had been covered by sapphire silk now bare?
“What happened to her court?” His stomach tightened again as the edge of his temper sharpened.
“Instead of renewing their contracts, her entire First Circle resigned, and that broke the court.”
“Why?” he asked too softly. There were very few reasons why all the males would walk away from a Queen, and none of those reasons would help Theran or Dena Nehele.
“You won’t like the answer.”
He already didn’t like any of this. “Tell me.”
Jaenelle sighed. “She wears a Rose Jewel, which makes her a minor Queen in a Territory like Dharo; she doesn’t come from an aristo family; and”—she winced—“she’s not pretty.”
Fury rose in him, a molten ice. “That’s it? That’s all?”
“She can’t offer flash and glitter. It’s not in her. But she’s a good, solid Queen, and she’s got the tenacity to dig in and work.”
Daemon blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders to try to shake off some of the tension. Tried to shake off that terrible blend of hope and despair that was making it so hard to think clearly. But he’d done what he could, hadn’t he? Even now he was doing what he could. “Well, Jared will have to give up some of what he wants in order to get the rest, but—”
“Jared?” Jaenelle asked.
Her voice sounded oddly sharp, and that pricked his temper, honed it to a lethal edge. But he was so tired tonight. So desperately tired. Still had to play the game, though. Dorothea couldn’t prove he’d helped the Shalador Warlord, but lately the women she’d chosen to use him as a pleasure slave were an added barb of cruelty.
“Why are we talking about Jared?”
He turned toward the bed. “Because—”
He slammed back against the dresser hard enough to make everything rattle. His heart hammered against his chest, and his body was suddenly—and painfully—aroused.
There was a filthy bitch sprawled on his bed.
She lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand, one leg forward and bent at the knee to help her balance. Nothing blatantly provocative about the position, which meant only that she was smarter than the bitches who had tried before her. She was wearing sheer white stockings that came up to midthigh. No need for a garter belt when Craft could hold the stockings in place. Above that, she was wearing a simple white shift that ended just above the stockings and was sheer enough that it didn’t hide the body beneath.
It also didn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything else.
His cock strained against his trousers, wanting to be sheathed inside her and flood her with come.
Bitch. Filthy bitch.
“Daemon?”
She’d succeeded. Where all the others had failed, this one had succeeded. She made him want, made him need. And when the little bitch informed Dorothea that he could be aroused, the slavery he now endured would be nothing compared with what would be done to him to breed him with Dorothea’s select bitches.
“Daemon? What’s wrong?”
And the one untouched thing he had left to offer, the one clean thing he had given to no one else, would be taken from him. Like everything else had been taken from him.
Because of the little bitch now stinking up his bed.
She sat up. Shifted closer to the edge of the bed. His bed. “I think I should leave.”
Leave? No, no, no. Not until he’d purged himself of some of this anger, some of this hatred, some of this need.
He raised his right hand. The Black Jewel in his ring flashed. And he saw her tense as Black locks and shields surrounded the room, trapping her inside. With him.
This was his room, the one bit of peace and privacy he could claim. That was his bed, a place he shared with no one. And her body was his to do with as he pleased.
He took a step toward the bed, delighted by the way she shivered. Not with anticipation. The little bitch had finally figured out what she found in his bed wasn’t going to be pleasure.
He took another step.
She tried to bolt, tried to launch herself off the bed.
Snarling viciously, he caught her, threw her back down on the bed, and came down on top of her, forcing her legs apart, pushing against her, taking dark pleasure in the knowledge that the moment he vanished his clothes, his cock would ram into her.
“Daemon.”
Go ahead, he thought. Plead now that you can’t control what’s coming. Could never control what’s coming.
His hands tightened on her wrists. Tightened and tightened until just a little more pressure would break bone. Her pulse hammered under his fingers. Her heart thundered against his chest.
He smelled her fear. Reveled in the scent of it.
She turned her head, as if daring to deny him her mouth.
He clamped his teeth on the spot where her neck and right shoulder connected....
And breathed in a scent that soothed and excited him. He licked that spot and tasted a flavor more heady than the best wine. And knew whose body trembled beneath his.
“Jaenelle,” he whispered, nuzzling that spot, breathing in those scents that could belong to no other woman. “Jaenelle.”
His hands relaxed, still cuffing her wrists but gently now. So gently.
“Jaenelle.” He was safe. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him for wanting her. She wouldn’t punish him for needing her.
He could give her this because she was the one he had waited for.
As he raised his head to look at her beloved face, he realized something wasn’t right about the room.
It didn’t smell like her. Like them. It smelled only like him.
“Kiss me,” he whispered before sinking into a kiss that was viciously gentle.
He needed her, couldn’t survive without her. And he needed the scent of her arousal, the flood of her pleasure, to fill his bed.
His room. His bed. And . . .
He looked at the woman who meant more to him than anything else, and thought, Mine.
CHAPTER 5
KAELEER
Theran looked at the man who walked into the breakfast room and thought, Predator.
Whatever mood was riding Daemon Sadi could have lethal repercussions for the rest of the males in this place. And judging by the way Beale held himself, as if a twitch at the wrong time could end with someone being gutted—or worse—the butler recognized the danger too. The difference between them was that Beale seemed to be offering something Sadi wanted, whereas he . . .
He dared give that cold, beautiful face a quick study before fixing his eyes on his plate.
In Dena Nehele, men had two ways to describe a man who had spent a vigorous night in bed: ridden hard or well used. A man who had been well used came to the breakfast table with a sated, lazy satisfaction. A man who had been ridden hard might have gotten some relief from the sex, but he was still edgy and looking for an excuse for a different kind of relief. And when a Warlord Prince went looking for that kind of relief, blood was spilled—and too many friends and families ended up grieving for the dead.
“Say that again,” Jaenelle said.
“Dena Nehele needs a Queen who knows what it means to be a Queen, who knows Protocol and remembers the Blood’s code of honor. Who knows how to live by the Old Ways.”
“And if he doesn’t find a Queen like that?”
Daemon sighed. “If he doesn’t, I think what’s left of two races—Dena Nehele and Shalador—will wither and die.”
He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets, then called in some coins to provide an excuse for why he was still standing at the dresser, emptying his pockets, and delaying the moment when he had to tell her he was too churned up to be of use to her.
“What did you tell him?” Jaenelle asked.
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Will you?”
“No.” When Jared had answered his summons that last time, Daemon had known Dena Nehele would fall under Dorothea’s relentless campaign to rule all of Terreille. Had he done the Shalador Warlord any favor by encouraging Jared to hold on to love for as long as possible? “The males in Kaeleer won’t tolerate one of their Queens going to Terreille.”
A hesitation. “I know a Queen who might be willing,” Jaenelle said. “She knows Protocol, although she prefers to ignore it as much as the rest of us.”
Daemon snorted softly as he fiddled with the coins, stacking and restacking them. The Territory Queens in Kaeleer belonged to Jaenelle’s coven. They had been her First Circle and they were still her closest friends. Thanks to Saetan, every one of them knew all the nuances of Protocol and the give-and-take of power between males and females. Thanks to their own perversity, the Ladies ignored the formality of Protocol every chance they could. And it was that blend that made them so formidable—and made them such good Queens.
“She’s a distant cousin of Aaron’s,” Jaenelle said. “She’s a few years older than me. She’s not a close friend, but I like her. As part of her own apprenticeship, she lived at the Hall with the rest of us for four months to get ‘court polish.’ ”
Since Jaenelle’s court had been the most informal gathering of power he’d ever seen, the humor of sending anyone there for training eased the tightness in his stomach a little. “Did she acquire any polish?”
“She got lessons in Protocol from Papa,” Jaenelle replied. “Those will polish anybody.”
It was easier to talk to her reflection, so he kept his back to the room while he continued to fiddle with the items on the dresser. “What will her court say about relocating to Terreille?”
Jaenelle hesitated. “She doesn’t have a court at the moment. That’s why I think she would be willing to do this.”
He looked at her exotically beautiful face, which only hinted at the wonderful and terrifying Self that lived beneath the human skin. She was capable of cruelty, but the cruelty was always entwined with justice.
What had she seen in her tangled web?
And why was the arm that had been covered by sapphire silk now bare?
“What happened to her court?” His stomach tightened again as the edge of his temper sharpened.
“Instead of renewing their contracts, her entire First Circle resigned, and that broke the court.”
“Why?” he asked too softly. There were very few reasons why all the males would walk away from a Queen, and none of those reasons would help Theran or Dena Nehele.
“You won’t like the answer.”
He already didn’t like any of this. “Tell me.”
Jaenelle sighed. “She wears a Rose Jewel, which makes her a minor Queen in a Territory like Dharo; she doesn’t come from an aristo family; and”—she winced—“she’s not pretty.”
Fury rose in him, a molten ice. “That’s it? That’s all?”
“She can’t offer flash and glitter. It’s not in her. But she’s a good, solid Queen, and she’s got the tenacity to dig in and work.”
Daemon blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders to try to shake off some of the tension. Tried to shake off that terrible blend of hope and despair that was making it so hard to think clearly. But he’d done what he could, hadn’t he? Even now he was doing what he could. “Well, Jared will have to give up some of what he wants in order to get the rest, but—”
“Jared?” Jaenelle asked.
Her voice sounded oddly sharp, and that pricked his temper, honed it to a lethal edge. But he was so tired tonight. So desperately tired. Still had to play the game, though. Dorothea couldn’t prove he’d helped the Shalador Warlord, but lately the women she’d chosen to use him as a pleasure slave were an added barb of cruelty.
“Why are we talking about Jared?”
He turned toward the bed. “Because—”
He slammed back against the dresser hard enough to make everything rattle. His heart hammered against his chest, and his body was suddenly—and painfully—aroused.
There was a filthy bitch sprawled on his bed.
She lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand, one leg forward and bent at the knee to help her balance. Nothing blatantly provocative about the position, which meant only that she was smarter than the bitches who had tried before her. She was wearing sheer white stockings that came up to midthigh. No need for a garter belt when Craft could hold the stockings in place. Above that, she was wearing a simple white shift that ended just above the stockings and was sheer enough that it didn’t hide the body beneath.
It also didn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything else.
His cock strained against his trousers, wanting to be sheathed inside her and flood her with come.
Bitch. Filthy bitch.
“Daemon?”
She’d succeeded. Where all the others had failed, this one had succeeded. She made him want, made him need. And when the little bitch informed Dorothea that he could be aroused, the slavery he now endured would be nothing compared with what would be done to him to breed him with Dorothea’s select bitches.
“Daemon? What’s wrong?”
And the one untouched thing he had left to offer, the one clean thing he had given to no one else, would be taken from him. Like everything else had been taken from him.
Because of the little bitch now stinking up his bed.
She sat up. Shifted closer to the edge of the bed. His bed. “I think I should leave.”
Leave? No, no, no. Not until he’d purged himself of some of this anger, some of this hatred, some of this need.
He raised his right hand. The Black Jewel in his ring flashed. And he saw her tense as Black locks and shields surrounded the room, trapping her inside. With him.
This was his room, the one bit of peace and privacy he could claim. That was his bed, a place he shared with no one. And her body was his to do with as he pleased.
He took a step toward the bed, delighted by the way she shivered. Not with anticipation. The little bitch had finally figured out what she found in his bed wasn’t going to be pleasure.
He took another step.
She tried to bolt, tried to launch herself off the bed.
Snarling viciously, he caught her, threw her back down on the bed, and came down on top of her, forcing her legs apart, pushing against her, taking dark pleasure in the knowledge that the moment he vanished his clothes, his cock would ram into her.
“Daemon.”
Go ahead, he thought. Plead now that you can’t control what’s coming. Could never control what’s coming.
His hands tightened on her wrists. Tightened and tightened until just a little more pressure would break bone. Her pulse hammered under his fingers. Her heart thundered against his chest.
He smelled her fear. Reveled in the scent of it.
She turned her head, as if daring to deny him her mouth.
He clamped his teeth on the spot where her neck and right shoulder connected....
And breathed in a scent that soothed and excited him. He licked that spot and tasted a flavor more heady than the best wine. And knew whose body trembled beneath his.
“Jaenelle,” he whispered, nuzzling that spot, breathing in those scents that could belong to no other woman. “Jaenelle.”
His hands relaxed, still cuffing her wrists but gently now. So gently.
“Jaenelle.” He was safe. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him for wanting her. She wouldn’t punish him for needing her.
He could give her this because she was the one he had waited for.
As he raised his head to look at her beloved face, he realized something wasn’t right about the room.
It didn’t smell like her. Like them. It smelled only like him.
“Kiss me,” he whispered before sinking into a kiss that was viciously gentle.
He needed her, couldn’t survive without her. And he needed the scent of her arousal, the flood of her pleasure, to fill his bed.
His room. His bed. And . . .
He looked at the woman who meant more to him than anything else, and thought, Mine.
CHAPTER 5
KAELEER
Theran looked at the man who walked into the breakfast room and thought, Predator.
Whatever mood was riding Daemon Sadi could have lethal repercussions for the rest of the males in this place. And judging by the way Beale held himself, as if a twitch at the wrong time could end with someone being gutted—or worse—the butler recognized the danger too. The difference between them was that Beale seemed to be offering something Sadi wanted, whereas he . . .
He dared give that cold, beautiful face a quick study before fixing his eyes on his plate.
In Dena Nehele, men had two ways to describe a man who had spent a vigorous night in bed: ridden hard or well used. A man who had been well used came to the breakfast table with a sated, lazy satisfaction. A man who had been ridden hard might have gotten some relief from the sex, but he was still edgy and looking for an excuse for a different kind of relief. And when a Warlord Prince went looking for that kind of relief, blood was spilled—and too many friends and families ended up grieving for the dead.
