“Bekka!” the young Warlord cried. “I love Bekka!”
٭I’ll take him,٭ Daemon said. ٭You protect the girl he’s threatening and keep those bitches in the shop.٭
Lucivar formed an Ebon-gray shield around the shop, locking the building. A heartbeat later, Daemon’s unleashed sexual heat hit everyone as he glided over to the Warlord. One of his hands closed over the hand holding the knife. His other hand curled around the Warlord’s throat, pulling the youngster close enough to be swamped with a need that would go unfulfilled—if the youngster was lucky.
Gritting his teeth against his own response to the heat, Lucivar pulled the girl—Bekka—out of reach of the knife. Scared. Shaking. But no injuries. He put a shield around her, partly as protection and partly to keep her from doing anything that might piss him off more than he already was.
“Show me,” Daemon whispered, his lips close to the Warlord’s ear. “Tell me.”
Graham turned his head slightly, revealing the side of his face that had been maimed by something—or someone.
The three bitches had been so focused on Graham and Bekka—and then pulled into lust by Daemon’s overwhelming presence—they hadn’t noticed Lucivar. Now they did.
Two tried to run and slammed into the shield across the doorway. A flick of his Ebon-gray power drained their Jewels almost to the breaking point, assuring they weren’t going to do any damage to anyone—at least, not with Craft. Stunned, they collapsed to the floor and began to cry because the Warlord Prince was being mean.
That left the third bitch, the one who had been screaming at Graham.
Lucivar tightened the leash on his temper, fighting against the fury rising in him, which wanted to wash the walls with her blood. If this was as bad as he suspected . . .
Realizing her game was spoiled, the bitch lashed out with the power of her Summer-sky Jewel. Not at him. She wasn’t that stupid. No, she tried to strike Bekka.
Lucivar shaped another shield around Bekka a heartbeat before the bitch’s power struck. Years ago, Saetan had shown him how to add an extra bit of Craft to a defensive shield when drama was required. The clash of the witch’s power hitting the second Ebon-gray shield sounded like buildings exploding—a sure way to bring everyone who served the District Queen running to investigate.
Of course, they would be running right into him and Daemon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls?
Before the aristo bitch could attempt some other trouble, he stepped close to her, called in his war blade, and held it a whisper away from the side of her face. “You want to be very careful about what you say or do. If I get upset, my hand could slip, and this blade is honed for war, so it would slice right through your jaw.”
“You’ll answer to my father for this,” she said, her haughty expression at odds with the fear in her voice. “He’s an important man, not some grubby . . .” Either she couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult or she’d finally noticed his Ebon-gray Jewel.
“Oh, I hope your father does show up. I have some things to say to him. None of them are good.”
Sensing another male presence behind a shielded door that, most likely, led to the back of the shop, and wondering who was hiding behind that door, Lucivar broke the shield and waited. Moments later, the door opened and an older man rushed into the front room.
“What do you want?” The older man’s voice trembled. “Hasn’t my son been hurt enough?”
“More than enough,” Lucivar agreed. “And that ends now. Lord Graham?”
“Sir?” the youngster said as Daemon released him and stepped back.
“Do you know the names of the men—or women—who gave you those scars? Am I right in assuming that was done to your face as punishment for not accommodating these Ladies in some way?”
“The aristos who did it will know I told you,” Graham said. “They’ll hurt my parents.” He glanced at the young woman wrapped in Lucivar’s shields. “They’ll hurt Bekka.”
“They won’t have time to hurt anyone,” Daemon crooned. “They’ll be dead by morning.”
Lucivar felt fear spike through the aristo women. He felt relief flood the two men who didn’t belong to that social class. That told him he’d postponed this day too long.
Everything has a price.
٭Prick?٭ Daemon glided to the door and studied the crowd. ٭The Master of the Guard has shown up with what looks like all the Queen’s guards. He seems agitated.٭
٭Let the fool come in,٭ Lucivar said, dropping the Ebon-gray shield around the shop.
Only the Master entered the shop. The guards must have looked at Daemon’s glazed gold eyes and the cold, sweet smile and prudently decided not to provoke a Warlord Prince who was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.
Lucivar held the war blade steady against the bitch’s face. He waited a moment to give the Master a chance to realize who he was. What he was. “You know this bitch?”
“My daughter. Release her,” the Master blustered. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, she’s done plenty that’s wrong any way you choose to look at it,” Lucivar said as if they were discussing the weather. “She may not have held the knife, but I’m betting she’s responsible for the scars on that boy’s face. And she used a spell to try to force him to kill this young woman. She will pay the debt she owes for what she’s done.”
“This is none of your business!”
“I made it my business.” Now he used Craft so that his voice thundered out of the shop and filled the street, guaranteeing someone would deliver his message to the District Queen. “If you want a war, I will give you a war. But before you gather men to stand against me on a killing field, you tell them that they’re facing the Demon Prince because your daughter likes to abuse men who can’t fight back. You tell them they’re going to die so that she can continue to play games with any man who isn’t strong enough to kill her or aristo enough to cause a scandal if she tries to trap him. You tell your Queen that she is going to forfeit her life because she looked the other way instead of calling your daughter—and you—to account.
“I’ll give you a choice. You can guarantee in front of witnesses and on your life and the life of your Queen that you will keep this bitch confined until I return to collect what she owes, or I can send her to Hell right now.”
Another Warlord stepped into the shop, looking grim. “Prince. I’m the Steward of the Court.”
“I’m listening.”
“My Queen sends her regards and her regrets. She was not aware of this misconduct. If a formal complaint had been presented to the court—”