What had she done to provoke him into doing what he’d done last night? Into being what he’d been last night? She’d recognized the glazed look in his gold eyes. She knew who had controlled her body and played with her until she was drowning in terrible pleasure that made a woman deliciously satisfied one moment and craving the next touch, the next permitted climax with a sharp, desperate need.

She had been in bed with the Sadist—and it terrified her. It terrified her, who had been the highest-paid whore in Terreille’s Red Moon houses as well as one of the best assassins in that Realm. She hadn’t been a whore for decades, since she emigrated to Kaeleer, but she still kept all her knives sharp—and she had, on occasion and with great discretion, used them.

All her skills counted for nothing against a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. All those skills counted for nothing against the Sadist.

They’d been getting along so well since the Birthright Ceremony. Something in Daemon had relaxed, a common response when a man was granted legal rights to his child. She suspected that relaxation also had its roots in Daemon’s brief meeting with some aspect of Witch, who had gifted their daughter with an extraordinary Jewel.

A few days after the Ceremony, he’d said “I love you” for the first time, words that warmed her, that assured her that he wanted to stay married to her.

Now . . .

She shut off the water, wrapped her hair in one large towel, and dried off with another.

She couldn’t take Jaenelle Saetien away from school and the daily lessons in Craft and Protocol the girl had begun with Daemon, but she could leave for a few days, could use the excuse of checking on the family’s other estates as a reason to be away. Nothing unusual about that. Nothing that would raise suspicions or have Daemon asking questions.

Daemon.

She gripped the sink while she remembered the feel of his hands, the feel of his mouth, the feel of his cock filling her, moving inside her. . . .

She climaxed. It wasn’t enough. That greedy, desperate need was back.

Not Daemon. The Sadist had done this to her.

She needed to get away in order to figure out why.

* * *

* * *

Half-awake, Daemon reached across the bed. When his hand found cold sheets instead of a warm body, he rolled onto his back and rubbed his hands over his face.

Mother Night.

He hadn’t had sex like that, hadn’t offered to give sex like that, since . . . Well, he hadn’t had sex like that since the last time Jaenelle Angelline had accepted his invitation to play. He hadn’t thought that anyone else, even Surreal, would agree to play those games of possession with him, knowing she was safe. He hadn’t thought he would love anyone else deeply enough to want to play those games again.

The first time he had seen Witch in his bedroom and reacted to her in this way, his father had explained some things about the nature of Warlord Princes that he hadn’t known.

“This is emotional—and it’s darker, more dangerous when it happens. It’s the thrill of being feared while you seduce your lover to the point where she doesn’t want to refuse. And at the same time it’s the comfort of being able to reveal that side of your nature to a lover and know you’re still trusted. . . . It’s a potential for violence that is transformed into a kind of ruthless gentleness. . . . It’s part of your nature. It’s part of your caste. It’s in every one of us. . . . You’ve twisted a part of yourself into a powerful weapon, honed it to the point people have given it a different name.”

What had played in his bedroom last night was the Sadist in his mildest form. The Sadist as lover. That didn’t come close to what he was when he let that dark, lethal aspect of himself slip the leash. But all that particular knowledge and skill, wrapped in the velvet of love, could give a woman piquant pleasure in ways nothing else could.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Surreal would accept his invitation. After she made her choice, because playing this game with him had to be her choice, he’d shown her what he was without the barriers he’d kept between them—barriers he’d held in place to protect her, thinking they were necessary. She’d shown him last night that he’d been wrong about that.

A brief psychic probe located the Gray, so he slipped out of bed, put on a robe, and opened the window to let the room air out a bit before his valet or anyone else came in.

Belting the robe, he walked into Surreal’s bedroom, then stopped, shocked, when her psychic scent hit him.

Surreal SaDiablo, Gray-Jeweled witch and assassin, his wife for the past fifteen years, was afraid of him. Truly afraid of him. Because of last night.

But . . . She’d made the choice. She’d accepted his invitation to play. And if she’d been uncomfortable at any time, she could have stopped the play with one word. Just one word.

“Surreal.”

She gave him a brittle smile. “It’s time to check the other estates. I wanted to get an early start and didn’t want to wake you.”

He could read her body, knew her heart was pounding, her breathing too shallow.

Last night, he’d felt that dark possession, had known the woman was his and, equally important, that he was hers. And he’d shown her who he was—a truth he’d shown to one other woman.

But unlike Jaenelle Angelline, who had accepted everything he was, Surreal had seen the truth and now feared him. Oh, she had been afraid of him at other times, and had reason to be. But not here. Not in their home. Not in her bed.

Except they hadn’t been in her bed. They had been in his, and for a Warlord Prince, that made a difference. Oh, yes, it made a difference.

He kept his voice gentle, made no move toward her. “Will you have breakfast with me before you go?”

She hesitated a moment too long. “Sure, sugar. Just give me a few minutes to finish packing and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Daemon retreated to his room and closed the door. He took a quick but thorough shower, recognizing that any scent of sex would trouble her right now.

Maybe going away would help her, give her time to realize it had been a game, that he would have stopped the instant she asked him to stop. But she hadn’t asked. He knew she hadn’t asked. Just as he knew that the Sadist as lover had known exactly where her line was between sharp pleasure and real pain and hadn’t, even for a heartbeat, crossed that line.

Even so, he’d scared her instead of pleasing her. Her going away for a few days might be a good thing. If her fear didn’t dissipate, it would become a wall between them.

As he dressed, Daemon worked to restore the leashes on his temper, on his power, on the Sadist, and on the sexual heat. But something inside him had swelled last night, had bloomed, and when he tried to snug the leash on the sexual heat, it felt like a shirt that should have fit but was a little too tight.