“Surreal?” The bastard actually sounded concerned.

Push down the sheet, pull up my nightgown, put your hand between my legs, and play with me until I beg for your cock. “I’m tired.”

Daemon kissed her shoulder and settled back on his side of the bed. “Sleep in tomorrow if you can.”

He extinguished the candle-light. A minute later, Surreal heard the slow breathing that meant he was already asleep. Knowing he would wake the instant she got out of bed, she waited with gritted teeth until she couldn’t stand it a minute longer.

She’d barely eased her legs over the side of the bed when she felt his hand on her arm.

“Bathroom,” she whispered.

The hand slid down to the bed, the man recognizing the word to mean he could go back to sleep instead of waking fully to meet a threat.

She hurried into the bathroom that accommodated the guest rooms in this part of the eyrie and locked the door. Then she pulled up her nightgown and tried not to cry as she gave herself some relief.

* * *

* * *

Pain lanced through his head as Daemon tried to tighten his control of the sexual heat. Nausea, the new companion to the headaches, made him grit his teeth and swallow hard. He could hide the pain, had been hiding its severity for months, but the smell of vomit would be much harder to hide no matter how fast he disposed of the basin.

He hoped, with sick desperation, that Surreal meant it about not wanting sex tonight. She remained convinced that he was responsible for her increased sex drive, and telling her he couldn’t—wouldn’t—oblige . . . Putting a Black shield around himself for protection might break what little affection they still had for each other. Putting a shield around himself would acknowledge the Dea al Mon side of her heritage—and admit that he no longer trusted the assassin who slept with him.

As he struggled for control of the pain and nausea, knowing he had only another minute or so before she returned, he heard the song drifting up from somewhere deep in the abyss. Heard it. Focused on it. There were no words—at least, none he recognized. But he understood the message.

Sleep, the song coaxed. Rest.

The nausea subsided. The headache still raged, raping his brain, but moment by moment, it felt more like a storm seen through a window—powerful and potentially dangerous but not immediately threatening.

Sleep, the song coaxed. Rest.

Daemon stretched out on his side of the bed and followed that beloved voice down, down, down into the Darkness, where pain was barely a memory.

* * *

* * *

Surreal stared at the man so deeply asleep that her return to their room hadn’t roused him at all.

The sexual heat was banked. Not just leashed, banked. Which just proved the bastard could control the heat if he wanted to be considerate.

She eased into her side of the bed—and wondered if this was a new form of torture.

TWENTY-FIVE

Marian felt the sexual heat wash over her a moment before she heard Daemon’s deep, rich voice purr, “Good morning, gorgeous.”

Over decades of marriage, she had adapted to the heat that poured out of Lucivar. Not that it didn’t still arouse her, but she’d gotten used to what she thought of as the everyday sexuality of her man. Despite her being used to Lucivar, that first minute around Daemon was like bracing against a dangerous wind that was strong enough to knock a person off her feet. Letting it roll over her, she would acknowledge—to herself—that her body responded to that unspoken promise of sex that was as much a part of a Warlord Prince’s nature as a volatile temper and being born to kill, and then she forgot about it. He was Daemon, her husband’s brother, and he would never do anything inappropriate. Not with her. Especially with her.

But this wasn’t the first punch of everyday heat. This was like being wrapped in layers of satin while floating safely in a deliciously warm lake. It was a heady, overwhelming feeling—and sensuous enough that she felt her nipples harden, felt the sudden wetness and need between her legs.

Uncertain of his intentions because he hadn’t been quite himself since the headaches that had started several months ago, Marian pulled the biscuits out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack on the counter before she looked at him.

Not seduction. Daemon looked totally relaxed, even a little bit sleepy, with nothing holding back the sexual heat he usually kept tightly leashed in any public setting—heat he kept leashed even in his own home to protect the servants, male and female, from acting inappropriately toward him and provoking a lethal response. But here, now, he had walked into her kitchen with no barriers, no chains, and she didn’t think he was aware that he’d done that.

He feels safe, she thought, stunned by the revelation. Safe enough to let down his guard around me, to be vulnerable around me.

She hadn’t known how much he trusted her until that moment.

“Oh,” she said. “I have to kiss you.” She hurried up to him, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, rose up on her toes, and gave him a hard kiss on the mouth. “You’re too beautiful not to kiss.”

“What? Marian . . .”

She felt him pulling back and waking up, could actually feel him tightening the leash on his sexuality to lessen the impact he had on other people. Could even feel a hint of panic that she might be responding to him, might want something from him that he would never give his brother’s wife. In another moment he would pull away from her, violently, and if she didn’t say the right thing right now, he might never allow himself to feel safe or comfortable around her again.

“But you know what’s better than the way you look first thing in the morning?” She gave him another, lighter kiss and felt his muscles tighten. “You are always willing to help me fix breakfast.”

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. Then he let out a rough laugh so filled with relief it broke her heart. “You were teasing me.”

“Not about helping me fix breakfast.”

“What’s this?” Lucivar walked into the kitchen, his eyes on Marian.

Lucivar would catch the scent of lust and know he hadn’t been the reason for it. She just hoped that when he woke up more, Daemon would assume the scent was because she hadn’t washed thoroughly enough after morning sex with her husband.

“Daemon is making his special scrambled eggs for breakfast. You can cook up some chicken strips and beef. I’ve already made the biscuits, and I’ll get the coffee started.”

“That will get food on the table, and we might even get something to eat before the yappy horde descends on us.” Lucivar moved past Daemon to reach the cold box and remove the meat.