Shocked, he stumbled into the Consort’s suite, turned on the light in his bathroom. No slices in the shirt.

Stripping off the shirt, Daemon stood in front of the mirror and stared at the four bleeding wounds that had been made by Witch’s claws.

Remembrance. Reminder.

When Jaenelle Saetien was born, Surreal had ripped his arm with a taloned gauntlet, but those wounds had healed, leaving no scars.

He looked at his left wrist, at the only scar he carried. Tersa had given it to him on the day she told him that Witch walked among the living. And now . . .

Daemon sat on the edge of the bathtub and pressed the bloody shirt to his arm.

Not a dream. He’d been back in the Misty Place, talking to Witch. Arguing with Witch.

He didn’t know what sort of bargain she would make with him, but it meant he would see her again. Until then, he would set up his sanctuary, do what he could to repair his marriage, and help Lucivar deal with Jillian and her suitor. He would prove to his Queen that he was willing to do more than survive.

Swaying on his feet, Daemon washed his arm, then used healing Craft to close the wounds. Calling in the small cabinet he kept filled with healing supplies, he spread an ointment over the wounds before wrapping his biceps in gauze and putting a protective shield over the whole upper arm.

He knew with absolute certainty that those wounds would leave scars, because they were a reminder from Witch that he wasn’t alone. They were the message that he would see every single day for the rest of his life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Still shaky from her crying jag and confession to Marian, Surreal finished dressing moments before Lucivar barged into the guest room, grabbed her left arm, and pulled her toward the door.

“We’re going to talk,” he snarled.

“Get your hand off me,” she snarled back as her right hand curled in preparation for calling in her favorite stiletto.

He turned on her, his hand tightening on her arm. “You call in a weapon, you’d better be ready to fight. And you’d better be ready for the pain that will follow, because I’ll hurt you, Surreal. Today, right now, I will hurt you.”

Mother Night. He means it.

She didn’t resist as he hauled her through the corridors. She caught a glimpse of Marian’s startled expression before Lucivar shoved her into his study and slammed the door. Ebon-gray shields barricaded the room. She couldn’t get out and no one could get in.

“You want to tell me—,” she began.

“Pretend I’m holding a weapon,” Lucivar said. “I’m pointing it at you. Threaten, threaten, blah blah blah.”

That stupid phrase sounded a lot more terrifying when he said it.

“We’ve already concluded the part where you threaten me, so what is this about?”

“You tell me. What in the name of Hell is going on between you and Daemon?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Considering what I heard this morning, it damn well is my business.”

“You . . .” Surreal felt the blood drain out of her head. She wanted to sit down but couldn’t afford to show any weakness. “Did you tell Daemon?”

“I didn’t have to.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have the Sadist in your bed night after night!” she cried.

“Neither do you.” Lucivar spread his wings, then folded them halfway. “You have brushed against that side of Daemon’s temper over the years, and you have seen what he can do. But believe me, Surreal, you have never danced with the Sadist when he has been focused on you.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I have danced with him. If that’s what you’d been facing every night for the past few months, you would not have survived this long.”

She shook her head. She knew what she felt. “He’s been different since the night I stayed with him in his bedroom.”

He folded his wings all the way and stepped closer. “How has he been different? And why didn’t you say something? I told you I would help you.”

“What was I supposed to say? That I can’t think of anything but screwing him whenever he gets near me? That some days I feel like I’m nothing but a sheath for his cock?”

“Why didn’t you say something if his sexual heat was making you uncomfortable?”

“I did! Over and over again. What could I have said that he would hear?”

“Something like, ‘Sugar, I need to rest tonight. Could you bank the heat?’”

She snorted. “Could Marian say that to you?”

“She does. Only she doesn’t call me sugar.”

Surreal blinked. Using different words could have stopped this? No. Not possible. “I have been dealing with the Sadist.” She had to believe that, needed to believe there hadn’t been a choice.

Lucivar shook his head. “I’m not saying there isn’t a whisper of the Sadist or an edge to the way he sometimes plays in bed. Daemon likes to play. But you’re his friend, his partner, his lover, and his wife. When he plays with you, he knows exactly where the line is between pain and pleasure, and he will never cross it. Not with you.” He thought for a moment. “Well, he used to know where that line was, but neither of you told the other that something had changed, so I’m thinking both of you have crossed a few lines you wouldn’t normally cross—and there are wounded feelings on both sides because of it.”

Annoyed by the scold, Surreal shrugged off those words and concentrated on something else Lucivar had said. “The Sadist crossed that line with you.” Daemon and Lucivar had a complicated history, but her stomach started flipping at the thought of them doing . . . what?

Lucivar’s smile was bitter. “Even when we were younger and both wore the Birthright Red, he would hit me with that sexual heat and wind his particular kind of seduction spells around me, and there was nothing I could do. He played with me in front of an audience of bitch Queens. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be so mad with need, to have so little control over your own body, that your own brother could make you come in front of all those bitches?”

Lucivar walked away and stood for a minute with his back to her, before returning.

“I hated him for what he did to me during those entertainments. It took years before I figured out that he did it out of love. He offered those bitches an entertainment they couldn’t resist as a substitute for whatever they’d intended to do to me. Because what they’d intended would have been permanently disfiguring. I could have lost my balls or my wings. Lost my eyes, my ears. They wouldn’t have killed me and brought Saetan’s rage down on their heads, but they could have maimed me to the point of being a helpless lump that they could continue to torture. I’d seen them do that to other men. But the Sadist offered them a game that was entertainment and lesson—a lesson because he made it clear that if they touched me after he was done, he would do the same to them . . . without any mercy.”