“Sadi . . .”

“My control over my temper and . . . other things . . . is not what it used to be. Will never be what it used to be. I will need solitude at times, and that’s when I’ll use the other suite.”

She struggled to find her voice. “And the rest of the time?”

He looked around the room. “Here. Or with you when you want company.”

“So I’m supposed to invite my husband to my bed every time I want him to provide me with sex?” Fool! Don’t challenge him!

“Yes,” he replied.

“No,” she snapped, embracing temper and itching to call in her crossbow. “I am perfectly capable of telling you if I’m not in the mood for a ride. I can take care of myself.”

“Except you didn’t.” His voice sharpened, grew colder. “You didn’t, Surreal. You felt tormented by your response to the sexual heat and said nothing. You felt tortured. Wasn’t that the word you used?”

She flinched.

“I can trust you to draw a line and defend Jaenelle Saetien. You’ve done that since the day she was born. But it’s painfully clear that I can’t trust you to stand up for yourself. Not against me. I thought I could—I thought you would—but you proved me wrong.”

“Don’t do this, Sadi,” she warned.

“Do what?”

“Play games with me. Break the promise you made when we married that you would be a husband in every way.”

She saw the change in his eyes, felt fear shiver through her. Remembered again where she was standing at that moment and what it meant when dealing with a Warlord Prince.

“No games, Lady,” the Sadist said. “Not with you. Never again with you. At least, not for fun. But if you try to play with me . . .” He smiled that cold, cruel smile.

Then he looked away for a moment, and the feel in the room changed—and Daemon looked back at her. “Whether I remain your husband is your choice. Whether I remain your lover is your choice.”

“But when you’re available to be a lover is your choice?”

“Yes. It has to be that way now. But I give you my word that I will not refuse your invitation without reason.”

Something had happened to him today after he left Lucivar’s eyrie. He didn’t quite feel like the man she’d known for the past few decades. His psychic scent was a bit . . . feral. But this wasn’t the Sadist. This was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, in absolute control of himself, offering to provide his wife with sex out of duty to his marriage vows.

That was a knife in the belly.

Daemon studied her. “As I said, this change is nothing drastic.”

And that was twisting the knife.

Nothing drastic? Maybe he believed that. But he hadn’t taken one step toward her since this conversation began.

“It simply restores the distance that had previously been between us—the distance that kept you safe from dealing with the full measure of what I am,” Daemon continued.

٭Lady?٭ Beale said on a psychic thread. ٭Dinner is waiting for you.٭

“Dinner is served in the family room,” she said. “Unless you prefer to eat here.”

Now, finally, he moved toward her, but his smile was the same one he gave other women—a warning that he would remain friendly as long as they kept their distance. “In the family room is fine.” Then amusement warmed his gold eyes. “While we eat, you can tell me just how disgusted Daemonar is with having a bright blue shield around his arm.”

* * *

* * *

She put on a nightgown that he always admired.

At dinner, they had talked the way they used to—the way they hadn’t talked in weeks—sharing information and thoughts about family and books, and Jillian’s first love, and so many other things. His presence didn’t overwhelm her, and while the things he’d said worried her, she thought he would want to reestablish a feeling of physical closeness, and had made it clear that she would like his company that night.

She needed to show him that she loved him, that she desired him. That she didn’t hate him.

But she waited and waited . . . and waited.

She went to the connecting door, wrapped her hand around the handle. What if he didn’t let her in? How could she show him she still wanted him if he locked her out?

Relief filled her when the door opened. No lights were on in the room, but the heavier drapes didn’t cover the glass door that led out to the balcony, so there was enough natural light to see that Daemon was in bed and clearly preparing to sleep in his own room, despite her invitation—and despite his assurance that he wouldn’t turn down an invitation.

“Daemon?” Surreal whispered.

He turned his head. “Something wrong?”

You’re here.

This was dangerous. Potentially lethal. Being in his bedroom invited him to play with her. And if he took offense and thought she was playing with him? He’d warned her—he had—but she couldn’t allow herself to believe he would unleash the Sadist and really hurt her over what amounted to a marital quarrel. If she allowed herself to believe that, she’d run and never stop running.

Slipping into his bed, she leaned over to kiss him as her hand stroked down his chest and headed for the part of him hidden under the covers.

His hand caught hers a moment after she touched the fabric at his waist and realized he was wearing pajama bottoms—something he did only during the winter or at the rare times when he didn’t feel well or when he slept with her doing her moontime, turning a piece of clothing into a visual reassurance that he wasn’t offering, or looking for, anything but her company.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly.

During the whole of their marriage, he had never refused her when she wanted sex or lovemaking. He had never been too tired. Not even when she’d been relentlessly demanding, caught in the addiction his sexual heat had produced. He must have been in pain from the headaches, but he hadn’t denied her his attention. Was he really going to set limits on when he was available to make love?

“Can I stay with you?” she asked, shaken.

A hesitation. “Of course.”

Words politely spoken. In some ways worse than a slap, because it was duty, not desire, that said the words.

He raised his hand. Hopeful, she moved her hand once again to touch him, stroke him, invite him to take pleasure in their bodies coming together. But his hand closed over her wrist again, his touch now so cold it burned.

“No,” he snarled.