by Anne Bishop
SEVENTEEN
Daemon stormed into the SaDiablo town house in Amdarh, letting temper thunder through the building. But even that wasn’t enough to ease the feeling of being hunted, so he roared, “Hell’s fire! What is wrong with the women in this city?”
He knew one of the things that was wrong with the Ladies in Amdarh. For months now, he and Surreal had maintained a careful schedule that kept them from residing under the same roof for more than a couple of days every fortnight. On those days they would attend social gatherings together in the evening, and at night, in private . . .
They satisfied their carnal needs for hours—her carnal needs more than his. There was heat in that collision of bodies, but little warmth, and he felt less and less enjoyment being with the woman who was his wife and lover.
But this assault by women who should have known better! At every social duty he fulfilled on his own, they surrounded him like starving cats around a succulent—and wounded—bird, and not even meeting defensive shields cold enough to freeze skin deterred them.
He had the sexual heat leashed so tight it was a surprise that he hadn’t emasculated himself, and that still wasn’t enough. Of course, the headaches, which had gotten more and more savage over the past few months, had done a good job of killing his libido, so the limited sex with Surreal was more than sufficient, even excessive.
And still the bitches kept pushing him. Pushing and pushing. Didn’t they realize they were going to push him too hard one of these days and snap his control? Then he would play with them. Sweet Darkness, how he would play!
“Prince?”
Daemon looked at Helton, the town house’s butler. The man’s face maintained a professional demeanor, but the eyes were full of fear.
The struggle to regain control of his temper had Daemon sweating. He didn’t want to fight this battle. Wasn’t sure how much longer he would win this battle.
“Prince?” Helton said again.
Somewhere in the town house, he heard one of the maids weeping. Terrified.
Daemon swallowed hard. Tasted a hint of blood.
He walked into the sitting room, then waited for Helton to join him.
“My apologies, Helton. It’s been a trying day, but that is no excuse for bringing temper into the house and distressing the staff.”
Helton took a step toward him. “Is there some way I can be of assistance?”
For a moment, he considered asking if Surreal was having an affair. If other witches had reason to think the marriage was breaking, they might also think he would be amenable to ignoring his vows. That could explain their otherwise inexplicable behavior. But asking the question would put Helton in an untenable position of conflicting loyalties, so he didn’t ask. Besides, he owed Surreal a great deal, including the gift of his darling daughter.
He would be back at SaDiablo Hall tomorrow, dealing with Jaenelle Saetien’s latest effort to test his rules. At least she was a female he still understood.
“No, thank you,” Daemon said, then changed his mind. “Yes. I’m not available to anyone for the rest of the day.”
“Very good, Prince.” Helton turned to leave, then turned back. “I hope things improve for you.”
“So do I.” It was a shame neither of them could put a name to what those things might be.
EIGHTEEN
Jillian flew down to Riada’s main street, full of nervous anticipation. Not wanting to call too much attention to herself, she wore her usual daytime trousers, but she’d paired them with a new top that had a more daring neckline than anything she’d worn before. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, so it was appropriate to wear clothing that suited a woman in love.
After taking a couple of deep breaths and resisting the urge to fuss with her hair and clothes, she began perusing the merchandise on display.
Market day in Riada. You could always go into the shops to purchase greens and fruits, fish and other seafood, and all kinds of meat, but as soon as the weather warmed up, merchants hauled out carts and tables and displayed their goods in the open air, turning the chore of shopping into a festive celebration. That one morning a week was as much about chatting with neighbors as it was about selecting the food for a couple of days’ worth of meals.
Even when she didn’t have to buy anything, Jillian looked forward to market day. The street swirled with color from the cloths that shaded the tables and the clothes worn by the men and women who were buying or selling. Voices mingled, rose, and fell in their own kind of music. The sound of a village, a community.
Keeping her wings tucked to protect them from the people jostling to see the merchandise, she wandered from one display to the next, looking at everything but buying nothing. Not yet, anyway. Marian had given her a shopping list but told her to purchase the ingredients for a meal she would like to learn how to make. Being a hearth witch, Marian was a wonderful cook—unlike Nurian, who was an excellent Healer and made healing brews that people actually liked drinking but, somehow, could make even an overspiced roast taste bland.
“Your basket is empty, Lady Jillian,” one merchant said, his voice a genial scold as he pointed at her basket. “Eyriens love the air, but even you can’t eat it.”
“First I have to decide what to eat. Then I’ll buy the ingredients,” she replied, smiling.
“What about seafood?” the fishmonger called. “I have fish fresh from my brother’s nets, brought to me just this morning. Or shrimp. What about lobster? I have some right here. I can put one in the pot and cook it for you if you don’t want to do it yourself.”
“You have a brother who catches fresh fish and lobsters?”
“My brother catches the fish. I have cousins who tend the lobster pots and also catch the shrimp. Lucky for you, huh? You won’t find fresher fish in all of Ebon Rih.”
Laughing, Jillian started to move on, then stopped. Marian had taught her how to make a spicy-sweet dressing for cold seafood served over fresh greens. Marian circled the plate with a couple of different kinds of sliced fruit and served it with crusty bread.
An easy dish to prepare for today’s midday meal, especially if the fishmonger cooked the lobster for her while she selected the other ingredients. And if Nurian didn’t get back from visiting her patients exactly on time, Jillian could put the meal together quickly once her sister got home, and nothing would overcook and spoil.
After checking Marian’s list, she said, “Two cooked lobsters and a pound of the shrimp.” That would be enough for everyone.
“Do you want to select your own lobsters?” The fishmonger gestured to the tank of water behind him.
“You can choose.” She wasn’t squeamish. She was Eyrien after all, and she’d seen enough game being dressed for the table. But lobsters were different. Even when they were dead, their beady eyes had an accusing stare that made her want to apologize while she ripped off their claws and broke open the shell. If she didn’t point to one, then they all had a chance to live a little longer—or at least live until the next customer made a selection. “I’ll make my other purchases and come back for them.”
Moving with purpose now, she purchased the other items that Marian wanted for the Yaslana household, then selected the fresh greens and other vegetables that she wanted for the salad, as well as the items she needed to make the spicy-sweet dressing.
She stood by the fruit cart, her eyes closed as she held up a piece of fruit so that she could breathe in the scent.
Then a male voice said, “Luscious, sweet, and deliciously ripe.”
Feeling heat stain her cheeks, Jillian opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“I wasn’t talking about the fruit.”
She looked at the Opal-Jeweled Warlord standing beside her and felt butterfly wings in her belly. He had the dreamiest green eyes and stylishly disheveled russet hair that looked so striking compared with the black hair and gold eye
s of the Eyrien race.
“Lord Dillon.” She knew she sounded breathless. Unsophisticated. She always did when she was around him.
“Lady Jillian.” A pleasant voice. A cultured voice with just a trace of an accent that, like his hair and eyes, made him so different from an Eyrien male.
A Rihlander from an influential family who lived in the eastern part of Askavi, Dillon had come to Riada to visit some cousins. She had met him a couple of weeks before at the lending library when he’d noticed her selection of books and asked her opinion of one he had chosen for himself, then apologized for being so forward and speaking to her without a proper introduction. It was such an aristo attitude, no doubt polished for fancy dances held in ballrooms or serving in a Queen’s court, and yet she didn’t get the feeling that he thought of her as a rube—a sentiment some of the aristo girls in the village managed to convey without saying anything that could get them into trouble with Prince Yaslana.
Since then, she and Dillon had met a few times—most often at the lending library, but also while she ran errands for Nurian or Marian. Sometimes she had Titian with her and the meeting was brief—barely a greeting in passing. And sometimes when she flew down to Riada alone, she and Dillon slipped away for a few minutes to talk, to have a few precious minutes in private to . . .
It wasn’t the open-mouthed kind of kiss she’d read about in the romance novels she hid from Nurian and read only in her room at night, but it wasn’t the dry brush of lips she’d experienced with Tamnar either. Dillon’s kisses were romantic, full of promises and desire.
Too much desire wasn’t good, wasn’t safe before she was old enough to have her Virgin Night, the ceremony that would remove the risk of her power and her Jewels being broken by her first experience of sexual intercourse. Dillon was old enough to have made the Offering to the Darkness and was now considered a grown man who wore the mantle of his full power. He was old enough to want a lover, and she couldn’t oblige. But how could she resist a few kisses when he told her he was dazzled by her because she was such a strong woman? How could she say no when he asked for a few minutes alone with her? It wasn’t like she was from an aristo family that required girls to have an escort when they spent time with a male friend.
As she selected the fruit and picked up loaves of crusty bread for herself and Marian, Dillon walked along with her, polite enough not to give offense but not chatting with the merchants. He seemed impatient, even a little aloof—until they passed a wide alleyway that led to the backs of the shops and the fields beyond.
“This way.” Dillon grabbed her arm as he took the basket and dropped it a few steps inside the alleyway.
“Dillon,” Jillian protested, looking back at the abandoned basket of fresh food. “You can’t leave the basket. The village cats will be all over the meat I picked up for Lady Marian!”
“She can wait.” He pulled her into the alleyway a few more steps.
“Well, let me put a shield and cold spell around—”
“You’re not her servant, Jillian. Why do you act like one?”
She blinked, confused by his sharp tone. “I don’t. I help Marian, and I get paid for it, but that doesn’t make me a servant.”
“Hired help, then.”
Tears stung her eyes. Why would she get all weepy just because Dillon didn’t understand that she had a role in the Yaslana household?
A spurt of temper and defiance made her lift her chin. “There is nothing wrong with serving someone or working for a living.”
He studied her, then looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just . . . We haven’t had any time together in days.” His hand slid down her arm and closed over her hand as he looked deep into her eyes. “If you loved me, you’d want to spend time with me.” He bent his head and leaned toward her, whispering, “If you loved me, you’d want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”
His lips brushed her mouth, asking for permission. How could she refuse when she wanted to kiss him with everything in her?
She felt the wall at her back and his erect penis poking at her through their clothing as he pressed himself against her. That made her nervous, made her feel trapped. She pushed at his arms, tried to break the kiss to tell him she didn’t want this, it didn’t feel good, not when she felt trapped. Then his hand closed over her breast, something he’d done once before, but that time she’d had room to pull away.
No, she thought, trying to push him back. Permission before action. That was the rule. Kissing might be overlooked, but she didn’t know how to explain this.
Breathing hard, Dillon broke the kiss. “If you—”
She felt the dark power and hot fury a moment before Prince Yaslana grabbed Dillon by the throat, swung him around, and slammed him into the side of the building.
“No!” Jillian cried as Lucivar’s hand tightened around Dillon’s neck, choking him. Killing him. “No!”
She threw herself at Lucivar. She wasn’t sure he noticed her when he straightened his left arm, turning it into a barrier. She wrapped her hands around that arm, tugging and crying as Dillon, his toes barely touching the ground, struggled against an unyielding hand backed by Ebon-gray Jewels and a vicious temper.
“He didn’t do anything!” she cried.
“He had his hand on your tit in view of anyone who walked by,” Lucivar snarled. “So I say he did plenty.”
“Please.”
Lucivar was the law in this valley, and there was no one in the whole of Askavi strong enough to stand against him.
“Please,” she pleaded. “He didn’t do anything.”
Lucivar opened his hand and took a step back as Dillon slumped to the ground. Then he turned glazed gold eyes on Jillian. “The next time he doesn’t do anything in that way, I will rip off his cock and shove it down his throat. And then I’ll snap his neck. Are we clear?”
Glazed eyes were a warning that a Warlord Prince was riding the killing edge, primed for slaughter. So this wasn’t an idle threat. Lucivar never made idle threats.
“Are we clear?” he snarled softly.
“Y-yes.”
“Then go to my eyrie and wait for me.”
“I h-have to . . .”
“My eyrie. Now!”
She bolted out of the alleyway and leaped for the sky as soon as she had room to spread her wings.
* * *
* * *
Never breaking stride as he left the alleyway, Lucivar grabbed the handle of the basket and kept moving. Had to get away from the market, from the people who were scrambling to avoid him. They looked at him and knew he was riding the killing edge and that something as simple as the wrong inflection on a word might be enough to snap the leash on his formidable temper.
“Prince.” Rothvar, his second-in-command, took a step toward him.
“No,” he rasped, the only warning he could give before he spread his dark wings and flew home.
Something wrong. Too much fury burning in him. Why so much fury? He’d come across other youngsters taking advantage of the illusion of privacy, whether it was someplace in the village or a favorite spot by a stream. When it happened, he simply grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt—or girl’s, if she had the boy pinned—and hauled one youngster away from the other. That was sufficient to make any libido go limp.
Except this time . . . Because it was Jillian in that alleyway? Was that the source of his fury? Or something else?
The moment he walked into the big front room of his home, he heard the weeping coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t be inside, couldn’t let his temper stay inside with his family. Couldn’t.
“Papa.” Daemonar rushed forward, then skidded to a stop, his wings spreading for balance.
Couldn’t be around another male right now, not even his son.
“Keep the other children in the playroom,” Luc
ivar said, fighting to stay in control. When the boy hesitated and looked toward the kitchen, he snarled, “Get away from me. Now.”
Daemonar didn’t run. Knew better than to run. He backed away for a few steps, looking toward his father but not meeting the glazed eyes, not issuing any kind of challenge. Then he turned and walked down the wide corridor, just as Lucivar had taught him.
Breathing a little easier, Lucivar walked into the kitchen and dropped the basket on the table, momentarily silencing Jillian’s weeping.
“Lucivar.” Marian tightened her hold on the girl.
“I’ll be outside. When she’s taken care of things, she and I are going to have a chat.”
He saw the understanding—and sympathy—in Marian’s eyes.
Walking out of the kitchen, he crossed the big front room and went out the glass doors that opened to the yard, bordered by a stone wall enhanced with a Red shield that kept frisky children from tumbling off the mountain. Since the shield rose to twice his own height, that was enough protection for Daemonar and Titian when they played out here on their own. Once baby Andulvar started walking, and fluttering, he’d reshape the Red walls into an air-cushioned Red dome.
He paced the long length of the yard, tightening the leash on his temper with each step.
Shouldn’t have been that angry, not over something that, while not exactly prudent, wasn’t unexpected. Except . . .
Hell’s fire! She knew his rules, and she wasn’t helpless. Wasn’t usually helpless.
As he reached the far end of the yard, Lucivar felt the presence of a male intruder. Pivoting, he headed for the eyrie, calling in his war blade despite recognizing the psychic scent. Not an intruder, as such, but Rothvar should know better than to come here without being summoned.
Then again, being Nurian’s lover, Rothvar also had an interest in Jillian.
As he strode toward the eyrie, he watched Marian cross the big room to reach the front door. His steps lengthened, then slowed when Marian crossed the room again, carrying another shopping basket—and Rothvar flew away without crossing the threshold.