He’d had a dream about Karla a while ago, but he couldn’t remember what it was or why it occurred to him now. Something to do with posts and leashes and the . . . wiggle-waggle?
He huffed out a soft laugh. Trust Karla to make a man’s cock sound like an embarrassing toy.
“You’re too damn dangerous to indulge in being foolish.”
How was he being foolish? How . . .
A sheet as soft as a wish covered his body, whispering pleasure with every small movement. Sensual, not sexual. Inviting him to relax, to rest, to let go of his fierce control just a little. Just enough.
He couldn’t get a sense of the sexual heat, couldn’t tell if it was banked or burning, but the collar attached to the leashes—the collar that had become a tight metal band—relaxed, letting him breathe again. Letting him rest.
“Sadi.”
A warm hand caressing his chest. Warm lips brushing against his.
Sensual, yes, but gaining the tang of sex. Pulling him away from the place where he could rest.
“Sadi.”
Daemon shook off the dream as his body responded to Surreal’s touch, to her need.
“I love you,” she said as she kissed his mouth, his face. “I do love you. Don’t go away.”
He gathered her in his arms and returned her kisses, her caresses. “I’m here, Surreal. I’m right here. Easy, love. Easy.”
She couldn’t be easy. It was like she was caught up in a female version of the rut, barely catching her breath after one orgasm before she was on him again, wanting more—needing more. Relentless.
He obliged her with sex for hours before she fell into an exhausted sleep. And he wondered what it was about him, about them, that she wanted so much from him and yet wept in her sleep.
PART TWO
SIXTEEN
Dillon considered his diminishing options. He’d spent the winter going from one Rihland town to the next, extracting money from aristo fathers whose daughters’ reputations were becoming tattered by their taste for activities that made even powerful relatives wary of using their influence to keep those reputations intact. He’d also spent the winter searching for something so elusive he was no longer sure it existed. Love? That feeling was nothing more than a vicious myth, especially when paired with aristo girls. Acceptance? An empty lure. Besides, did he really want to spend his life among women with brittle laughs and men who needed to be cruel to someone in order to have a hard cock at night?
Not all aristos were like that. At least, he’d believed that until he’d made that one life-changing mistake. Now he couldn’t seem to find anyone who wasn’t brittle or a bully.
Maybe he needed to go somewhere less fashionable. Somewhere where the minor branches of aristo houses went to live because they could be the important somebodies in a place full of nobodies.
In fact, there were some distant cousins on his mother’s side who lived in a place like that. The valley where they lived was famous, but the village itself was rustic at best—at least according to his mother. Those cousins had come for a visit once. The boy, Terrence, had been about his age and they’d gotten along well. And he remembered Terrence’s mother as a kind woman. Even if she’d heard about his sullied honor, he didn’t think she would close the door in his face once she knew he had nowhere else to go.
Unlike his own mother.
A last chance. He needed to pick the right girl, someone young enough to be flattered by his attention, connected enough to provide him with some status when they handfasted, but not too connected. He’d had his fill of aristo bitches.
But Hell’s fire, how long could he endure rusticating in a village?
“As long as I have to,” Dillon muttered.
That much decided, he packed his trunks again and bought a ticket on a Coach that would take him to the village of Riada in the valley called Ebon Rih.
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.