When Jaenelle Saetien didn’t respond, Surreal walked out of her bedroom. She really needed the feel of those knives, really needed to remember that she was no longer a child struggling under the first man who had raped her. She had to let the movements and her muscles help her remember that she was very, very good with a knife.
“I want to go away to school,” Jaenelle Saetien said, following her down the corridor.
Surreal stopped and stared at her daughter. Go away? When the smell of blood and shit was still so fresh she wondered if she’d brought it home with her, her daughter wanted to go away? “Where?”
“It’s a private school in Amdarh,” Jaenelle Saetien said eagerly. “It’s very exclusive—and has excellent teachers.”
Exclusive obviously mattered to the girl. Excellent teachers would matter to Daemon—if he was even willing to entertain the idea.
“Zoey and Titian are going to be there.” A beat of effort at restraint before the next words burst out. “All my friends are going to be at that school.”
“I don’t think all of them will be there. What about your friends in Halaway?”
Jaenelle Saetien shrugged. “They’re all right, but they’re . . .”
When she hesitated, Surreal filled in the rest. “No longer special enough to deserve your attention? No longer exclusive enough, aristo enough?” She kept her voice mild while she struggled with the furious desire to force open her daughter’s first inner barrier and show the girl what she had seen in that village.
“You don’t understand!” Jaenelle Saetien wailed.
“I understand more than you think.” Titian and Zoey being in attendance might tip the balance in favor of Jaenelle Saetien going to that school. “You won’t convince your father to give his permission by using posturing and snotty attitude. Write a report explaining why you want to go to the school. Make a list of the educational—and social—benefits that being there will provide. Then you’ll have to wait for his decision.”
“Can’t you talk to him?” Wheedling now.
“No. If you want this, you need to ask him yourself.”
“Why won’t you do this for me? You never do anything for me!” Back to bitchy.
Little girl one moment, defiant adolescent the next, wanting to believe—maybe even believing—that she could call herself a woman.
Little fool.
Telling herself that she should make some attempt at understanding, or at least tolerating, the girl’s mood swings, Surreal took a step closer and raised a hand to touch her daughter’s hair.
Jaenelle Saetien took a step back and tossed her head.
So be it. Understanding had to work both ways.
There was nothing warm about Surreal’s smile. “Why won’t I talk Daemon into letting you go away to school? First, because I don’t do favors for a bitch. Never have, never will. And second, sugar, because I don’t want you to be another girl who rips out a boy’s guts with her bare hands because he tried to rape her. But I do hope, if you were in that position, that you’ve inherited enough spine from me to be able to do exactly that.”
Daemon walked through the front door of the Hall and let his power quietly flow through the immense structure, picking up the emotions of everyone in and around his home. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at Beale as his butler stepped into the great hall, holding a silver tray with a single piece of folded paper.
“High drama, low drama, or farce?” he asked as he weighed the female emotions that seemed to swirl through the Hall. When Beale didn’t answer, he sighed. “How is it possible that one woman and one adolescent girl can’t manage to live in a place this size without clashing over everything?”
“Your father once said that drama had no purpose without an audience,” Beale replied.
“So the performer seeks out the intended audience?”
Beale inclined his head and held out the tray. “This arrived from Ebon Rih.”
He didn’t see it often, but he recognized Lucivar’s labored writing.
Taking the letter, he turned over the carefully folded paper and looked at the seal. Personal seal, not the official seal of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih—or the Demon Prince’s seal. He wasn’t sure personal was better than official, but he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Bastard,
We need to talk about that damn school.
L
“What school?” Daemon muttered.
“That I don’t know,” Beale replied. “However, after the latest drama between the Ladies, the young Lady SaDiablo informed me that she would have her meal in her room this evening.”
“Did Jaenelle Saetien try to dictate the menu for her solitary dinner?”
“She tried.” Beale held out a neatly written menu. “This is what Mrs. Beale had planned for the evening meal. The checked items are what will be on the dishes for the tray meal.”
No checkmark next to the sweet. That would go over so well.
Everything has a price, Daemon thought. “And Lady Surreal? Where is she dining this evening?”
“She said that would depend on whether you were home for dinner.” A beat of silence. “I think there was trouble in one of the villages. She has been outside working with the Dea al Mon knives for over an hour. The house drama occurred between the time she returned home and her going outside.”
High emotions and household drama. “I need to talk to you and Holt.”
“The young Lady gave orders that she wanted to see you as soon as you returned.”
Daemon’s smile had a cold edge. He called in a book of basic Protocol, which would be perceived as the slap he intended, since basic Protocol—the first level of phrases that were used in courts and were also used to protect the weaker Blood from the stronger—was on a level with the basic manners any child should have learned by the time she received her Birthright Jewel. He handed it to Beale. “Please deliver this to the young Lady with my compliments and convey the message that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan will see her at his convenience.”
A sparkle in Beale’s eyes. “My pleasure, Prince.”
“I’ll check on Surreal and meet you and Holt in the butler’s pantry.”
“Prince?” A moment’s alarm before Beale regained control.
“This needs to be a private—and discreet—conversation.”
Surreal was still in the backyard, but she’d put aside the elegant fighting knives of her mother’s people. Now she held an Eyrien hunting knife, which she rammed into a straw figure over and over and over.
Daemon stood on the edge of the terrace and watched her, a woman full of raw fury. He knew the moment his psychic scent, and the leashed sexual heat that was still too potent for her comfort most days, reached her. She turned toward him, the knife raised and ready.
“I understand you had some trouble,” he said, keeping his voice courteous.
“Not me, sugar. But I don’t think the High Lord is going to have a pleasant evening.”
Too many warnings today. “Want to tell me why?”
Surreal nodded. “But your daughter wants to see you first.”
“My wife has first claim.” They both knew that wasn’t true. Witch had first claim on him—body, mind, and heart. And power. After all, a Warlord Prince was a Queen’s weapon, and he was hers. Always hers.
Surreal vanished the knife and called in a small towel to wipe the sweat off her face as she walked toward him.
He watched her. Was his wife approaching him, or Surreal the assassin?