“Certainly. Ranon? When you have a moment, I’d like to discuss the Lady’s visit to your home village.”

“I’ll join you shortly,” Ranon replied.

“Lady Shira and I will be ready in half an hour,” Cassidy told Archerr.

“I’ll see you later,” Gray said, brushing a fingertip over the back of Cassidy’s hand.

He’s come so far so fast,Ranon thought as Gray and the rest of the men left the dining room.Now he’s acting more like the Warlord Prince he should have been.

When the last man left the room, he pushed aside the half-eaten bowl of porridge—and Cassidy pushed the full plate of food in front of him.

“Lady,” he protested.

“I ate,” Cassidy said. “But we’ve agreed to live lean and not cook more than we need for each meal. You were out with the honey pear trees, and I had a feeling that there might not be anything left by the time you got here.”

Living lean. In the reserves, winter was called the Season of Hunger, so he knew about not wasting food. And he knew the unspoken rule of this court: Once everyone was served, what was left could be eaten by anyone who wanted more. The Blood’s bodies needed more fuel than landens’, and the darker the Jewel a person wore, the more food that person needed in order to remain a healthy vessel for the power that lived within. So everyone was willing to eat another helping when it was available.

Because he’d been late, and because of Theran’s remarks, he hadn’t expected to get more than porridge that even hunger barely made tolerable.

“If you have no objection to a solitary meal, Shira and I really should be going.”

“I’ve no objection,” he said. He touched his fork to the edge of the plate. “Thanks for this.”

He waited until Cassidy and Shira left. Then he began eating with enthusiasm. As he poured the last of the coffee from the pot, it occurred to him that Cassidy had not only saved some food for him, she had used a warming spell on the plate so the food wouldn’t get cold.

A small thing, perhaps. A simple courtesy. But when simple courtesies came from a Queen, it said a great deal about how she would treat her people—and, hopefully, how she would treat his.

CHAPTER 2

KAELEER

Lying facedown on the large bed, Daemon Sadi groaned with relief as his wife’s skilled hands coaxed his back muscles to relax. The warming spell Jaenelle was using to ease the tightness didn’t hurt either.

“Tell me again how you did this,” Jaenelle said.

A typical wife question, particularly when said inthat tone of voice.

“Daemonar was stuck in a tree,” Daemon mumbled. Then, “Oh. Right there.”

“Uh-huh. That is a very nasty knot.” She said nothing for a minute while she worked on that part of his back. “So we’re talking about Daemonar Yaslana. Your nephew.”

“He’s your nephew too.”

“Yes, he is. And he’s Eyrien. Which means he has wings.”

“He’s just a little boy.”

“Who has wings.”

Damn. She was going to hold on to that little detail like a Sceltie herding a single sheep.

“Since he is little,” Jaenelle continued. “How did he get up in the tree? He wouldn’t be able to reach the lower branches to climb up like you did.”

Oh, no. He knew a trick question when he heard one.

“He flew up, didn’t he?” Jaenelle said. “Using his wings.”

“Darling, you’re starting to sound like a Harpy,” Daemon said. “Ow!” That because she dug her thumbs into his back—which he deserved for the Harpy comment.

“Why don’t you just admit that climbing a tree in those shoes you usually wear instead of using Craft to float up to the branch where your erring nephew was waiting for you, and most likely giggling, was a dumb idea?”

He wasn’t about to admit to anything. Especially when ithad been a dumb idea. He’d known that when he was doing it. He’d known it even better when he watched Daemonar flutter down to find out what he was doing flat on the ground. But it had been a matter of pride. Jaenelle understood about male pride. She might find it amusing or irritating, depending on the consequences, but she understood it. So she should understand that, at that moment when the boy was looking down at him, he saw himself as the uncle who used Craft instead of muscle, who didn’t participate in the physical world the way his brother Lucivar did. In that moment, he didn’t want to be seen asless by a boy who wasn’t old enough to appreciate the power and skills hedid have.

So he’d climbed the damn tree.

Idiot.

“At least I didn’t actually hit the ground,” Daemon muttered. “I did remember to create a shield and use the air walking spell.” Which saved him from serious injury since he landed on a cushion of air instead of hard ground, but it didn’t spare him from having the wind knocked out of him—or having a back full of tight, aching muscles.

“Good for you,” Jaenelle said, her voice so dry there was no question she was not impressed.

“All right. Fine. I was an idiot.” Which was a story he was sure the servants at SaDiablo Hall would share for many years to come, since a couple of them had witnessed the little drama. They wouldn’t share the story with outsiders, because anyone who worked at the Hall knew the private lives of the SaDiablo family remainedprivate. But he could see someone like the footman Holt taking a young servant aside and telling him that story as an assurance that the powerful, dangerous,lethal Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Dhemlan could also be a man who acted like a bumbling uncle with good intentions and a shortage of brains.

“Shit.” He couldfeel her smile, and the fact that she didn’t need to comment was more than sufficient comment.

She kissed him between the shoulder blades, and that simple contact between lips and skin warmed him in other ways, and the next stroke of her hands down his back had him purring instead of groaning.

“Just relax,” Jaenelle said. “I’m almost done. By tomorrow you’ll be your usual wonderful self, and if you can remember that you’re a grown-up, you should be able to get through the last day of your nephew’s visit without doing any more damage to yourself.”

Her hands glided over his back, more a caress than a Healer’s touch.

“You’re not relaxing,” she said.

“I’m very relaxed,” Daemon purred. Most of him, anyway. He’d been sore enough that he hadn’t focused on anything besides not hurting. Now he was aware of a few other things.

“No, you’re not.”

He heard the concern in her voice. That meant she was looking at him as a Healer and not a woman—and he wanted the woman’s attention.

“Sweetheart, you’re sitting on my ass. There are parts of me that find that very interesting and don’t want to relax yet.”

“I am not sitting on your ass,” Jaenelle huffed. “I’m straddling you to work on your back.”

“You’re close enough that I can tell you’re not wearing anything under that shift, so I call that sitting.”

“And you can tell what I’m not wearing because . . . ?”

“When you brush against me, it tickles.”

A too-thoughtful pause. “You’re awfully sassy all of a sudden.”

“Blame it on my beautiful wife.”

“Boyo, I don’t think your back will take what you have in mind.”

“Then I’ll just roll over. Since you’re already straddling me, you can give us both a ride.”

She snorted out a laugh. “You’re such a romantic when you’re exhausted, but I’ll take you up on your offer. Just to help you relax completely, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Hold still for another minute.”

Her hands glided over his back, the warm, sensuous caress of a lover.

Jaenelle Angelline. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The former Queen of Ebon Askavi. And his wife. His wonderful, longed-for wife.

“Daemon?”

In another minute he would roll over and touch her body. He would use a psychic thread to link with her, mind to mind, and consummate their lovemaking with more than his body, touching her in ways he had never touched another woman.

“Daemon?”

He could picture her fair-skinned hands gliding over his golden brown chest as she sheathed him in silky fire.

In just another min . . .

EBON ASKAVI

Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and still the High Lord of Hell, set aside the current stack of books he was sorting in the restricted part of the Keep’s library, leaned against the large blackwood table, and watched the son who was a mirror prowl restlessly around the room.

Not physically a mirror. Not quite. They had the same thick, black hair and gold eyes—although his hair now held wings of silver at the temples. They had the brown skin of the long-lived races, but Daemon’s skin was a golden brown—more Dhemlan than Hayllian in color.

He had always been considered handsome. Daemon, on the other hand, was beautiful and moved with a feline grace that drew the eye and aroused the senses.

The foolish lusted after that body, forgetting that the man inside the skin was a powerful predator with a cold, killing temper.

Which made him wonder about the reason for this visit.

“You’re here early,” Saetan said.

“Went to sleep early, got up early,” Daemon replied.

Back and forth. Ceaseless movement. If it was Lucivar, he wouldn’t think twice about the prowl. But Daemon?

Daemon stopped moving and stared at the wall. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Fear clamped around Saetan’s heart, but he asked calmly, “In what way?”

A few weeks ago, Theran Grayhaven came to Kaeleer and asked Daemon for help. Disturbed by the physical resemblance between Theran and his old friend Jared, Daemon had slipped into painful memories, confusing the past with the present. No one had known there were deep emotional scars connected to the years after Daemon helped Jared and Lia elude Dorothea’s guards. No one had suspected there was anything wrong—until Daemon attacked Jaenelle.