Daughter of the Blood (Page 55)

So here he was at the end of the day, unable to stop his restless wandering. He walked past the Craft library and stopped, his attention caught by the faint light coming from beneath the door.

The moment he opened the door, the light went out.

Daemon slipped into the room and raised his hand. The candlelight in the far corner glowed dimly, but the light was sufficient.

His golden eyes shone with pleasure as he wound his way through the cluttered room until he was standing by the bookcases, looking at a golden-haired head studiously looking at the floor. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath her nightgown.

"It’s late, little one." He chided himself for the purring, seductive throb in his voice, but there was nothing he could do about it. "Shouldn’t you be in bed?"

Jaenelle looked up. The distrust in her eyes was a cold slap in the face. That morning he’d been her playmate. Why was he suddenly a stranger and suspect?

Trying to think of something to say, Daemon noticed a book on the top shelf that was pulled halfway out. Taking a hopeful guess about the reason for her sudden distrust, he pulled the book off the shelf and read the title, one eyebrow rising in surprise. If this was her idea of bedtime reading, it was no wonder she had no use for Graff’s Craft lessons. Without a word, he gave her the book and reached up to brush the others on the top shelf. When he was done, the space where the book had been was no longer there, and anyone quickly glancing at the shelves wouldn’t notice its absence.

Well? He didn’t say it. He didn’t send it. Still, he was asking the question and waiting for an answer.

Jaenelle’s lips twitched. Beneath the wariness was amusement. Beneath that . . . perhaps the faintest glimmer of trust?

"Thank you, Prince," Jaenelle said with laughter in her voice.

"You’re very welcome." He hesitated. "My name is Daemon."

"It would be impolite to call you that. You are my elder."

He snarled, frustrated.

Laughing, she gave him an impudent curtsy and left the room.

"Irritating chit," he growled as he left the library and returned to his room. But the gentle, hopeful smile wouldn’t stop tugging at his lips.

Alexandra sat on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. A bell cord hung on either side of her bed. The one on the left would summon her maid. The one on the right—she looked at it for the sixth time in fifteen minutes—would ring in the bedroom below hers.

She rested her head on her arms and sighed.

He had looked so damned elegant in those evening clothes so perfectly cut to show off that magnificent body and beautiful face. When he’d spoken to her, his voice had been such a sensual caress it had caused a fluttering in her stomach—a feeling no other man had ever produced. That voice and body were maddening because he seemed completely unaware of the effect he had. At the theater, there’d been more opera glasses focused on him than on the stage.

There was his reputation to consider. However, outside of his being coolly civil, she had found nothing to fault him on. He answered when summoned, performed his duties as an escort with intuition and grace, was always courteous if never flattering—and produced so much sexual heat that every woman who had been in the theater was going to be looking for a consort or a lover tonight.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

She hadn’t had a steady lover since she’d asked Philip to take care of Leland’s Virgin Night. She’d always known about Philip’s passionate love for her daughter. It wouldn’t have been fair to any of them to demand his presence in her bed after that night.

While a part of her objected to keeping males solely for sexual purposes, her body hadn’t given up craving a man’s touch. Most of the time, she satisfied that craving whenever she was a guest at a lower Queen’s court—or when she sneaked away to spend a night or two with a couple of Black Widow friends and feasted on and with the males who served that coven.

Now, in the room below hers, there was a Warlord Prince who made her pulse race, a Warlord Prince who had centuries of training in providing sexual pleasure, a Warlord Prince who was hers to command.

If she dared.

Alexandra pulled the bell cord on the right side. She waited a minute and pulled it again. How did one act with a pleasure slave? They weren’t considered in the same category as consorts or lovers, that much she knew. But what should she do? What should she say?

Alexandra combed her hair with her fingers. She would figure it out. She had to. If she didn’t get some relief tonight, she would go mad.

Despite her frustration, she almost gave up and turned off her light, almost felt relieved that he hadn’t obeyed, when there was a quiet tap on her door.

"Come in." She sat up, trying for a measure of dignity. Her palms were wet with nervous sweat. She flushed when he entered the room and leaned back against the door. He was still in evening dress, but his hair was slightly disheveled, and the half-unbuttoned shirt gave her a glimpse of his smooth, muscular chest.

Her body reacted to his physical presence, leaving her unable to think, unable to speak. She had resisted this since he arrived, but now she wanted to know what it felt like to have him in her bed.

For a long time, he said nothing. He did nothing. He leaned against the door and stared at her.

And something dangerous flickered in his golden eyes.

She waited, unwilling to dismiss him, too frightened to demand.

In the end, he came to the bed and showed her what a pleasure slave could do.

4—Hell

Saetan ignored the light tap on his study door, as he had ignored everything these past few weeks. He watched the doorknob turn, but the door was Black-locked, and whoever was on the other side would stay on the other side.

The knob turned again and the door opened.

His lips curling in a snarl at this blatant intrusion, he limped around the desk and froze as Jaenelle slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She stood there, shy and uncertain.

"Jaenelle," he whispered. "Jaenelle!"

He opened his arms. She ran across the room and leaped into them, her thin arms gripping his neck in a stranglehold.

Saetan staggered as his weak leg started to give, but he got them to a chair by the fire. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arms tight around her. "Jaenelle," he whispered over and over as he kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks. "Where have you been?"

After a while, Jaenelle braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed back. She studied his face and frowned. "You’re limping again," she said in an aggrieved voice.

"The leg’s weak," he replied curtly, dismissing it.

She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pushed back the collar.