The Shadow Queen (The Black Jewels #7)(14)
Author: Anne Bishop

There was a filthy bitch sprawled on his bed.

She lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand, one leg forward and bent at the knee to help her balance. Nothing blatantly provocative about the position, which meant only that she was smarter than the bitches who had tried before her. She was wearing sheer white stockings that came up to midthigh. No need for a garter belt when Craft could hold the stockings in place. Above that, she was wearing a simple white shift that ended just above the stockings and was sheer enough that it didn’t hide the body beneath.

It also didn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything else.

His c**k strained against his trousers, wanting to be sheathed inside her and flood her with come.

Bitch. Filthy bitch.

“Daemon?”

She’d succeeded. Where all the others had failed, this one had succeeded. She made him want, made him need. And when the little bitch informed Dorothea that he could be aroused, the slavery he now endured would be nothing compared with what would be done to him to breed him with Dorothea’s select bitches.

“Daemon? What’s wrong?”

And the one untouched thing he had left to offer, the one clean thing he had given to no one else, would be taken from him. Like everything else had been taken from him.

Because of the little bitch now stinking up his bed.

She sat up. Shifted closer to the edge of the bed. His bed. “I think I should leave.”

Leave? No, no, no. Not until he’d purged himself of some of this anger, some of this hatred, some of this need.

He raised his right hand. The Black Jewel in his ring flashed. And he saw her tense as Black locks and shields surrounded the room, trapping her inside. With him.

This was his room, the one bit of peace and privacy he could claim. That was his bed, a place he shared with no one. And her body was his to do with as he pleased.

He took a step toward the bed, delighted by the way she shivered. Not with anticipation. The little bitch had finally figured out what she found in his bed wasn’t going to be pleasure.

He took another step.

She tried to bolt, tried to launch herself off the bed.

Snarling viciously, he caught her, threw her back down on the bed, and came down on top of her, forcing her legs apart, pushing against her, taking dark pleasure in the knowledge that the moment he vanished his clothes, his c**k would ram into her.

“Daemon.”

Go ahead, he thought. Plead now that you can’t control what’s coming. Could never control what’s coming.

His hands tightened on her wrists. Tightened and tightened until just a little more pressure would break bone. Her pulse hammered under his fingers. Her heart thundered against his chest.

He smelled her fear. Reveled in the scent of it.

She turned her head, as if daring to deny him her mouth.

He clamped his teeth on the spot where her neck and right shoulder connected….

And breathed in a scent that soothed and excited him. He licked that spot and tasted a flavor more heady than the best wine. And knew whose body trembled beneath his.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered, nuzzling that spot, breathing in those scents that could belong to no other woman. “Jaenelle.”

His hands relaxed, still cuffing her wrists but gently now. So gently.

“Jaenelle.” He was safe. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him for wanting her. She wouldn’t punish him for needing her.

He could give her this because she was the one he had waited for.

As he raised his head to look at her beloved face, he realized something wasn’t right about the room.

It didn’t smell like her. Like them. It smelled only like him.

“Kiss me,” he whispered before sinking into a kiss that was viciously gentle.

He needed her, couldn’t survive without her. And he needed the scent of her arousal, the flood of her pleasure, to fill his bed.

His room. His bed. And . . .

He looked at the woman who meant more to him than anything else, and thought, Mine.

CHAPTER 5

KAELEER

Theran looked at the man who walked into the breakfast room and thought, Predator.

Whatever mood was riding Daemon Sadi could have lethal repercussions for the rest of the males in this place. And judging by the way Beale held himself, as if a twitch at the wrong time could end with someone being gutted—or worse—the butler recognized the danger too. The difference between them was that Beale seemed to be offering something Sadi wanted, whereas he . . .

He dared give that cold, beautiful face a quick study before fixing his eyes on his plate.

In Dena Nehele, men had two ways to describe a man who had spent a vigorous night in bed: ridden hard or well used. A man who had been well used came to the breakfast table with a sated, lazy satisfaction. A man who had been ridden hard might have gotten some relief from the sex, but he was still edgy and looking for an excuse for a different kind of relief. And when a Warlord Prince went looking for that kind of relief, blood was spilled—and too many friends and families ended up grieving for the dead.

Sadi pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. Within moments Beale poured a cup of coffee for the Prince and, without asking, fixed a plate of food for the man.

“It will be ready in a few minutes,” Beale said quietly.

Nodding, Sadi reached for the cup of black coffee.

Undercurrents. Any man who lived in Terreille learned to recognize them. Even someone who had spent his life in the rogue camps.

There was concern—and understanding—in Beale’s voice. The same concern Theran had heard in older men’s voices when they’d tried to offer support to a younger man who’d been twisted up by bedroom games. And there was a moment before Beale left the room when Theran thought the butler would actually lay a comforting hand on Sadi’s shoulder.

He recognized all the signs and knew what they meant, but who in the name of Hell would be brave enough—or foolish enough—to twist up a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince?

Sadi’s wife.

That first exchange he’d witnessed between Lady Angelline and Sadi had left no doubt that Daemon’s attention became focused exclusively on her whenever she entered a room. He’d figured it was because they were still in their first year of marriage—a time when a man’s thoughts didn’t stray too far from the bed.

Now he wondered. Who was Jaenelle Angelline? He’d heard of Sadi—who hadn’t heard stories about the Sadist?—but the Prince’s wife, the adopted daughter of the former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, was a Queen who didn’t have a court and didn’t rule anywhere that he could tell, not even the little village just down the road from the Hall. She wore a Jewel so peculiar he’d never seen its like before. And everything about her outside of her life here at SaDiablo Hall was off-limits in terms of questions or conversation. Sadi had made that very clear when the three of them had dinner last night.