Anne Bishop - The Shadow Queen

And wasn’t that a wonder? he thought as he waited for Cassie. Talking to Daemon was like having an older friend who not only knew things about women but was willing to tell you things.

Was willing to do more than tell.

“Put your hands on her waist. Like this. She’ll be so concerned with apologizing for that damn illusion spell, she won’t even notice your hands until the warmth seeps through her clothes. That moment when she becomes aware is when the romance needs to begin. She’s feeling vulnerable tonight. She’ll try to shy away. This is the moment when you offer just enough to make her want more. Let her lose a few hours’ sleep because you’ve given her a reason to think about you. To wonder about you. To dream about you.”

Then Daemon had shown him. . . .

“Gray?” Cassie called softly. “Gray, are you in there?”

“Back here,” he called.

Realizing a tactical error, he shifted so his back was against the shed. That way, once she was standing in front of him, it would be easy to shift so she was in the soft light and he was in the shadows.

She came around the corner, hesitated a moment, then hurried to reach him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, sounding like she was braced for bad news.

“Why would something be wrong?”

“You’re outside.”

“It’s a soft night in early summer,” he replied, smiling. “The air is deliciously scented with all the things that are growing.” And I was waiting for you.

“Gray, I’m sorry about the illusion spell. I didn’t know it would upset you. I just wanted to look . . .” She pressed her lips together.

He shifted away from the wall and put his hands on her waist, holding her lightly. “How did you want to look?”

“Pretty. Or as pretty as someone like me can look.”

He heard pain and bitterness in her voice, and he suspected someone had inflicted a deep wound at some time in her life, but he didn’t understand what that wound had to do with her using that stupid illusion spell. “Why do you want to be pretty when you’re already beautiful?”

So vulnerable.

She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him.

She drew in a breath, probably to deny what he’d said. Instead, she looked at him, and he saw the moment she realized his hands were on her, realized how close they were standing, realized what the brush of her body was doing to his.

“Cassie,” Gray whispered.

He placed the first feather kiss at the corner of her mouth and worked his way along a cheekbone up to her temple. “Cassie.”

“She doesn’t understand yet how you see her, boyo,” Daemon had said, “so don’t waste your breath on words that will cause her to pay attention to the wrong things.”

He didn’t waste his breath. He diligently practiced the things he’d been taught that evening and felt her melt against him, caught the intoxicating scent of her arousal, both physical and psychic. When she pressed her lips to his and slipped her tongue in his mouth, he wrapped his arms around her and almost ignored the last instruction.

His self-preservation kicked in when he remembered who would demand an explanation if he ignored that last instruction.

He waited until she broke the kiss before he eased back—and added the footnote to the evening.

“Everything has a price, Lady,” Gray said, smiling. “You owe me a little something for that illusion spell.”

A jumble of emotions in her hazel eyes, wariness and arousal being dominant. “What do I owe you?”

“The answer to a question.”

She relaxed a little.

“Are the freckles only on your face?”

Her face colored. She swallowed hard and eventually said, “No, they’re not just on my face.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of them.” He stepped back, not sure if he wanted to snarl or whimper about that particular instruction. “Come on. It’s late. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

She looked a little dazed during the walk back to the house. She looked more than a little confused as he nudged her inside and closed the door.

And he thought the light would be burning in her bedroom for a while longer that night.

Returning to his little room in the shed, he stripped and got into bed. He wanted to write the letter to Lord Burle and ask about the plants, but he didn’t feel quite ballsy enough to write a polite letter to Burle when he was having these kinds of feelings about the man’s daughter—and wanting to do things with that daughter that were less than polite.

So he turned off the lamp and lay in the dark, thinking about the evening. He’d made friends tonight. He was damaged, and they didn’t dismiss that, but even though nothing had been said, the High Lord, Lucivar, and Daemon had made it plain that they expected him to live up to his potential. And if he asked, they would show him how.

“Daemon? Have you kissed men before?”

“I have.” Sadi’s mouth curved in a predatory smile. “Some even survived the experience.”

“Have you taught other boys to kiss the way you just taught me?”

The smile softened, and there was an odd expression in Daemon’s gold eyes. “I taught Jared. And Blaed.”

Saetan swirled the brandy in the snifter.

“If I’d known about this bitch, she wouldn’t still be among the living.”

He should have known about her. Daemon had said the witch wasn’t a girl, and it was hard to believe this incident was the first time she’d flirted that way with a married man—especially because the detail of taking a shirt as a trophy kept tugging at him, making him think the scenario he’d told Jaenelle wasn’t just a scenario. It was also hard to believe she waited decades between her victims, which meant she’d been playing this game while he’d actively ruled Dhemlan.

And no one had told him. Even if the Queens, for some inexplicable reason, had chosen to remain ignorant of the bitch’s activities, at least one Warlord Prince should have had balls enough to come to the Hall and inform him.

His conclusion? Some of her prey had helped cover her tracks and hide her games.

He wasn’t interested in the men. Not yet, anyway. But the witch who had dared try to tangle up his son in her petty little game . . .

A flicker of memory, there and gone. A man’s anguish. A child’s face.

Or what was left of the child’s face.

There and gone.

Taking the brandy with him, he went out to one of the courtyards.

“When I stepped away from the living Realms, and Dhemlan,” he told the night sky, “I thought I’d given Daemon a healthy Territory and a clean slate to begin his rule. But it looks like I have some unfinished business after all.”

Several days after the dinner party at the Keep, Theran walked into Powell’s office so soon after breakfast, the Steward wasn’t settled behind his desk yet.

“Did the letter arrive?” he asked.

“The messenger just returned from the Keep with the sack,” Powell replied. “I haven’t even opened it yet.”

“Well, get on with it.”

Before Powell could say what he looked like he wanted to say, Ranon and Shira walked into the office, with Archerr following right behind them.

“Did the letter arrive?” Ranon asked.

“Hell’s fire,” Powell muttered. “The last time this many men were interested in a single letter, it was because all the young men in my village were waiting to see who the prettiest girl had asked to be her escort to the harvest dance.”