Anne Bishop - Dreams Made Flesh

Surreal scanned another room full of milling people. It felt like every aristo in Amdarh was stuffed into this house. "Parties like this were more fun to attend when I was a whore."

Standing beside her, Lucivar also scanned the room. "Why?"

"Watching all the prissy bitches trying not to act scandalized that I was there was almost as entertaining as watching the men I'd slept with sweat over what I might say to the prissy bitches. Now that I'm considered part of an aristo family, these little evenings aren't as interesting."

"You're not 'considered' part of an aristo family," Lucivar growled. "You are part of an aristo family."

"Whatever."

"We've been here an hour. You don't have to stay."

"I'm not here for the food or the entertainment. Thank the Darkness."

She didn't catch most of the low, snarling response except for the words "moon's blood."

"It's the fourth day," she said with insulting precision. "I can wear my Jewels again."

"The males here don't know that," he snapped. "They'll just pick up the scent. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, 'I'm vulnerable. Hurt me.' "

She gave him a razor smile. "Exactly. Any male who looks at me and sees 'prey' is a man I want to have a private chat with."

He gave her a long, assessing stare. She knew that look. This was Lucivar assessing a warrior's potential to step onto a killing field and be able to walk away from it once the fight was done.

"You have your knives with you?" he asked.

"I used to be an assassin as well as a whore, remember? Yes, I have my knives."

"Are they honed?"

"Yes, they're honed. Would you like me to test one on you to prove it?"

He just stared.

Surreal sighed. Since he was Eyrien, a Warlord Prince, and a relative, getting pissy with Lucivar about weapons was pointless. She decided to change the subject. "What's wrong with Daemon and Jaenelle? They were snuggly in the carriage on the way to this party, and now…" She frowned. "Now Daemon has this look on his face…"

"His court mask." The sudden tension in Lucivar's body and the wariness in his voice made her uneasy. "His what?"

"That's the way he always looked in the Terreillean courts when he was a pleasure slave. Cold. Bored. His face was a mask that revealed nothing of what he was really thinking. It was a look that said, 'You can touch my body, but you'll never touch me.'"

That distracted her. "He actually let the bitches touch him…and they lived?"

"I didn't say they lived," Lucivar replied grimly.

Surreal shivered and went on to the second part. "Then there's Jaenelle. One moment everything is fine, and the next it's like she almost believes the rumors."

"Hell's fire," Lucivar said. "This is the game. Daemon told me they were going to try flush out whoever was behind the rumors. This is how they're doing it."

She thought it over, and her stomach churned at the possibility. The last time she'd been involved in one of Daemon's "games," the Sadist had scared the shit out of everyone in that Hayllian camp.

"It's a game," Lucivar repeated. "He knows his role…Mother Night, he's played it enough times over the centuries."

"And Jaenelle is pretending to waver between refusing to believe the rumors and wondering if there's some truth to them?"

"That's my guess." He sighed. "Come on. We'd better find them."

"I prefer watching the Sadist's games from a distance." But when Lucivar threaded his way through the crowd to reach the ballroom, she swore under her breath and followed him.

Lektra pulled her cousin Tavey into a small alcove where she could keep an eye on the ballroom and still talk with relative privacy. Watching Daemon fawn over Jaenelle was beyond intolerable, and if he continued playing the ardent lover so publicly, all her efforts to free him would be ruined. So she had to do something now. It was unfortunate that she didn't have time to find a male who could make the lie believable, but she had to hope that the shock of the claim would make Daemon react without thinking.

"This is what I want you to do," she said. Tavey's eyes widened as she told him.

"But he's a Warlord Prince," Tavey said, his voice rising until she shushed him.

"Exactly. By Protocol, if he's told to walk away, he has to walk away."

"But doesn't she have to tell him to go?"

"She'll never tell him. So you have to."

"But I don't even know her!"

"Shush!" Lektra looked around to assure herself no one was paying attention to them. "That doesn't matter. He won't know that." She paused and made her lips quiver. "Tavey, if you don't do this for me, my love will never be free, and if he ends up having to marry her, I'll be so miserable I…I don't think I'll be able to stand living anymore."

"Don't say that, Lektra. Don't." Tavey squeezed her hands. "I'll do it. I promise."

She sniffled and gave him a brave smile. "I won't forget this. And once Daemon and I are married, I'm sure he'll use his family's influence to get you a position in whatever court you want."

"Wouldn't mind having a month or so with Sadi's 'cousin.' "

"You want the whore? You can have her. I've already made plans for getting her out of the way for a while to insure she's not a distraction. There's no reason why she can't provide you with some company while she's staying in the country."

"Is something wrong?" Daemon asked as he escorted Jaenelle around the edge of the ballroom.

"I'm trying to look petulant," she replied. "Don't I look petulant?"

"You look like you have gas."

"Daemon." She choked back a laugh.

His lips twitched. This party was turning out to be more fun than he'd anticipated. Oh, not the party itself, but playing out this game with Jaenelle was definitely entertaining. It had been easy enough to slip behind that cold, bored expression that had served him so well in the Terreillean courts. Problem was, the mask kept slipping. They kept slipping, forgetting their roles of suspicious woman and discontented man. Dancing with her for the first time in months was too delicious a feeling to spoil with a game.

But he'd agreed to play this out, so that's what he would do.

"Are we still scheduled to have a public quarrel?" he asked, slipping an arm around her Waist once they found an open space where they could watch the dancers.

"Yes, we are, because I'm upset with you." Jaenelle frowned as she looked at him. "Why am I upset with you?"

"So that we can spend hours tonight doing the kiss-and-make-up part of this pretend quarrel," he purred, using Craft to change the sexual heat that, even leashed, poured out of him into psychic seduction tendrils that gently coiled around her while phantom hands stroked the inside of her thighs.

"Mother Night," she gasped.

Suddenly she was leaning hard against him, letting him support her.

"Feeling a bit weak in the legs?" he asked too innocently.

Her laughing snarl turned into a warm smile when she noticed the man swiftly approaching them.

Handsome, graceful and lean, with a mane of brown hair artfully disheveled, the man had fair skin, which meant he wasn't native to Dhemlan, and green eyes that were focused on Jaenelle. An Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. A rival.

Daemon hated him on sight.

"My darling," the man said, pressing his lips to the back of the hand Jaenelle held out to him.

"Prince Rainier," Jaenelle replied, still smiling.

"I'm wounded," Rainier said.

Not yet, but you will be, Daemon thought.

"My favorite Lady finally makes an appearance at a party and hasn't asked me to dance," Rainier continued. "But that's all right. I'm content just to flirt with you."

I'll see you in Hell first.

Rainier gave him an amused glance before focusing on Jaenelle again. "Would you mind telling your lover that I'm allowed to flirt with you?"