Still, with Marian feeling sensitive about their restrained lovemaking, he needed to tell her about Jillian.

“Jillian felt the sexual heat when we were outside talking.” The words felt like splinters of glass ripping up his throat.

Marian set the plate of food on the table and gave him a puzzled look. “She’s growing up, Lucivar. It was going to happen sooner or later.” She paused. “Is that why she was here so early?”

Lucivar shook his head. “That was because of Rothvar. His being in Nurian’s bed has stirred up memories of Falonar.”

“Him.”

His darling hearth witch didn’t usually put that much venom in her voice. Then again, Falonar had arranged for him to stand on a killing field alone against all the Warlords who had wanted Falonar to rule Ebon Rih. He hadn’t thought about what he’d looked like after that fight, hadn’t considered how a wife would react to seeing her husband drenched in his enemies’ blood.

Just as well the man had disappeared after being sent to Lady Perzha’s court.

“Yeah, well, Falonar didn’t hurt Jillian until he became Nurian’s lover, so it’s going to take her some time to accept that Rothvar filling that spot isn’t going to mean he’ll change and try to control either of them,” he said.

“Rothvar will just have to be patient with her—and so will you.”

The words were a small slap, but still a slap that shouldn’t go unanswered.

Lucivar gave his wife a lazy, arrogant smile. “I’ll remind you of the need for patience the first time Daemonar catches the scent of moon’s blood and gets bossy.”

She looked like a bunny that had run straight into a pack of wolves.

“Well, you’ll just have to explain things.”

She sounded so flustered—and appalled at the thought of two Warlord Princes fussing over her—he set the coffee on the table in order to take her in his arms and give her a long, sweet kiss.

“Don’t worry,” he said, grinning at her. “I promise to explain everything.”

 

 

TWO

 

 

Sitting on the side of his daughter’s bed, Daemon Sadi, the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, turned the last page of the book and said, “And they all lived happily ever after.”

٭Because they had steak,٭ Khary said.

Daemon eyed the furry companions who had joined his girl for storytime—the young Sceltie Warlord who had spoken and the younger Sceltie witch, who just wagged her tail at him. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “They all lived happily ever after because they had steak.”

“And cake.”

Now he eyed his daughter, who entertained his mind and delighted his heart. Jaenelle Saetien had the black hair and gold eyes typical of the long-lived races, but her skin was closer to her mother’s light sun-kissed brown than his own golden brown tone, and she had the delicately pointed ears of the Dea al Mon race. In fact, except for the eyes—Surreal’s eyes were gold-green and slightly oversized—Jaenelle Saetien strongly resembled Surreal at the same age.

“And cake,” he agreed. Recognizing her intent, he vanished the book and pounced first, tickling Jaenelle Saetien, causing her to squeal in delight as the Scelties barked and bounced on the bed. “They had cake with buttercream icing that was decorated with mounds of pink and blue flowers.” Which was his girl’s favorite kind of cake.

He eased up to let her catch her breath—and she jumped him, as he’d known she would. Being an obliging father, he fell back so that she could have her turn to tickle. Of course, him being prone also seemed to be an invitation for the Scelties to pile on. Thankfully it was Morghann, the smaller of the two dogs, who planted a paw on his balls before he thought to put a shield over that part of himself.

“I give up,” he said, laughing. “I give up.”

Jaenelle Saetien sprawled over him so they were almost nose to nose. Morghann had a piece of his jacket sleeve between her teeth as her small claim to him, and Khary, who had recently had his Birthright Ceremony and now wore a dark Opal Jewel, stood behind his head staring down at him.

“Papa?”

“Witch-child?”

“Wouldn’t you like to have cake?”

Ah. So that was where they were going with this. “Decorated cakes are made for special occasions.”

“But I have a special Jewel now.”

And she did. A Jewel that was like no other. A Jewel that had been created especially for her by the Queen who had been, and always would be, the love of his life. But there were responsibilities that came with guiding a young witch who wore a Jewel like Twilight’s Dawn—responsibilities not just as a father but as a Warlord Prince. Lines could be gently drawn, but they had to be drawn.

“You do have a special Jewel, and we celebrated when you received it. As I recall, there was a very big cake with mounds of buttercream frosting that Mrs. Beale made for that celebration.” Just thinking about that frosting made his teeth hurt.

Of course, that cake might have been partially responsible for him and Lucivar having to deal with overexcited children during that party. Not that he would ever say that to the large Yellow-Jeweled witch who was his cook here at the Hall.

“But that was forever ago,” Jaenelle Saetien protested.

A few weeks. But even a child from the long-lived races measured time differently from the adults.

“I take it you asked Mrs. Beale to make a cake.”

“She said she’d already made out the menus for the next fortnight and cake wasn’t one of the sweets.”

“Well, then . . .”

“But she’d make a cake if you told her to make one.”

Every time Mrs. Beale felt she had something to discuss with him, she brought her well-sharpened meat cleaver to the meeting—and even though she wore Yellow and he wore Black, he would admit to himself, if to no one else, that he felt a tiny kernel of fear when he had to deal with her directly. He much preferred going through Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who was the Hall’s butler as well as Mrs. Beale’s husband, whenever he requested a particular dish or special treat.

“She might,” he agreed, “but as I just pointed out and as you already knew, those cakes are made for special occasions.”

“But, Papa . . .”

“No.” Daemon kissed her cheek to take the sting out of the word, then sat up, bringing her up with him—and dragging Morghann as well, since the Sceltie didn’t let go of his sleeve.

After convincing the dogs to settle into their baskets and tucking in his girl for the night, Daemon walked down the corridor to his bedroom to get undressed before he tapped on the door that connected his suite of rooms to Surreal’s. Whether they had sex, made love, or just cuddled a bit before going to sleep, he spent most of his nights in her bed. Her bed, her rules—and he the lover who had the privilege of pleasing her.