As a Warlord Prince, he needed his own room, his own bed for sleep, for rest, for solitude. He slept in this room when Surreal stayed at their town house in Amdarh or visited one of the family’s other estates as his second-in-command. He didn’t feel the need or the desire to stay away from her when she was in residence. Besides, withholding his body from her would have been a breach of the promise he’d made to be her husband in every way.

Her pregnancy had been unplanned and unexpected—the result of them comforting each other on the night his father died. Their marriage had had more to do with him not allowing her to leave with his child than with heated passion. But they had loved each other in their own way for decades, as friends and family, and Surreal had understood—and accepted—that he never could love anyone else with the depth and passion that he had loved, and still loved, Jaenelle Angelline, the living myth, dreams made flesh. Witch. His Queen.

Surreal had known Jaenelle, had been friend and sister to the woman and a sword and shield to the Queen. She had been there throughout his first marriage, taking the position of second-in-command to give him as much time as possible with Jaenelle since Witch’s life span had been measured in decades, not centuries. And she’d been there during the year of mourning and the years after.

But even after he and Surreal had married, there had been a distance between them, a wariness. They had been friends, lovers, partners, parents. But until the Birthright Ceremony, until she had formally acknowledged paternity and given him irrevocable rights to his daughter, there had been that distance, that wariness. Now . . .

The door opened. Surreal walked into the room. His room.

“Did you get them settled for the night?” she asked.

As he turned to face her, something inside him relaxed, swelled. Bloomed into a heady, dark desire.

Mine. He looked at her, standing there in his room, wearing a long green nightgown shot with gold threads—a gown that was every kind of invitation—and felt that one word fill him until there was nothing else. Mine.

“Sadi?”

He wanted to play. Oh, how he wanted to play. And so did she. Why else was she in this room? His room, where he wasn’t a guest. Where there were no boundaries to what he could or couldn’t do.

But there had to be choice. Always a choice.

“Daemon?”

Using Craft, he closed the door behind her. But not all the way. Not yet.

“Do you want to play?” he purred, approaching her slowly. Stalking her.

“Well, you’re in a mood.”

She couldn’t hold on to the sassy smile as his sexual heat, freed of all restraint, wrapped around her, as he leaned toward her, his mouth so close to the corner of hers she probably believed he was touching her. But he wasn’t touching, wouldn’t touch until she made her choice.

“Do you want to stay here tonight and play? Or do you want to go to your own room and sleep alone?”

If she didn’t stay with him here tonight, he couldn’t be with her, couldn’t be the considerate guest in her bed. Not tonight. Not when he wasn’t holding anything back. Not when he felt—truly felt—that the woman, like the child, was his, and with the woman he wasn’t interested in lovemaking or even sex. Not tonight. Tonight was about possession, about making her body sing in a way that told her there were no barriers between them anymore, that he would finally give her everything he was.

But only if she made that choice.

“Do you want to play?” he purred again.

Nerves. Excitement. Arousal spiced with a little fear of what he intended to do.

Delicious.

“Stay or go?” he whispered.

Her hard nipples strained against the delicate gown. He smelled the wet heat of need between her legs.

“S-stay.”

The door closed. The lock clicked. She trembled when his fingertips lightly brushed her skin.

His mouth touched hers in a kiss so delightfully, viciously gentle, he had to lick the tears from her face before doing anything more.

When he finally laid her on his bed, she whimpered with the need for his touch—and he focused everything he was on pleasuring her body before pleasing his own.

Mine.

 

* * *

 

* * *

Surreal’s eyes snapped open. Her heart pounded so hard she feared the sound would wake the man sleeping beside her.

She did not want to rouse—or arouse—the man sleeping beside her.

What she wanted right now, more than anything, was to get out of that room.

She rolled on her side, bringing herself closer to the edge of the bed, and waited. No hand suddenly anchoring her hip. No arm reaching out to pull her close again. No head lifting off the pillow to look at her. No deep, sleepy voice asking where she was going.

She eased her feet out from under the covers, then her lower legs to the knees. She rolled a little more and slid out of the bed, crouched beside it, waiting.

Daemon still slept.

Staying crouched because she was sure an upright figure in his bedroom would bring him instantly awake and riding the killing edge, she made her way to the door.

Please. Sweet Darkness, please let this door open. Let whatever locks he put on the door and around the room be released now.

She turned the handle. The door opened, bringing a whiff of fresher air compared with the sex-saturated smell of his room.

She slipped into her bedroom and closed the door. It was tempting to put a Gray lock on the door, tempting to put shields around the room. But a Gray lock wouldn’t stop him. It might make him curious or concerned—or enraged—but it wouldn’t stop him.

She hurried into her bathroom, put an aural shield around the room to cover the sound of water, then took a long hot shower. She shook as she washed her hair, as she thoroughly washed her body, as she stood and let the hot water ease tight, sore muscles.

A Warlord Prince’s bedroom is his private place, and he tends to be more possessive when he’s there.

Jaenelle Angelline’s words, spoken decades ago as both instruction and warning.

Surreal knew about possession. The first night she’d had sex with him, the night they made Jaenelle Saetien, they had ended up in his room, in his bed, and he’d been . . . more than Daemon but not quite the Sadist. He’d been riding a side of his nature that had been somewhere between the two—and the way he’d ridden her that night had been breathlessly exciting.

The sex since that night was staggering and wonderful and better than anything else she’d experienced, but it didn’t always have the edge that made it breathlessly exciting.

But last night . . .