Beale stepped aside, allowing Theran to enter, then retreated, closing the door behind him.

The room was shaped like a reversed L. The long side was an informal sitting room, complete with tables, chairs, bookcases, and a leather sofa large enough for a full-grown man to sleep on. The short side of the room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases filling the back wall, red velvet covering the side walls, and a large blackwood desk with two chairs in front of it for visitors.

From behind the desk rose the most beautiful man Theran had ever seen. Hayllian coloring—the thick black hair, golden eyes, and light brown skin. But the man moved like something too graceful to be completely human, and as he came around the desk,Theran felt the punch of sexual heat.

“Prince Grayhaven.”

The voice caressed him, a warm syrup over his skin, producing an unwelcome arousal.

“I’m Daemon Sadi.”

Of course this was Sadi. Who else could it be?

He’d heard stories. Who hadn’t heard stories? But now he had a glimpse of why Sadi had been called the Sadist. All Warlord Princes had that sexual heat to some degree, but he’d never met another Warlord Prince who could halfway seduce a normally uninterested man just by speaking, just by walking toward that person.

Then the door opened, Sadi looked around, and Theran felt the ground crumbling right out from under him.

He’d thought the sexual heat had been a deliberate ploy to throw him off-balance. It wasn’t. The punch he’d experienced when he’d walked into the room was Sadi with his sexuality chained. One look at the woman who walked into the room, and Sadi . . .

Theran froze. Warlord Princes were territorial at the best of times, and lethally so when it came to a lover. A woman could end a relationship with a Warlord Prince without fear, but the only kind of male who could survive an attempt at poaching was a stronger Warlord Prince.

Based on what he was picking up from Sadi’s psychic scent, this woman was definitely the lover, and since he was a stranger, just being in the same room with her might be enough to provoke Sadi into a kill.

Not pretty,Theran decided. Attractive in an uncommon way, but definitely not what he would call pretty. The golden hair looked shaggy and was too short for him to find personally appealing. And she looked too thin to have the kind of curves a man would find interesting.

And all those things that would have made Theran dismiss her as a potential partner didn’t seem to matter to Sadi at all. The hunger in those gold eyes when he looked at her, the hunger that had sharpened his psychic scent . . .

She stopped, narrowed her blue eyes, and rocked back on her heels.

“Nighthawk and I are going for a ride,” she said. “Beale said you wanted to see me before I went out.”

“Wear a hat,” Daemon said.

Her mouth primmed. “I don’t like hats.”

Daemon moved toward her.

Theran adjusted his coat to hide his reaction to the heat pouring off the other man.

The woman just narrowed her eyes a little more and seemed immune to the feel of seduction blanketing the room.

Daemon cupped her face in his hands. “You need to wear a hat when you go out in the sun,” he purred.

“You don’t wear a hat.”

“My nose doesn’t turn bright pink and peel.”

She frowned at Daemon.

“And since I adore that nose,” Daemon said, kissing the tip of the adored nose, “and the rest of your face, and the rest of you . . .”

Daemon’s hands caressed her lightly but thoroughly as they traveled along her shoulders and down her back, his arms wrapping her tight against him as his mouth covered hers in a kiss that . . .

Theran felt his legs go weak. He should avert his eyes, give Sadi and the woman some token of privacy. But he couldn’t look away.

He wanted that kind of heat and hunger. Hoped he’d find it with the new Queen who would rule Dena Nehele.

And hoped he could get out of this room very, very soon.

How in the name of Hell did anyone else manage to live here?

Sadi finally ended the kiss and loosened his hold. His lover braced her hands against his chest as if to push away but didn’t move.

“Mother Night,” she muttered. On her second try, she managed to push away from Sadi and stand on her own. Then she studied the warm golden eyes that were watching her. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn hat.”

“Thank you,” Daemon purred.

“Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

A flashing grin was her answer.

As she headed for the door, Daemon caught her and turned her around.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Daemon said.

Theran felt those blue eyes lock on to his face, and would have sworn they changed to a darker blue, a sapphire blue that became a doorway to something dangerous, something feral. Something he couldn’t name but knew he didn’t want to see.

“This is the Warlord Prince Theran Grayhaven, from Dena Nehele,” Daemon said. “He hasn’t said, but I believe he can trace his bloodline back to Jared, a Warlord I knew a few centuries ago.”

“Jared,” she said in a voice that made Theran shiver. “And Lia?”

Afraid to answer—and more afraid not to—Theran nodded.

He couldn’t look away from those sapphire eyes.

Then her eyes were simply blue again. “Welcome to the Hall, Prince Grayhaven.”

Maybe it was because he was getting used to the feel of being in a room with Sadi that he was finally getting some sense of the woman.

A Queen. He felt certain she was a Queen. That caste had a distinctive psychic scent. But he couldn’t figure out if she wore a lighter Jewel or a dark one. She seemed to circle around his own Green, feeling lighter one moment and darker the next.

Your wits must still be addled, he thought. The Blood had a Birthright Jewel and a Jewel of rank, and each had a clear, separate feel. Since surviving could sometimes depend on knowing if the person you were facing wore a darker Jewel than your own, conflicting information like he was picking up from the woman could prove deadly.

“Prince Grayhaven,” Daemon said,“this is my wife, the Lady Jaenelle Angelline.”

“It is a pleasure, Lady.”

A horse bugled, a sound full of annoyance, followed a moment later by hooves thundering down on a hard surface.

Jaenelle hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “My ride is getting impatient.”

Theran wondered why anyone would bring a horse into the great hall—and wondered why the animal had sounded so loud—but he didn’t get a chance to ask.

“Have a seat,” Daemon said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Grateful to be alone,Theran scrubbed his hands over his face. After the past few minutes, he needed a long walk or a cold shower—or both.

As Daemon escorted Jaenelle into the great hall, he lightly touched the stallion’s mind. *I need to talk to the Lady before you go riding.*

The stallion, wearing a hackamore and barely enough leather to be called a saddle, tossed his head, revealing the Gray Jewel that was usually hidden under his forelock.

Nighthawk was kindred—the name given to the Blood who were not human. A different body and a different race, but a Warlord Prince was still a Warlord Prince, and those who had chosen Jaenelle as their Queen had learned to work together and share their Lady. In most ways.

*Theran Grayhaven,* Daemon said on a psychic thread aimed exclusively at Jaenelle. *What do you think of him?*

*Why does it matter?*

*He’s come here to ask a favor. I can hear him out or show him the door.*

When she looked at him, he saw who she was beneath the surface: Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The Queen, even though she no longer ruled.

*I spun a tangled web this afternoon,* she said. *That’s why I want to go riding—to let my mind rest while I focus on something physical.* She paused. *He’s part of it, Daemon. So is his connection to Jared and Lia. Hopefully a good gallop will clear my head and help me understand the vision.*

*Then I’ll hear him out and arrange to have him stay with us for the night.*

Jaenelle nodded.

*So,* Daemon said. *You’re riding Nighthawk this afternoon. Are you riding me tonight?*

“Daemon!”

The combination of shock and laughter in her voice told Beale, the footman Holt, and even the horse what they’d been talking about. The color blazing in her cheeks when she realized she’d said his name out loud in that tone of voice confirmed whatever assumptions the other males had.

“I was just asking,” Daemon said, trying to sound meek instead of amused—or aroused.

He glanced at Beale, whose mouth had curved in a tiny smile despite the otherwise stern expression.

Mother Night, he was going to have to tell the butler not to arrange for an intimate dinner. Under the intimidating exterior, Beale was a romantic and wouldn’t hesitate to exile Theran to a guest room and a dinner provided on a tray so that Lady Angelline could have a private dinner with her lover, who was also her adoring husband. And since he liked the idea of a private dinner much better than entertaining a man who had angered his father, he had to nip that idea before it took root. At least for tonight.

And apparently his thoughts had been a little too apparent, because Jaenelle was staring at him. Fortunately, she was still focused on his face.

As she turned away, she pointed at Beale. “Our guest will be joining us for dinner. I will expect him at the table.”

Beale flicked a look at Daemon, who shrugged. “Very well, Lady.”

She strode past Nighthawk and right out the door.

“Prince Nighthawk,” Holt called softly.

Using Craft, the footman sailed a hat across the great hall. Nighthawk caught the brim of the hat with his teeth, bobbed his head, then turned and walked out the front door, which closed behind him.

Daemon stared at the door. Mother Night, Jaenelle was going to be so pissed when Nighthawk planted his feet and refused to move until she put on the hat.

“So,” he said. “Which one of you told the horse about the hat?”