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He studied her until she wanted to squirm, then said, “If someone tries to hurt you, what are you going to do?” He’d asked that same question decades ago when he found out Falonar had strapped her, so she gave him the same answer. “Kick him in the balls.”
She took a step away from him and felt something wash over her—a heat that made her nipples tighten, that made her feel warm and tingly between her legs.
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.
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.
Being special is its own kind of burden.”
Daemon smiled, called in a book, held it so she could read the title, then raised an eyebrow. A new book by one of her favorite authors. “There is idle,” Daemon purred, “and then there is enjoying a self-indulgent—” “Gimme.” She reached for the book.
Everything had a price, including privilege. Perhaps, especially privilege.
Play?٭ Morghann asked. “I can’t, Morghann. I have to work.” ٭More work?٭ Big sigh.
“Your aunt Jaenelle and I used to share a bed with an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat. Compared to Kaelas, you don’t take up much room.”
Daemonar grinned. “Did you whine about Auntie J.’s cold feet?” “Husbands do not whine about cold feet.”
Marian paused. “Are you going to call in a crossbow and threaten to shoot him?” “Our most productive chats always start with me threatening to pin his balls to the wall.
Surreal blinked. Using different words could have stopped this? No. Not possible.
This book in a nutshell
“When he gets home, point a crossbow at him. It will make him feel loved.”
