His body was a weapon, and he kept his weapons well honed.

Daemon shrugged into his black jacket. The clothes, too, were weapons, from the skimpy underwear to the perfectly tailored suits. Nectar to seduce the unwary to their doom.

Fanning herself with her hand, Maris looked directly at him. “Even in this weather, you didn’t work up a sweat.”

It sounded like the complaint it was.

Daemon smiled mockingly. “Why should I?”

Maris sat up, pulling at the sheet to cover herself. “You’re a cruel, unfeeling bastard.”

Daemon raised one finely shaped eyebrow. “You think I’m cruel? You’re quite right, of course. I’m a connoisseur of cruelty.”

“And you’re proud of it, aren’t you?” Maris blinked back tears. Her face tightened, showing all the petulant age lines. “Everything they said about you is true. Even that.” She waved a hand toward his groin.

“That?” he asked, knowing perfectly well what she meant. She, and every woman like her, would forgive every vicious thing he did if she could coax him into an erection.

“You’re not a true man. You never were.”

“Ah. In that, too, you’re quite right.” Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Personally, I’ve always thought it’s the discomfort of the Ring of Obedience that’s caused the problem.” The cold, mocking smile returned. “Perhaps if you removed it…”

Maris became so pale he wondered if she was going to faint. He doubted Maris wanted to test his theory badly enough that she would actually remove that gold circle around his organ. Just as well. She wouldn’t survive one minute after he was free.

Most of the witches he’d served hadn’t survived anyway.

Daemon smiled that cold, familiar, brutal smile and settled next to her on the bed. “So you think I’m cruel.” Her eyes were already glazing from the psychic seduction tendrils he was weaving around her.

“Yes,” Maris whispered, watching his lips.

Daemon leaned forward, amused at how quickly she opened her mouth for a kiss. Her tongue flirted hungrily with his, and when he finally raised his head, she tried to pull him down on top of her. “Do you really want to know why I don’t work up a sweat?” he asked too gently.

She hesitated, lust warring with curiosity. “Why?”

Daemon smiled. “Because, my darling Lady Maris, your so-called intelligence bores me to tears and that body you think so fine and flaunt whenever and wherever possible isn’t fit to be crowbait.”

Maris’s lower lip quivered. “Y-you’re a sadistic brute.”

Daemon slipped off the bed. “How do you know?” he asked pleasantly. “The game hasn’t even begun.”

“Get out. GET OUT!”

He quickly left the bedroom, but waited a moment outside the door. Her wail of anguish was perfect counterpoint to his mocking laughter.

A light breeze ruffled Daemon’s hair as he followed a gravel path through the back gardens. Unbuttoning his shirt, he smiled with pleasure as the breeze caressed his bare skin. He pulled a thin black cigarette from its gold case, lit it, and sighed as the smoke drifted slowly out of his mouth and nostrils, burning away Maris’s stench.