Finally it was done.

“There,” Jaenelle said with satisfaction. She plumped the pillows. “You should lie back and rest now.” She frowned at his shirt.

His mind felt fuzzy. She had him half out of the shirt before he realized what she was doing and made a fumbling effort to help her. Holding the drenched material by her fingertips, she wrinkled her nose and vanished it. She disappeared into the bathroom with the bowl, returned with a towel, rubbed him dry, and pushed him back onto the pillows.

Daemon closed his eyes. He felt light, dizzy, and empty to the marrow of his bones. He also felt a craving for poison that was so fierce he almost would have welcomed the pain back.

He heard water running in the bathroom, heard it stop. He opened his eyes to find Jaenelle standing by the bed holding one of Cook’s mugs. “Drink this.”

Daemon clumsily took the cup in his left hand and obediently sipped. His body tingled. He drank gratefully, relieved when the craving started to disappear. “What is this?” he finally asked.

“A distillation of poisons that are safe for you to drink.”

“Where did—”

“Drink.” She darted back into the bathroom.

He finished the drink before she returned. She placed the clean bowl on the bedside table, took the empty cup, and vanished it. “You need to sleep now.” She pulled off his shoes and reached for his belt.

“I can undress myself,” he growled, ashamed of how harsh his voice sounded after she’d done so much to help him.

Jaenelle stepped back. “You’re embarrassed.”

Daemon studied her. She wasn’t being coy. “I don’t undress in front of young girls.”

She gave him a strange, thoughtful look. “Very well. The snake tooth hasn’t drawn back into its sheath yet, so be careful not to snag it.” She turned and went to the door.

It hurt to have her use that neutral, formal voice. “Lady,” he called softly. When she returned to the bed, Daemon raised her hand to his lips for a light kiss. “Thank you. If you ever want to recite another lesson to help you remember it, I’d be very pleased to listen.”

She smiled at him. He was asleep before she slipped out the door.

4 / Terreille

Surreal tried to shift her hips to a more comfortable position, but the arm around her tightened and the hand resting on her arm gripped with bruising force.

Philip Alexander had arranged for this evening with her early that morning. That was the only predictable thing he’d done. There was no leisurely dinner, no conversation, no turning out the lights, no light lovemaking before he covered her. He took her, hard, with the candle-lights glaring at full intensity so there could be no illusion about who was under him. When he was through, he rolled off her, ate the cold dinner, drank most of the wine, and took her again. Now he stared at the canopy above the bed, grinding his fingers into her bruised arm.