As the cups were put back on the tray, Daemon maneuvered to Jaenelle’s side. “Lady—”

“It’s fitting, don’t you think, that I should drink alone?” she said in a midnight whisper. Her eyes were full of awful pain. “After all, I am kindred but not kind.”

You’re my Queen, he thought fiercely. His body ached. She was his Queen. But with her family surrounding them, watching, there was nothing he could say or do to help her.

During the next hour, Jaenelle played her expected role of the slightly befuddled child, fawning over gifts so at odds with what she was that it made Daemon want to paint the walls in blood. No one else noticed she was fighting harder and harder to draw breath with each gift she unwrapped until it seemed the bright paper and bows were fists pounding her small body. When he opened her gift of handkerchiefs, she flinched and went deathly pale. With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and ran from the room while Alexandra and Leland sternly called for her to come back.

Not caring what they thought, Daemon left the room, cold fury rolling off him, and went to the library. Jaenelle was there, gasping for breath, feebly trying to open a window. Daemon locked the door, strode across the room, viciously twisted the lock on the sash, and snapped the window open with wall-shaking force.

Jaenelle leaned over the narrow window seat, gulping in the winter air. “It hurts so much to live here, Daemon,” she whimpered as he cradled her in his arms. “Sometimes it hurts so much.”

“Shh.” He stroked her hair. “Shh.”

As soon as her breathing slowed to normal, Daemon closed and locked the window. He leaned against the wall, one leg stretched out along the window seat, and drew her forward until she was pressed against him. Then he hooked his other foot under his leg, effectively capturing her in a tight triangle.

It was insane to have her pushed up against him that way. Insane to take such pleasure in her hands resting on his thighs. Insane not to stop the slow uncurling of those psychic tendrils of seduction.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t share the cup with you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaenelle whispered.

“It does to me,” he replied sharply, his deep, silky voice having more of a husky edge than usual.

Jaenelle’s eyes were getting confused and smoky. He pulled the tendrils back a little.

“Daemon,” Jaenelle said hesitantly. “Your gift…”

There was a rumbling in Daemon’s throat—his bedroom laugh, except there was fire in it instead of ice, and his eyes were molten gold. “That was no more your choice than the paint set was truly mine.” He raised one eyebrow. “I had considered getting you a saddle that would fit both you and Dark Dancer—”

Jaenelle’s eyes widened and she laughed.

“—but that wouldn’t have been practical.” One long-nailed finger idly stroked her arm. He knew he should walk away from this—now—when he had amused her, but her pain had twisted something inside him, and he wasn’t going to let her believe she was alone here. It made him wonder about something else. “Jaenelle,” he said cautiously as he watched his finger, “did the Priest…” If Saetan hadn’t given her a Winsol gift, would his asking hurt her more?