Cassandra snatched her hand from his arm. “He’s charming when he wants to be,” she said nastily. “And I’ve no doubt his bedroom manners are flawless, since he’s had so much practice perfecting…” Her words faded when she noticed Saetan’s glacial stare.

“If his manners leave something to be desired, Lady, I’ll thank you to remember whose court trained him.”

Cassandra lifted her chin. “You blame me, don’t you?”

“No,” Saetan said softly, bitterly. “I knew the price for what I became. The responsibility for him rests solely with me. But I’ll allow no one, no one, to condemn him for what he’s become because of it.” Saetan breathed deeply, trying to gather his frayed temper. “Why don’t you go to your room? It’s better that I meet him alone.”

“No,” Cassandra said quickly. “We both wear the Black. Together we can—”

“I didn’t come here to fight him.”

“But he’s come to fight you!”

“You don’t know that.”

“You weren’t the one he pinned to the wall while he made his demands!”

“I’ll give him a slap. Will that appease you?” Saetan snarled as he marched into the ruins of the Sanctuary, heading toward the kitchen and another confrontation.

Halfway to the kitchen, Saetan slowed down. He’d kept his promise to Draca. On Winsol he had danced for the glory of Witch. Thanks to the blood Jaenelle insisted on giving him, he no longer needed a cane or walked with a limp, but the dancing had stiffened his bad leg, had shortened his fluid stride. He regretted that he might appear old or infirm for this first meeting with Daemon after so many, many years.

Fury poured out the kitchen doorway as Saetan approached. So. Cassandra hadn’t exaggerated about that. At least the rage was hot. They might still be able to talk.

Daemon prowled the kitchen with panther grace, his hands in his trouser pockets, his body coiled with barely restrained rage. When he sent a dagger glance toward the doorway and noticed Saetan, he didn’t alter his stride; he simply pivoted on the ball of his foot and came straight toward the High Lord.

That picture told only half the truth, Saetan thought as he watched Daemon’s swift approach and waited to see if blood would be drawn.

Daemon stopped an arm’s length away, nostrils flaring, eyes stabbing, silent.

“Prince,” Saetan said calmly. He watched Daemon fight for control, fight the searing rage in order to return the greeting.

“High Lord,” Daemon said through clenched teeth.

Slowly approaching the table, aware of Daemon watching his every move, Saetan took off his cape, laying it across a chair. “Let’s have a glass of wine, and then we’ll talk.”

“I don’t want any wine.”

“I do.” Saetan got the wine and glasses. Settling into a chair, he opened the wine, poured two glasses, and waited.

Daemon stepped forward, carefully placing his hands on the table.

Dorothea was blind not to know what Daemon was, Saetan thought as he sipped the wine. Having expected to see them, Saetan found Daemon’s long nails less disconcerting than his ringless fingers. If he could be this formidable without wearing a Jewel to help focus his strength…