He looked at the table in front of him, and his heart sank a little more. The book he’d given her at Winsol lay on the table, the bookmark indicating she’d barely gotten halfway through it.

“The story doesn’t appeal to you?” he asked, wondering if any of the new books he’d brought her would please her. Wondering if there was anything he could do anymore that would please her.

Jaenelle looked away, but not before he saw pain and sadness in her eyes. “I guess I’ve lost my taste for love stories,” she said. Then she tried to smile. “I’m feeling a little tired. I think I’ll get some sleep now.”

He recognized a dismissal when he heard one. “I’ll help you to bed,” he said as he rose.

He waited until she slowly, painfully got to her feet. Then he used Craft to float her from the sitting room to the bedroom. With exquisite care, he removed the soft wool robe Marian had made for her and tucked the sheet and blanket she could now tolerate around her once she was settled in bed.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll come to bed in a little while.” Unless you want me to stay. Please want me to stay.

“Good night, Daemon.”

Idly swirling the brandy in the glass, Daemon stared out the window of the bedroom that adjoined Jaenelle’s. The Consort’s room. Since she no longer ruled a court, technically he was no longer her Consort. Since he couldn’t touch her, he wasn’t technically her lover either.

Didn’t matter. He was still her lover. Would always be her lover. He suppressed that thought before his body responded to it. After he brought her home and realized how frail she was, how little it would take to overwhelm the healing taking place inside her and have it fail, which would leave her permanently imprisoned in a body that wouldn’t allow her to do more than exist, his desire for sex had vanished. Not surprising. Despite the centuries of being a pleasure slave, he’d been a virgin until he gave himself to Jaenelle. No other woman had aroused him, no other woman had filled him with hungry need.

That was still true. When he attended the dinners or parties in Amdarh, he danced with women because he enjoyed dancing. But none of them stirred any interest for her company beyond the dance. Only Jaenelle. Always Jaenelle.

He’d been content to let his desire sleep. So he wasn’t sure what to think about the fact that, lately, he would wake in the night hard, hot, and aching, troubled by dreams of spreading Jaenelle’s legs, of kneeling before her while his tongue and fingers stroked her to a climax.