The play was entertaining, but Surreal found Daemon more interesting to watch, even though she, too, kept her eyes fixed on the stage. How much of the play did he actually notice since he kept looking at the center of the stage to see the whole of it instead of shifting his gaze to follow the action when it moved closer to one wing or the other? Or would he finally enjoy it when he replayed it for Jaenelle? Although she doubted his attention would be on the play at that point.

When the first act ended and she offered to fetch some refreshment, his quick agreement surprised her—until she made her way through the crowd to the curved bar at one end of the theater’s lobby and ordered two glasses of sparkling wine. The number of women who had given her a cool appraisal as she passed made her wonder how many of them were trying to find out how deep Daemon’s attachment to Jaenelle still ran.

From their point of view, she understood the interest. Daemon was no longer officially Jaenelle’s Consort. Few beyond the family and Jaenelle’s former First Circle would know he’d committed himself to Jaenelle years before he ever became her Consort. They wouldn’t know what he’d done—and suffered—to try to save an extraordinary child who became the most powerful Queen in the history of the Blood. What they saw was a beautiful, sensual male who came from one of the most powerful, and wealthiest, families in Kaeleer, and was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in the bargain.

He’d be a prize for any woman who could win him.

She shuddered at the thought of any woman trying to win him away from Jaenelle.

“That’s a lovely bracelet.”

Surreal glanced over at the Warlord who had squeezed in beside her to wait for his order. “Thank you.”

“Is it a design by Banard?”

Something about his interest wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t figure out what it was about him that made her want to spill his guts all over the floor. So she hooked her long black hair behind one delicately pointed ear—and saw his eyes widen at the evidence that she wasn’t solely from any of the long-lived races.

“No,” she said, “it’s Dea al Mon.”

Nerves danced in his eyes at the mention of the Children of the Wood—a race who fiercely protected their Territory and seldom let anyone who crossed their border walk out again—but he worked to keep his smile easy.

“Then you must be Lady Surreal,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

You didn’t hear enough, sugar. If you’d heard about more than my “public” profession, you wouldn’t be crowding me.