She smiled at him, called in a silver mark and put it on the bar when the server gave her the glasses of sparkling wine, and turned to leave. The woman directly in her path stared at her with hostile jealousy for a moment before moving aside.

She dismissed the look without a second thought as she worked her way back up to the box. She’d seen enough of those looks when she’d been a whore in Terreille.

Maybe that accounted for the odd feeling she got from the Warlord and his interest in the bracelet. Maybe he’d just been trying to find out where he could buy something similar and was nervous about his Lady seeing him talking to another woman. Besides, there was something about the woman in the moment when their eyes met that practically shouted “possessive bitch” to someone who’d spent her life quickly sizing up rivals, enemies, and prey.

Not her problem, she thought as Daemon opened the door enough for her to slip back into the box. Noticing the unhappiness lurking in his eyes before he took the glass she offered, she almost said something, but the house lights began fading as a warning that the second act was about to begin.

No, the Warlord and the bitch weren’t her problem—not when she had a bigger, and more dangerous, one sitting beside her.

3

Surreal waited until they’d enjoyed the appetizers at the dining house Daemon had chosen for their after-theater meal.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

“The play?”

“No, about what’s going on between you and Jaenelle that’s making you so unhappy.”

“Leave it alone, Surreal,” he said, his voice turning icy and razor-edged.

She shook her head. “Can’t, sugar.”

“Do you want to talk about Falonar?” he countered.

She hissed.

“Exactly.” Smiling, he raised his wineglass in a salute. Then he looked down at his plate—and sighed. “I’ll talk if you will.”

Hell’s fire. The least said about Falonar to any male in her family the better. But . . . “I have your word you won’t do anything to him? Anything?”

She didn’t like the fact that he thought about it for several seconds before inclining his head in agreement.

Pushing her plate aside, she folded her arms on the table. Not a ladylike posture, but it let her lean closer to him. It occurred to her that they could have this entire conversation on a psychic thread to keep it silent and private, but it felt necessary to give the words the weight of sound.

“I’m not what he wanted,” she said, feeling the sting of the truth.

“He doesn’t want a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman?”