He stared at her, working through what she was telling him, what she was demanding from him. He wanted to rip flesh from bone, wanted to crush the minds surrounding the cab. He wanted to wash Amdarh’s streets in a river of blood.

“Daemon,” Jaenelle said.

“For you,” he crooned. “Only for you.”

With effort, he chained the desire to strike out with lethal intent as the cab door opened, revealing worried male faces. The air bubble shrank around them. In the space of a heartbeat, he dropped the Black shield around them and re-formed tight shields around each of them. Then he shifted until he could crouch among the shattered glass and shards of wood and help the Warlords reaching into the cab to guide Jaenelle, still floating on air, through the door.

As Daemon emerged from the cab, he noticed how the males had formed a protective circle around Jaenelle, noted the distress and anger in all of their faces.

“Where’s the driver?” he asked too softly.

“Over there,” a Warlord said, pointing to another cluster of males.

The males near the driver backed away as he approached. He looked down at the man sprawled in the street, testing with a delicate psychic probe.

Physically dead but not burned out.

He put a Black shield around the driver and vanished the body, ignoring the startled exclamations of the other men. The Warlords surrounding Jaenelle watched him with fear in their eyes.

Jaenelle just watched him.

Her presence was the tiny spark of warmth in a world that had gone sweetly, deadly cold. So he held on to that spark while he led his Lady to one of the carriages offered for their use—and he held himself in the eye of a storm that he would either dissipate . . . or unleash on Amdarh.

Keeping her inner barriers tightly shut to prevent anyone picking up on her frustration and fury, Lektra, along with several other women, stood on a street corner and watched the Warlords ease Jaenelle Angelline from the broken cab. She walked away, knowing she’d be sickened by the sight of Daemon fawning over that pale bitch.

It should have worked. It should have. Even if Jaenelle wasn’t as much of an invalid as she’d thought, being tossed around in a tumbling cab should have injured something. But the bitch didn’t even have a scratch.

Of course, she hadn’t seen Daemon emerge from the cab.

She turned back, barely able to stop herself from running. It hadn’t occurred to her that Daemon might get hurt. She’d expected him to shield himself and be safe. But what if he’d shielded Jaenelle instead? What if he was still in the cab with a broken leg or a broken back or . . .