His body relaxed in one way, tightened in another. He brushed his lips over hers. “We could skip the party, stay home, and”—the tip of his tongue touched her bottom lip—“discuss the merits of basting.”

She stared at him. “I’m supposed to be annoyed with you. How am I going to be annoyed with you?”

“By remembering the second part of the evening’s entertainment.”

“What’s that?”

“The kiss-and-make-up part.” He smiled as phantom tongues delicately licked her nipples.

She wobbled, then held on to him to stay upright. “Mother Night.”

“Ready?” he purred.

“For what?”

She sounded nervous. He never wanted her to fear him, but nervous ... Oh, he knew exactly how to play with a light case of nerves.

Since he could think of a dozen answers to her question— and only one of them would get them out of the bedroom—he stepped back enough to guide her toward the door.

“For the party, of course.”

“The party. I remember.”

He grinned. Strange to feel savagely volatile and light-hearted at the same time. “Let’s collect Surreal and Lucivar and go play party games.”

2

Surreal scanned another room full of milling people. It felt like every aristo in Amdarh was stuffed into this house. “Parties like this were more fun to attend when I was a whore.”

Standing beside her, Lucivar also scanned the room. “Why?”

“Watching all the prissy bitches trying not to act scandalized that I was there was almost as entertaining as watching the men I’d slept with sweat over what I might say to the prissy bitches. Now that I’m considered part of an aristo family, these little evenings aren’t as interesting.”

“You’re not ‘considered’ part of an aristo family,” Lucivar growled. “You are part of an aristo family.”

“Whatever.”

“We’ve been here an hour. You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m not here for the food or the entertainment. Thank the Darkness.”

She didn’t catch most of the low, snarling response except for the words “moon’s blood.”

“It’s the fourth day,” she said with insulting precision. “I can wear my Jewels again.”

“The males here don’t know that,” he snapped. “They’ll just pick up the scent. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, ‘I’m vulnerable. Hurt me.’ ”

She gave him a razor smile. “Exactly. Any male who looks at me and sees ‘prey’ is a man I want to have a private chat with.”

He gave her a long, assessing stare. She knew that look. This was Lucivar assessing a warrior’s potential to step onto a killing field and be able to walk away from it once the fight was done.

“You have your knives with you?” he asked.

“I used to be an assassin as well as a whore, remember? Yes, I have my knives.”

“Are they honed?”