Where was the joy that should have accompanied those words? Peyton was in love with the Dharo witch, and her feelings for Peyton ran just as deep. He’d been sure of that during the times when Peyton had brought Shira to the Hall to spend time with the family. His son wasn’t a fool. Peyton understood that marrying a witch who didn’t come from one of the three long-lived races meant their union would be a lifetime for her and, for him, a few decades in a life that would span centuries. But everything has a price, and loving deeply for a few decades was better than yearning for that kind of love and never having it be part of your life. Wasn’t it?

“You asked her to marry you,” he said cautiously, wondering what had gone wrong, because it was clear something had gone wrong.

“You don’t need to worry about me diluting the SaDiablo bloodline with an inferior woman, Father. She’s decided we won’t suit.”

The insult within Peyton’s words stunned him for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“She won’t have me!” Peyton shouted. “I love her with everything in me, and I know she loves me, but she won’t marry me because—” He stopped, his hands curling into fists as he clenched his teeth.

He locked his fingers together to hide the trembling in his own hands. “Because . . . ?” he asked gently.

Peyton stared at him, tears and fury in those gold eyes. “Because of you.”

A son couldn’t choose crueler words to lance a father’s heart.

Breathing hard, Peyton came forward, slapped his hands on the desk. “The woman I love won’t have me because of you. Because you’re the High Lord of Hell. Because she’s afraid something will happen to her family if she doesn’t take the hints that she’s tolerable as a lover to satisfy a Warlord Prince’s needs but won’t be tolerated if she dares become a wife.”

His own temper sharpened but couldn’t get past the slicing pain inflicted by the words.

“I’ve never . . . I’ve never done anything to indicate she wasn’t welcome. Peyton, you know that.”

“Do I?” Peyton shoved away from the desk. “Do you think I care about our precious bloodline? Do you think it makes any difference to me that she’s a musician and earns her living by using the talents she has? Do you think I give a damn that she doesn’t come from an aristo family?”

“How could you think those things would matter to me?” It was a heartfelt cry that went unheard.

Peyton returned to the desk, placed his hands on the glossy surface, and leaned forward. “You got what you wanted, High Lord—”

“It’s not what I wanted!”