Daemon carefully licked his lips. “Has it ever been worn?” Jaenelle was twenty-five now. There was no reason to think—to hope—it had never circled another man’s finger.

Saetan’s eyes held a mixture of relief and sadness. “No.” He shut the box and held it out.

Daemon’s hand closed over it convulsively.

“Come on, boyo,” Saetan said as he handed the brandy snifter to Lucivar and helped Daemon stand up. “I’ll show you to your room. Beale will bring a tray up in a few minutes. Try to eat and get some sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

Opening the glass door, Daemon stepped out onto the balcony. The silk robe was too thin and couldn’t stop the night air from leaching the warmth he’d gained from a long bath, but he needed to be outside for a moment, needed to listen to the water singing over stone in the natural-looking fountain at the center of the garden below. There were only a couple of rooms surrounding the garden that showed a soft glow of light. Guest rooms? Or did Aaron and Khardeen occupy those rooms?

Saetan had said no man had worn the Consort’s ring, but…

Daemon took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was a Queen, and a Queen was entitled to any pleasure the males in her court could provide.

And he was here now.

Shivering, he went into his room, secured the glass door, and drew the curtains. He slipped out of the robe, got into bed, then pulled the covers up over his naked body. Shifting to his side, he stared for several minutes at the jeweler’s box he’d set on the bedside table.

He was here now. The choice was his now.

He took the Consort’s ring out of the box and slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand.

6 / Kaeleer

As Surreal placed the last of her toiletries in the bathroom cabinet, she paused, listening. Yes, someone had entered her bedroom. Had the maid returned for another polite verbal struggle? She’d told the woman she didn’t need help unpacking—and had wondered about the maid’s muttered comment. No question about it, you’re a SaDiablo.

So maybe she’d been a little hasty. After all, she didn’t want to have to launder her own clothes for however long she would be there.

Moving toward the bathroom door, Surreal sent a cautious psychic probe into the bedroom. Her lips curled into a snarl. Not the maid back for another round, but a male making himself comfortable in her room. Then she paused. The psychic scent was definitely male—but there was something about it that was just a little off.