Daemon leaned closer, brushed his lips against Saetan’s neck. “I can create a grave no one will ever find.”

The kiss followed by that statement jolted Saetan enough to remember that this son still needed careful handling. He might indulge in imaginary gravedigging to channel some of his anger, but, just then, Daemon wouldn’t hesitate to do it.

He jolted again when he felt the feather-light brush of dark, feminine power across the deepest edge of his inner barriers.

“Saetan?” Daemon said too softly.

Wolf song filled the night.

“No,” Saetan replied gently but firmly as he stepped away far enough to turn and face Daemon. “It’s too late for that.”

“Why?”

“Because that chorus of welcome means Jaenelle is back.” When Daemon paled, Saetan ran a hand down his son’s arm. “Come to my study and have a drink with me. We’ll bring Lucivar with us since he’s probably fussed over Marian enough by now to annoy her.”

“What about Jaenelle?”

Saetan smiled. “Boyo, after one of these trips, greeting males, no matter who they are, comes in a poor third on her list of priorities—the first being a very long, hot bath and the second being an enormous meal. Since we can’t compete with those, we might as well sit back and relax while we wait for her to get around to us.”

11 / Kaeleer

Surreal stormed through the corridors. Each time she came to an intersection, a silent, solemn-faced footman pointed in the right direction. Probably the first one had warned the others after she’d snarled at him, “Where’s the High Lord’s study?”

It struck her as a little odd that none of the servants had seemed startled by her roaring through the corridors wearing nothing but a nightgown. Well, considering that the witches had to deal with the males who lived in this place, it probably wasn’t unusual.

When she finally reached the staircase that led down to the informal receiving room, she hitched her nightgown up to her knees to keep from tripping on the hem, raced down the stairs and into the great hall, and swore because the marble floor was cold against her bare feet. In lieu of a knock, she walloped the study door once and then stomped up to the blackwood desk where Saetan sat watching her, a glass of brandy raised halfway to his lips.

Daemon and Lucivar, comfortably slouched in two chairs in front of the desk, just stared at her.

Now that she was there, she wasn’t quite as willing to address the High Lord directly, so she half turned toward Daemon and Lucivar and tossed out the question, “Don’t I have the right to decide if I want a male in my bed?”

The air behind the desk instantly chilled, but Lucivar said blandly, “Graysfang?” and the air returned to normal.