She had to move. Had to. Work. Move. Keep moving. Don’t think. Because if she let the words keep ripping at her heart, she’d simply lie down and not get up again.

Ebon ASKAVI

Lucivar closed the door of the sitting room, took a moment to get a feel for what kind of temper he was about to meet, and didn’t like the answer. Didn’t like it at all.

“Draca told me you were here,” he said.

Daemon turned away from the windows. “I received the first report from Cassidy.”

“Is she doing all right?”

Daemon smiled dryly. “Hard to say. I think she was nervous about writing the report and was trying hard not to say anything negative, so it’s a bit lean on information. However, she did say that her Master of the Guard is a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince who is demon-dead. Since yarbarah isn’t a vintage known in Dena Nehele, she requested that some bottles be sent to her, paid for by the Queen’s gift.”

“You’re taking care of those bills, aren’t you?”

“I am. And since at least half of the yarbarah made in Kaeleer comes from our family’s vineyards, I decided to deliver a couple of cases personally.”

“You mean deliver them personally as far as the Keep here in Kaeleer. You can’t go to Terreille.”

Daemon stiffened. His eyes began to glaze. “Are you giving me orders, Prick?” he asked too softly.

“I’m telling you I’ll help you follow our Queen’s command, even if that means we’ll both need a Healer by the time the discussion is done.”

Daemon looked away. “Did Father tell you what happened?”

“He told me dealing with Theran Grayhaven opened up some old wounds,” Lucivar replied. Saetan had told him more than that, and what their father hadn’t said he could guess.

“Did he tell you I attacked Jaenelle?”

Mother Night. Lucivar blew out a breath, not sure how to answer that.

“Did he tell you the Sadist was in bed with her?”

Oh, now. That he knew how to deal with. “The way I heard it, Daemon attacked Jaenelle while caught in an old, bad memory, and the Sadist enjoyed a snuggle that included a lot of moaning and several climaxes.”

“What?”

Hell’s fire, he’s fragile.

“The Sadist uses sex as a weapon,” Lucivar said, “but the Sadist rises out of temper, not desire. Usually.”

Daemon swayed—and Lucivar had the queer sense of circling around a memory . . . about another time and place when Daemon had come to him, already mentally fragile, and he had lashed out with words that had created a wound that would never fully heal. Even now.