Daemon glided through the Hall’s corridors, a vessel for the cold, silent fury that held a single thought: how many of these bitches would he need to kill before the rest of them finally learned to leave him alone?

The silence held until he reached his suite. Then he slammed the door, letting temper and Craft enhance the sound until it thundered through the Hall, warning everyone of what they faced if anyone dared disturb him.

Moments after that came the knock on the door between his bedroom and Jaenelle’s.

He ignored it, so moments after that, Jaenelle opened the door just enough to stick her head in the room.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“You do not want to step into this room,” he snarled, knowing his eyes were glazed and his temper was lethal.

It didn’t matter if she wanted to enter his room or not. He didn’t want her there. Not now.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” she said.

She pushed the door all the way open but stayed on her side of the threshold, which infuriated him even more. Especially because she was wearing one of his white silk shirts over a pair of slim black trousers—and her feet were deliciously bare, revealing toenails painted an enticing rose color.

The only reason she painted her toenails was that he enjoyed seeing them that way—and since she did it rarely, it never failed to catch his attention.

She must have painted them as a “welcome home” surprise for him, which only stoked his fury. Warlord Princes were passionately violent and violently passionate. Trouble was, he was spinning between violence and passion too fast to know which emotion would dominate if anyone gave him the slightest push.

He wanted to pounce on her. He just didn’t know which kind of pouncing he wanted to do. Which was her fault, actually, because she’d painted her damn toenails, but it was clearly Jaenelle the Healer rather than Jaenelle the Wife who was studying him.

And because he knew why the Healer would be asking the question, he let his temper slip the leash for a moment.

“I’m not sick, I’m not damaged, and as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, I’m not feeling fragile in any damn way,” he roared. “What I am feeling is angry. So leave. Me. Alone.”

Those sapphire eyes stared at him. Stared through him.

She stepped into the room.

Not sure if he was acting on temper or sheer possessiveness, he slapped a Black shield around the room, sealing her in with him.

If she noticed, she didn’t react. She just took another step toward him.