“You’re riding a lot of temper, Prince,” Jaenelle said. “But something was the cause of that temper, and that something is going to be dealt with one way or the other. If we have to work through all the temper first, so be it.”

Hot. Cold. One moment he was Daemon, feeling furious and cornered; the next he was the Sadist, wanting to step up for this dance. And, oh, how he wanted to dance!

That particular truth scared him enough to be furious with her, so he dropped the Black shield and punched up his temper for the kind of fight that would get her angry enough to storm out of the room. Which would be the safest thing for both of them.

Turning his back on her, he removed his black jacket.

“You don’t want to be in this room right now,” he said in the cold, brutally dismissive voice that used to flay women’s feelings so successfully.

“Why not?”

Her tone was so snippy, he saw the room through a red haze and stopped thinking.

“Because you can’t defend yourself against what I am!”As he said the words, he swung the jacket at her, intending to smack her with it and prove that she shouldn’t be in a room with him when his temper was barely chained.

Her right hand lashed out.

Hell’s fire.

Daemon stared at the slices that went all the way through the back of the jacket. He flicked a look at her right hand. Had he really seen claws instead of fingernails for just that moment when she lashed out?

“Tell me again I can’t defend myself,” she said too softly.

Not while he still wanted to live.

His temper fizzled and a giddy joy filled him as he acknowledged that truth.

It was completely ruined, but he hung the jacket on the clothes stand to have something to do.

Mother Night, those claws were impressive. She was impressive. And such a vital, needed part of his life.

How could some bitch think a few superficial tricks could make her a substitute for Jaenelle?

That thought brought his temper roaring back to a cold, deadly edge.

Which his Lady recognized—and chose to ignore.

“You went to visit two of the Province Queens,” Jaenelle said. “You came home a day early and furious. What happened?”

He vented some of his temper in sheer volume. “This evening when I walked into my room at Lady Rhea’s house, that bitch Vulchera was wearing one of my shirts!”

There was a look in her eyes he’d never seen before, a kind of pissed-off incredulity.

“When in the name of Hell did you get so damn possessive about a shirt?” she yelled. “If you don’t want me wearing one of your precious shirts, say so. Or have Jazen tell me, since he seems to be just as possessive of anything that resides in your closet.”