“Jaenelle.” He was safe. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him for wanting her. She wouldn’t punish him for needing her.

He could give her this because she was the one he had waited for.

As he raised his head to look at her beloved face, he realized something wasn’t right about the room.

It didn’t smell like her. Like them. It smelled only like him.

“Kiss me,” he whispered before sinking into a kiss that was viciously gentle.

He needed her, couldn’t survive without her. And he needed the scent of her arousal, the flood of her pleasure, to fill his bed.

His room. His bed. And . . .

He looked at the woman who meant more to him than anything else, and thought, Mine.

CHAPTER 5 - KAELEER

CHAPTER 5

KAELEER

Theran looked at the man who walked into the breakfast room and thought, Predator.

Whatever mood was riding Daemon Sadi could have lethal repercussions for the rest of the males in this place. And judging by the way Beale held himself, as if a twitch at the wrong time could end with someone being gutted—or worse—the butler recognized the danger too. The difference between them was that Beale seemed to be offering something Sadi wanted, whereas he . . .

He dared give that cold, beautiful face a quick study before fixing his eyes on his plate.

In Dena Nehele, men had two ways to describe a man who had spent a vigorous night in bed: ridden hard or well used. A man who had been well used came to the breakfast table with a sated, lazy satisfaction. A man who had been ridden hard might have gotten some relief from the sex, but he was still edgy and looking for an excuse for a different kind of relief. And when a Warlord Prince went looking for that kind of relief, blood was spilled—and too many friends and families ended up grieving for the dead.

Sadi pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. Within moments Beale poured a cup of coffee for the Prince and, without asking, fixed a plate of food for the man.

“It will be ready in a few minutes,” Beale said quietly.

Nodding, Sadi reached for the cup of black coffee.

Undercurrents. Any man who lived in Terreille learned to recognize them. Even someone who had spent his life in the rogue camps.

There was concern—and understanding—in Beale’s voice. The same concern Theran had heard in older men’s voices when they’d tried to offer support to a younger man who’d been twisted up by bedroom games. And there was a moment before Beale left the room when Theran thought the butler would actually lay a comforting hand on Sadi’s shoulder.

He recognized all the signs and knew what they meant, but who in the name of Hell would be brave enough—or foolish enough—to twist up a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince?