Dreams Made Flesh

But when Lucivar threaded his way through the crowd to reach the ballroom, she swore under her breath and followed him.



Lektra pulled her cousin Tavey into a small alcove where she could keep an eye on the ballroom and still talk with relative privacy. Watching Daemon fawn over Jaenelle was beyond intolerable, and if he continued playing the ardent lover so publicly, all her efforts to free him would be ruined. So she had to do something now. It was unfortunate that she didn’t have time to find a male who could make the lie believable, but she had to hope that the shock of the claim would make Daemon react without thinking.



“This is what I want you to do,” she said. Tavey’s eyes widened as she told him.



“But he’s a Warlord Prince,” Tavey said, his voice rising until she shushed him.



“Exactly. By Protocol, if he’s told to walk away, he has to walk away.”



“But doesn’t she have to tell him to go?”



“She’ll never tell him. So you have to.”



“But I don’t even know her!”



“Shush!” Lektra looked around to assure herself no one was paying attention to them. “That doesn’t matter. He won’t know that.” She paused and made her lips quiver. “Tavey, if you don’t do this for me, my love will never be free, and if he ends up having to marry her, I’ll be so miserable I—I don’t think I’ll be able to stand living anymore.”



“Don’t say that, Lektra. Don’t.” Tavey squeezed her hands. “I’ll do it. I promise.”



She sniffled and gave him a brave smile. “I won’t forget this. And once Daemon and I are married, I’m sure he’ll use his family’s influence to get you a position in whatever court you want.”



“Wouldn’t mind having a month or so with Sadi’s ‘cousin.’ ”



“You want the whore? You can have her. I’ve already made plans for getting her out of the way for a while to insure she’s not a distraction. There’s no reason why she can’t provide you with some company while she’s staying in the country.”



“Is something wrong?” Daemon asked as he escorted Jaenelle around the edge of the ballroom.



“I’m trying to look petulant,” she replied. “Don’t I look petulant?”



“You look like you have gas.”



“Daemon.” She choked back a laugh.



His lips twitched. This party was turning out to be more fun than he’d anticipated. Oh, not the party itself, but playing out this game with Jaenelle was definitely entertaining. It had been easy enough to slip behind that cold, bored expression that had served him so well in the Terreillean courts. Problem was, the mask kept slipping. They kept slipping, forgetting their roles of suspicious woman and discontented man. Dancing with her for the first time in months was too delicious a feeling to spoil with a game.



But he’d agreed to play this out, so that’s what he would do.



“Are we still scheduled to have a public quarrel?” he asked, slipping an arm around her waist once they found an open space where they could watch the dancers.



“Yes, we are, because I’m upset with you.” Jaenelle frowned as she looked at him. “Why am I upset with you?”



“So that we can spend hours tonight doing the kiss-and-make-up part of this pretend quarrel,” he purred, using Craft to change the sexual heat that, even leashed, poured out of him into psychic seduction tendrils that gently coiled around her while phantom hands stroked the inside of her thighs.



“Mother Night,” she gasped.



Suddenly she was leaning hard against him, letting him support her.



“Feeling a bit weak in the legs?” he asked too innocently.



Her laughing snarl turned into a warm smile when she noticed the man swiftly approaching them.



Handsome, graceful and lean, with a mane of brown hair artfully disheveled, the man had fair skin, which meant he wasn’t native to Dhemlan, and green eyes that were focused on Jaenelle. An Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. A rival.



Daemon hated him on sight.



“My darling,” the man said, pressing his lips to the back of the hand Jaenelle held out to him.



“Prince Rainier,” Jaenelle replied, still smiling.



“I’m wounded,” Rainier said.



Not yet, but you will be, Daemon thought.



“My favorite Lady finally makes an appearance at a party and hasn’t asked me to dance,” Rainier continued. “But that’s all right. I’m content just to flirt with you.”



I’ll see you in Hell first.



Rainier gave him an amused glance before focusing on Jaenelle again. “Would you mind telling your lover that I’m allowed to flirt with you?”



“Of course you’re allowed to flirt with me,” Jaenelle said, her voice filled with laughter. “After all, you never mean it.” She paused. “On the other hand, if you were flirting with Daemon . . .”



“Pointless,” Rainier said, grinning, “since it’s so obvious that he’s taken. But . . .” Releasing Jaenelle’s hand, he smiled at Daemon. “May I have this dance?”



Hot fury. Cold rage. Suddenly it was easy to slip into the game. He’d assumed the person behind the rumors was female—an assumption he shouldn’t have made.



“If my Lady has no objections,” Daemon crooned. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lucivar and Surreal entering the ballroom. As soon as he moved away, they’d stay close to Jaenelle.



“Do you mind?” Rainier asked, glancing at Jaenelle.



She looked baffled. “No, I don’t mind.”



“Shall we?” Smiling, Rainier offered an arm.



Daemon didn’t take the arm—too much temptation to rip it off—but he turned and matched his stride to the Warlord Prince beside him until they reached the dance floor.



The music started. A waltz. He wondered if Rainier had arranged that.



“Who leads?” he asked.



“I asked, so I lead.”



The man could dance. Daemon heard startled gasps, noticed other couples stumble to a halt and move out of the way. But those were distant things. His focus—and his temper—were fixed on Rainier.



“Before you decide in favor of killing me, I should mention that I’m Second Circle,” Rainier said.



That statement almost threw him off balance. It was possible. Jaenelle’s court had been so informal, he’d never met anyone beyond her First Circle. “You mean you were Second Circle. The Dark Court no longer exists.”



“Hmm. Yes. I’m no longer Second Circle just like you’re no longer the Consort.”



They whirled around the dance floor, perfectly matched, studying each other.



“I’ll think you’ll find, Prince Sadi, that those who serve Jaenelle don’t give a damn that there’s no longer formally a court. The Dark Court still exists because she still exists. We still serve—and you’re still the Consort.”



“What’s your game, Rainier?”



“Figured I’d better help you two by providing a distraction. You’re doing a lousy imitation of a quarreling couple. You’re having too much fun. I’m thinking you’re trying to draw out whoever started those rumors. So this should catch someone’s interest.”



The man had a point. They certainly had the attention of everyone in the room. “How did you end up in the Second Circle?”



Rainier grinned. “I was the coven’s dance instructor. The fifth or sixth one the High Lord hired. I wasn’t much older than the girls and had no credentials except a knowledge of, and love for, dancing, but he told me if I could last the hour with them I had the position.”



“And you lasted the hour.”



Rainier nodded. “The Heart of the Realm was in that room. If the personalities and power of the coven didn’t scare the shit out of a man, there was no better place to be. There’s still no better place to be.”



He had a feeling Rainier was more than a dance instructor, but the man wasn’t a rival, and a skilled ally could prove useful right now. “Do you know court dances?”



“I adore court dances.”



“My lead.” Daemon sent a psychic command to the head musician.



When the music changed, he and Rainier broke the steps of one dance and flowed into the other as smoothly as if they’d been partners for years.



Hand to hand. Turning. Circling. Gliding. Watching each other. Restrained sensuality swelling to the point of bursting. He saw the hint of fear in Rainier’s green eyes as the web of desire he was spinning through the dance became a snare for the unwary.



“Mother Night,” Rainier whispered hoarsely. “You must be a mean bastard when you want to hurt someone.”



Daemon smiled a cruel, knowing smile, and crooned, “But you’d let me hurt you, wouldn’t you?”



The sudden tremble in Rainier’s hand was answer enough.



As the dance ended, Daemon leaned in, trapping their hands between their bodies, bringing lips close to lips. “That’s why they called me the Sadist.”



Something was scraping his temper, some feeling in the room that reminded him too much of the Terreillean courts, something that had him teetering a heartbeat away from the killing edge.



But that something wasn’t the man staring into his glazed eyes. This male belonged to his Queen and shouldn’t be harmed.



With effort, he pulled back the seduction tendrils, eased back physically. “Thank you for the dance.”



“My pleasure.” Rainier cleared his throat. “It’s been an education.”