You don't love me."On my bed," he gasped.
Jaenelle swiveled to look at the door adjoining their rooms. Her eyes narrowed. "What's Kaelas doing in your room?"
"Sleeping. On my bed."
"It's your room. Why didn't you tell him to get off?"
Why? Because he didn't want to die tonight.
But she sounded so baffled, he raised his head to look at her. She was serious. She wouldn't think twice about hauling eight hundred pounds of snarling feline off a bed.
Jaenelle stood up. "I'll get him—"
Daemon grabbed her hand. "No. It's all right. I'll find another bed. A couch. Hell's fire, I'll sleep on the floor."
Those ancient eyes studied him. Something odd flickered at the back of them for a moment. "Do you want to sleep here tonight?" she asked quietly.
Yes. No. He didn't want to come to her as a frightened, needy male. But he also wouldn't refuse the only invitation to her bed he might ever receive. "Please."
She pulled the covers back as far as she could with him still sitting on the bed. "Get in."
"I—" His face heated.
"I gather you wear the same thing to bed as every other male here," Jaenelle said dryly.
Which meant "nothing."
She moved to the other side of the room, her back politely turned.
Daemon quickly slipped out of the robe and slipped into the massive bed. No wonder she had offered to let him stay there. The bed was so big she would never notice another occupant.
A minute later, she got into bed, keeping well to her side of it. As she turned off the candle-light, she murmured, "Good night, Daemon."
He lay in the dark a long time listening to her breathe, certain that, like him, she wasn't asleep.
Eventually, the warm bed, the murmur of the fountain in the garden below, and the scent of whatever soap or perfume she used lulled him into a deep sleep.
The quiet, almost furtive sounds roused him.
Daemon opened his eyes.
Darkness. Swirling mist.
Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked around and saw her standing next to the altar. The golden mane that wasn't quite hair and wasn't quite fur. The delicately pointed ears. The thin stripe of fur that ran down her spine to the fawn tail that flicked over her bu**ocks. The human legs that ended in hooves. The hands that had sheathed claws.
Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh.
He was back in the misty place, deep in the abyss. The place where...
He rose slowly. Moving carefully so that he wouldn't startle her, he walked around the altar until he was standing across from her.
On the altar was a crystal chalice laced with hairline cracks. As he silently watched, she picked up a sliver of crystal and slipped it into place.
Something shifted inside him. Looking more intently at the chalice, he realized it was his own shattered mind.
He noticed three other tiny fragments. As he reached for one, she slapped his hand.
"Do you have any idea how much searching I had to do to find these?" she snarled at him.
She turned the chalice, slipped another tiny sliver into place.
The mist swirled, danced, spun.
Falling, falling, falling into the abyss. His mind shattering. Waking up in the misty place. Seeing Jaenelle as Witch for the first time as she pieced his crystal chalice back together.
Another sliver slipped into place.
A narrow bed with straps to bind hands and feet—the bed from Briarwood. A sumptuous bed with silk sheets. A seductive trap made of love and lies and truth—a trap to save a child. The Sadist whispering that she would take the bait because he, in all his male sexual glory,wasthe bait.
The last sliver was slipped into place.
Re-forming the psychic link with Saetan after he had persuaded Jaenelle to ascend to the level of the Red Jewels. The two of them forcing her to heal her own torn, bleeding body. Jaenelle's panic when the males from Briarwood started fighting the defenses Surreal had created in the corridors leading to the Altar. Cassandra opening the Gate between the Realms and taking Jaenelle away.
His crystal chalice glowed, heated as Witch's dark power covered all the cracks and sealed them.
Now that the gaps were filled in, the memories reformed, and, finally, he knewexactly what had happened at Cassandra's Altar thirteen years ago. Finally, he knewexactly what he had done—and not done.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
She glanced at him, nerves warring with the sharp, feral intelligence that filled her ancient eyes. "The missing pieces made weak spots that kept the chalice fragile. You should be fine now."
"Thank you."
"I don't want your gratitude," she snapped.
Studying her, Daemon opened his inner barriers just enough to taste her emotions. The hurt inside her surprised him.
"Whatdo you want?" he asked quietly.
She nervously caressed the stem of the chalice. He wondered if she realized he could feel those caresses. And he wondered if she had any idea what those caresses were doing to him. He started to move around the altar, his fingers lightly brushing the stone.
"Nothing," she said in a small voice as she shifted a half step away from him. Then she added, "You lied to me. You didn't want Witch."
The fire of anger washed through him, waking the part of him the Blood in Terreille had called the Sadist. When the anger cooled, another kind of fire took its place.
His voice shifted into a sexual purr. "I love you. And I've waited a lifetime to be your lover. But you were too young, Lady."
She raised her head, her body stiff with dignity. "I wasn't too young here, in the abyss."
Slowly, he continued moving around the altar. "Your body had been violated. Your mind had shattered. But even if that hadn't been the case, you were still too young—even here in the abyss."
He came up behind her. His fingers lightly brushed her hips, her waist. Moving upward, he spread his hands across her ribs, his fingers just brushing the undersides of her br**sts. He moved closer, smiling with savage pleasure as the fawn tail's nervous flicking teased and aroused him.
He kissed the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. The first kiss was light and chaste. With the second kiss, he used his teeth to hold her still while the tip of his tongue caressed and tasted her skin.
He could feel her heart pounding, feel each breathy pant.
Leaving a trail of soft kisses up her neck, he finally whispered in her ear, "You're not too young anymore."
She let out a breathless squeak when he gently rubbed himself against her.
Suddenly his hands were empty, and he was alone.
Hungry desire roared through him. He turned in a slow circle, searching, probing—the predator seeking his prey.