“No,” she said, “it’s Dea al Mon.”
Nerves danced in his eyes at the mention of the Children of the Wood—a race who fiercely protected their Territory and seldom let anyone who crossed their border walk out again—but he worked to keep his smile easy.
“Then you must be Lady Surreal,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”
You didn’t hear enough, sugar. If you’d heard about more than my “public” profession, you wouldn’t be crowding me.
She smiled at him, called in a silver mark and put it on the bar when the server gave her the glasses of sparkling wine, and turned to leave. The woman directly in her path stared at her with hostile jealousy for a moment before moving aside.
She dismissed the look without a second thought as she worked her way back up to the box. She’d seen enough of those looks when she’d been a whore in Terreille.
Maybe that accounted for the odd feeling she got from the Warlord and his interest in the bracelet. Maybe he’d just been trying to find out where he could buy something similar and was nervous about his Lady seeing him talking to another woman. Besides, there was something about the woman in the moment when their eyes met that practically shouted “possessive bitch” to someone who’d spent her life quickly sizing up rivals, enemies, and prey.
Not her problem, she thought as Daemon opened the door enough for her to slip back into the box. Noticing the unhappiness lurking in his eyes before he took the glass she offered, she almost said something, but the house lights began fading as a warning that the second act was about to begin.
No, the Warlord and the bitch weren’t her problem—not when she had a bigger, and more dangerous, one sitting beside her.
3
Surreal waited until they’d enjoyed the appetizers at the dining house Daemon had chosen for their after-theater meal.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.
“The play?”
“No, about what’s going on between you and Jaenelle that’s making you so unhappy.”
“Leave it alone, Surreal,” he said, his voice turning icy and razor-edged.
She shook her head. “Can’t, sugar.”
“Do you want to talk about Falonar?” he countered.
She hissed.
“Exactly.” Smiling, he raised his wineglass in a salute. Then he looked down at his plate—and sighed. “I’ll talk if you will.”
Hell’s fire. The least said about Falonar to any male in her family the better. But . . . “I have your word you won’t do anything to him? Anything?”
She didn’t like the fact that he thought about it for several seconds before inclining his head in agreement.
Pushing her plate aside, she folded her arms on the table. Not a ladylike posture, but it let her lean closer to him. It occurred to her that they could have this entire conversation on a psychic thread to keep it silent and private, but it felt necessary to give the words the weight of sound.
“I’m not what he wanted,” she said, feeling the sting of the truth.
“He doesn’t want a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman?”
Realizing Daemon meant what he’d said eased the sting a little. She tried to smile. “He wants a Marian. Not Marian, ” she added quickly, seeing the instant chill in Daemon’s eyes. “The things that intrigued him enough initially for him to offer to share his eyrie with me were the same things that eventually stuck in his throat. Hell’s fire, Sadi, I’m not going to apologize for what I’ve been.”
“He couldn’t get past the fact that you used to be paid for sex?” Daemon asked too softly.
“Since he wasn’t offering to be anything more than my lover, that didn’t bother him. Well, not much. And he certainly appreciated my . . . skills.” She sighed. “No, what rubbed the wrong way was my skill with a knife—and the fact that an assassin doesn’t worry about sticky details like letting the prey know he’s about to be turned into carrion.”
“You were a competitor.”
She sat back as the dishes vanished and the server brought the main course. She savored the taste of a perfectly cooked filet before going back to a subject that would ruin her appetite.
“I was a competitor,” she agreed. “Falonar could be indulgent about the Eyrien witches learning to use weapons to defend themselves because none of them will ever have enough skill to be a rival to him. And they were only learning because Lucivar insisted on it, not because they wanted to. But I wanted to improve skills I already had—and killing is what I do.”
“And since Falonar wears a Sapphire Jewel and you wear the Gray, he wasn’t stronger than you in that arena,” Daemon said. “There are plenty of men who have lovers who wear darker Jewels than they do.”
“Falonar wants a woman who looks at him and sees a protector, a defender. He wants someone who needs his strength, someone whose talents are . . . gentler.”
“Who is she?” Daemon asked as he dipped a piece of lobster into the bowl of clarified butter.
Surreal studied him warily. “I didn’t say there was someone in particular.”
Daemon just smiled and continued eating.
She concentrated on her own meal for a few minutes. Then she sighed. “Nurian. She’s a Healer.”
“And she’s Eyrien.”
“I don’t know how deep Falonar’s feelings about her run, but I’m pretty sure she’s in love with him. Over the winter, things changed between him and me. Lots of sex and not much else. Some snide comments about my snip-ping off balls because I wanted a pair of my own. And for the record, I’d rather have the discomfort of moontimes than carry what you’ve got between your legs.”
He just raised an eyebrow.
“Moon’s blood only throws me offstride three days out of a month. A cock makes a man potentially stupid at any hour of any day.”