Daughter of the Blood

the wineglass. "Isn't he a little old for her?"
    "I'd say he was experienced," Cassandra replied tartly.
    "She'll be a powerful Queen and should have an older, experienced Steward."
    Daemon glanced at her, amused. "Steward?"
    "Of course." She studied him. "Do you have ambitions to wear the Steward's ring?"
    Daemon shook his head. His lips twitched. "No, I don't have any ambitions to wear the Steward's ring."
    "Well, then." Cassandra's eyes widened. Now that the chill was gone, now that he was a little more relaxed . . . "You really are your father's son," she said dryly and was startled by his immediate, warm laughter. Her eyes narrowed. "You thought—that's wicked!"
    "Is it?" His golden eyes caressed her with disturbing warmth. "Perhaps it is."
    Cassandra smiled. When the anger and cold were gone, he really was a delightful man. "What does she think of you?"
    "How in the name of Hell should I know?" he growled. His eyes narrowed as she laughed at him.
    "Does she try your patience to the breaking point? Exasperate you until you want to scream? Make you feel as if you can't tell from one step to the next if you're going to touch solid ground or fall into a bottomless pit?"
    He looked at her with interest. "Do you feel that way?"
    "Oh, no," Cassandra said lightly. "But then, I'm not male."
    Daemon growled.
    "That's a familiar sound." It was fun teasing him because, despite his strength, he didn't frighten her the way Saetan did. "You and the Priest might have more in common than you think where she's concerned."
    He laughed, and she knew it was the idea of Saetan being as bewildered as he that amused him, consoled him, linked him to them.
    Daemon finished his wine and stood up. "I'm . . . glad . . . to have met you, Cassandra. I hope it won't be the last time."
    She linked her arm through his and walked with him to the outer door of the Sanctuary. "You're welcome anytime, Prince."
    Daemon raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
    She watched him until he was out of sight before returning to the kitchen and washing the glasses.
    Now there was just the delicate little matter of explaining this meeting to his father.

5—Terreille
    There are some things the body never forgets, Saetan thought wryly as Cassandra snuggled closer to him, her hand tracing anxious little circles up and down his chest. Before tonight he'd politely refused to stay with her, wary that she might want more from him than he was willing—or able—to give. But she, too, was a Guardian, and that kind of love was no longer part of her life. There were, after all, some penalties to the half-life. Still, it pleased him to feel skin against skin, to caress the curves of a feminine body. If only she'd get to the point and stop making those damn little circles, because he remembered only too well what they meant.
    He captured her hand and held it against his chest. "So?" As he turned his head and kissed her hair, he felt her frown. He pressed his lips together, annoyed. Had she forgotten how easy it was for him to read a woman's body, to pick up her subtlest moods? Was she going to deny what had screamed at him the moment he stepped into the kitchen?
    "So?" She lightly, teasingly, kissed his chest.
    Saetan took a deep breath. His patience frayed. "So when are you going to get around to telling me what happened this afternoon?"
    She tensed. "What happened this afternoon?"
    He clenched his teeth. "The walls remember, Cassandra. I'm a Black Widow, too. Do you want me to pull it out of the walls and replay it, or are you going to tell me yourself?"
    "There's really not much—"
    "Not much!" Saetan swore as he rolled away from her and leaned against the headboard. "Have the centuries addled your mind, woman?"
    "Don't . . ."
    Saetan looked into her eyes. "I frighten you," he said bitterly. "I've never harmed you, never touched you in anger, seldom even raised my voice at you. I loved you, served you well, and used my strength to keep a vow to you through all those desolate years. And I frighten you. Since the day I returned with the Black, I've frightened you." He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "You're frightened of me, and yet you have the audacity to provoke my son into a murderous rage and try to dismiss it as if nothing happened. What I don't understand is why this place is standing at all, why I'm not trying to locate your remains, or why he wasn't standing on the threshold waiting for me. Did you tell him about me? Was I your