Daughter of the Blood

sneaked away to spend a night or two with a couple of Black Widow friends and feasted on and with the males who served that coven.
    Now, in the room below hers, there was a Warlord Prince who made her pulse race, a Warlord Prince who had centuries of training in providing sexual pleasure, a Warlord Prince who was hers to command.
    If she dared.
    Alexandra pulled the bell cord on the right side. She waited a minute and pulled it again. How did one act with a pleasure slave? They weren't considered in the same category as consorts or lovers, that much she knew. But what should she do? What should she say?
    Alexandra combed her hair with her fingers. She would figure it out. She had to. If she didn't get some relief tonight, she would go mad.
    Despite her frustration, she almost gave up and turned off her light, almost felt relieved that he hadn't obeyed, when there was a quiet tap on her door.
    "Come in." She sat up, trying for a measure of dignity. Her palms were wet with nervous sweat. She flushed when he entered the room and leaned back against the door. He was still in evening dress, but his hair was slightly disheveled, and the half-unbuttoned shirt gave her a glimpse of his smooth, muscular chest.
    Her body reacted to his physical presence, leaving her unable to think, unable to speak. She had resisted this since he arrived, but now she wanted to know what it felt like to have him in her bed.
    For a long time, he said nothing. He did nothing. He leaned against the door and stared at her.
    And something dangerous flickered in his golden eyes.
    She waited, unwilling to dismiss him, too frightened to demand.
    In the end, he came to the bed and showed her what a pleasure slave could do.

4—Hell
    Saetan ignored the light tap on his study door, as he had ignored everything these past few weeks. He watched the doorknob turn, but the door was Black-locked, and whoever was on the other side would stay on the other side.
    The knob turned again and the door opened.
    His lips curling in a snarl at this blatant intrusion, he limped around the desk and froze as Jaenelle slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She stood there, shy and uncertain.
    "Jaenelle," he whispered. "Jaenelle!"
    He opened his arms. She ran across the room and leaped into them, her thin arms gripping his neck in a stranglehold.
    Saetan staggered as his weak leg started to give, but he got them to a chair by the fire. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arms tight around her. "Jaenelle," he whispered over and over as he kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks. "Where have you been?"
    After a while, Jaenelle braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed back. She studied his face and frowned. "You're limping again," she said in an aggrieved voice.
    "The leg's weak," he replied curtly, dismissing it.
    She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pushed back the collar.
    "No," he said firmly.
    "You need the blood. You're limping again."
    "No. You've been ill."
    "No, I haven't," she protested sharply and then quickly looked away.
    Saetan's eyes turned hard yellow, and he drew in a hissing breath. If you haven't been ill, witch-child, then what was done to your body was done deliberately. I haven't forgotten the last time I saw you. That family of yours has much to explain.
    "Not really ill," Jaenelle amended.
    It almost sounded like she was pleading with him to agree. But, Hell's fire, how could he look at her and agree?
    "The blood's strong, Saetan." She definitely was pleading now. "And you need the blood."
    "Not while you need every drop for yourself," Saetan snarled. He tried to shift position, but with Jaenelle straddling him, he was effectively tethered. He sighed. He knew that determined look too well. She wasn't about to let him go until he'd taken the blood.
    And it occurred to him that she had her own reasons for wanting to give it beyond it being beneficial to him. She seemed more fragile—and not just physically. It was as if rejecting the blood would confirm some deep-seated fear she was trying desperately to control.
    That decided him. He gently closed his mouth on her neck.
    He took a long time to take very little, savoring the contact, hoping she would be fooled. When he finally lifted his head and pressed his finger against the wound to heal it, he read doubt in her eyes. Well, two could play that game.
    "Where have you been, witch-child?" he asked so gently that it was a whip-crack demand.
    The question effectively