Shalador's Lady

probe the packages.
    That was considered cheating.
    Besides, if challenged, he would deny having done anything similar when he’d handled packages while putting his gifts under the tree.
    Jaenelle opened the delivery box and uncovered a note and a large bakery tin.
    “Chocolate chunk cookies,” she read. “Taste best when slightly warm.” She vanished the note, opened the bakery tin, and took a cookie.
    Daemon narrowed his gold eyes as he watched her slowly chew and swallow. Until now, the only time he’d seen that look on her face was when he was doing something especially pleasing with his hands or mouth.
    “Let’s see those.” He reached for a cookie.
    She hugged the tin, took a step back, and snarled, “Mine.”
    “Darling,” he purred, “you’re sharing.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you like having sex with me.”
    She watched him out of those sapphire eyes. “You think you can give me sex that’s as good as these cookies?”
    “I think I can manage that.”
    She put the last bite of cookie in her mouth. She chewed. Swallowed. Licked melted chocolate off her fingers.
    And gave him a smile that made his knees weak and his blood sizzle.
    “Did you have any plans for this afternoon?” she asked.
    “I don’t remember.”
    Her smile turned a bit feral and a whole lot hotter.
    She handed him the bakery tin, walked to the door, and said over her shoulder, “Why don’t you tell Beale we’re going to miss the midday meal?”
    He watched her walk out of the room and wondered when she’d learned to do that with her hips.
    “Why don’t I do that?” Since he needed a minute before he left the room, he ate a cookie. “Damn, they are good.” He studied the cookies—and smiled.
    They tasted best when warm? Well, he’d have to see how warm he could make it when he walked into the bedroom holding a bakery tin full of these cookies—and wearing nothing but black leather pants that fit like a second skin.

TERREILLE
    Winsol. For the Blood it was the most important day of the year.
    For Theran, it was a bittersweet evening.
    He sat in a chair near the fire Julien had lit in the parlor, his socked feet resting on a stool. Watching the flames, he idly swirled brandy in a snifter.
    He’d enjoyed these past few days more than he’d expected. The first time he’d shown up at a social engagement without Kermilla, there had been an awkward silence, but word must have spread after that because none of his other hosts mentioned her absence. And because her absence meant he was free to travel to other towns, he’d spent some time with other Warlord Princes who had been friends in the rogue camps.
    The days leading up to Winsol had been full. He still missed Kermilla with an ache that made him feel hollowed out at times—even when he acknowledged to himself that she wouldn’t have enjoyed the parties half as much as he did, being used to things that were so much grander.
    If she’d asked him to spend Winsol with her in Dharo, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Would his clothes and manners have been that much of an embarrassment to her?
    Probably.
    She certainly would have been offended by the thought of sitting down with the servants for the Winsol feast. Since he couldn’t see the cook making a separate meal just for him, he’d asked Julien, Hanna, and the others to join him in the dining room and to set the table with whatever bits of fancy the butler and housekeeper could find. Despite the surroundings and a much better quality of food, sitting with them tonight had felt more like a Winsol dinner in the rogue camps—camaraderie and easy teasing between the adults and youngsters, and laughter. A great deal of laughter and the hopeful relief that the bad times were behind them.
    He enjoyed the meal and the chance to know them as people instead of just servants.
    But he still missed Kermilla. And Gray. Hell’s fire, he missed Gray. Not Gray as he’d been for the past ten years, but the youth he had been before he was captured and tortured. As he sipped his brandy and stared at the fire, Theran kept remembering that last Winsol when Gray was whole and happy—when one of them wasn’t weighed down by nightmares and the other by guilt.
    A tap on the parlor door before Julien stepped in. “Prince Talon is here and asked if you’re available to see him.”
    “Of course!” Theran set the brandy aside and pushed out of the chair. “Send him in.”
    “We don’t have any of that special wine,” Julien