The Shadow Queen

spice instead of what he usually found in his marriage bed. The shirt she’d kept as a memento of that evening gave her a standing invitation to his house—at least until his youngest son went through the Birthright Ceremony and he was granted paternity.
    But she had to know— had to —if Sadi’s threat had been an empty one. She’d gone to her Healer and was assured there was nothing wrong. She’d gone to a Black Widow, who assured her there was no sign of any kind of spell around her.
    Assurances. But not enough assurance, not when the person aiming a spell at her was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. She had to know if Sadi really could strip her of the ability to get any pleasure out of sex.
    She’d picked the Warlord at this house party because he was married and he’d made it clear he wanted to romp. At any other time, she wouldn’t have done more than flirt with him, because he wasn’t wealthy enough or influential enough to do her favors. But he would help her prove that nothing would happen to her—as long as she avoided crossing paths with Sadi.
    The candle-light in the lamp on the table beside the bed was on a low setting and, oddly, lit only one side of the room, leaving the other side midnight dark. She shrugged off that detail even quicker than she stripped off her clothes until she was down to high-heeled shoes and sheer panties.
    And wasn’t that considerate of him? she thought when she noticed the shirt draped over a chair.
    Heavy silk, lovely to touch. She hadn’t seen him wear anything like this, wouldn’t have guessed he could afford a shirt like this.
    Unless this was the shirt he offered women for a romp.
    The thought wasn’t appealing, and even less appealing was the possibility that he might not think her being here was anything special.
    But there was a hint of spice rising up from the shirt where her hands had warmed the silk. Not cologne, just a spicy male scent that made her feel fluid and female.
    She slipped on the shirt, loving the way it settled over her skin. She buttoned the cuffs, then buttoned half the buttons down the front.
    She twirled once, twice. The shirt caressed her skin as it settled around her.
    A bead of sweat tickled her as it followed the channel of her spine.
    Damn, damn, damn. She didn’t want to sweat. At least, not before she and the Warlord were heavily into the romp part of the evening.
    Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table.
    Dark specks on the shirt, growing bigger by the moment.
    More sweat trickling down her spine.
    What in the name of Hell was going on?
    She walked over to the mirror to get a better look. The shirt was clinging to her shoulders. As she reached the mirror, she pressed her fingers on a patch of now-dark silk.
    When she raised her fingers, they were wet—and red.
    She was sweating blood. How could she be sweating blood?
    The shirt. Had to be something in the shirt.
    She grabbed the fabric with both hands, intending to tear the shirt off.
    Blood gushed from her hands.
    She released the fabric and stumbled toward the door.
    Help. She needed help.
    The door wouldn’t open.
    She pounded on the door, leaving bloody handprints.
    “Help me! Somebody, help me!”
    No response from the other side of the door.
    “They can’t hear you,” a deep voice said in a singsong croon. “They won’t help you.”
    She turned toward the voice coming from the dark side of the room. “My lover will be coming up to bed at any moment.”
    Movement. Then a man appeared on the edge of the dark side of the room. Most of his face was still in shadow, but his smile was viciously gentle. “The Warlord? No, my dear, he won’t be coming up here. He was encouraged to leave and is, by now, on his way home.”
    “What do you want?” she cried.
    The shirt got wetter and heavier, clinging to her skin. Her legs trembled with the effort to remain standing.
    “Odd how much terror can be produced by a piece of cloth,” he said in that singsong croon. “Don’t you think it’s odd? A simple shirt can destroy a person’s life. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of that fear?”
    She heard the splat of blood dripping off the shirt and hitting the carpet.
    “I’ve learned my lesson. Do you hear me? I won’t play with married men ever again.”
    “I know you won’t.” There was nothing gentle about the gentleness in that deep voice.
    “Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “I never played with you!”

    He took a step closer. Got a good look at her