Twilight's Dawn

only one person whose psychic scent was so close to his own that it took a moment to pick up the distinctions between them.
    “Prince,” he said. It was the best he could do. The way Daemon was rubbing his back made him feel boneless—and brainless. A bit odd for a son to be doing.
    That thought roused his paternal suspicions, and that woke up his brain.
    “Good evening,” Daemon said. “Did you sleep well?”
    Hell’s fire. Every time a son had asked him that, the boy was about to dump a basket of trouble in his lap.
    “It’s Winsol,” Saetan said, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “Why aren’t you home with your wife?”
    “Because my wife is still here,” Daemon replied, resting a hand on his father’s hip.
    A sultry voice. Almost a sexual purr. Daemon excelled at using sensuality to intimidate, and right now the boy was doing an excellent job.
    Except he wasn’t sure intimidation was the response Daemon intended to evoke.
    “Did you enjoy your gift?” Daemon asked.
    “My gift?”
    “You asked for solitude. We stepped back so you could celebrate Winsol Eve in your own way.”
    With Jaenelle. With Witch.
    “Lucivar and I talked it over, and we decided that you had a point—and a lesson we wanted to embrace now instead of later.”
    “That’s good.” Maybe. He might sound more enthusiastic if he were more awake—and if Daemon’s hand resting on his hip didn’t feel more and more like a cat’s paw pressing on a mouse’s tail.
    “We decided to give the first six days of Winsol to our public obligations as rulers of Dhemlan and Ebon Rih. Winsol Day will be for family. And the last six days will be private. Quiet. Jaenelle and I are going to Scelt for a couple of days, and then tuck in at the Hall.”
    “That’s good,” Saetan said. And it was.
    “Today, being Winsol, is for family,” Daemon said. “All of us, together. Here at the Keep.”
    “All ... ?”
    Sounds just outside the bedroom door. Then Daemonar shouted, “Wake up, Granpapa! Wake up!”
    He heard Lucivar’s rumble, followed by giggles and squeals that moved away from the door.
    “All of us,” Daemon said. “Even Tersa.”
    Honoring the day with his children without the intrusion of the world and its demands. He felt foolishly sentimental—and very happy.
    “Just family,” he said, his voice husky as he remembered the family members who were no longer with him.
    “And Rainier. It seems he was going to be alone tonight, so Surreal declared him an honorary cousin for the occasion.”
    Too much sentiment, too much feeling. And it wasn’t just him. The sensuality was a game, but having the family gathered like this meant a great deal to Daemon too.
    Figuring they both needed a moment to step back from deep feelings, he said, “You got through this much of the day without opening any gifts?” If they’d managed that with a boy Daemonar’s age in their midst, they had steel balls and no nerves.
    Daemon twitched his shoulders. “We let him open his, and the adults each opened one of theirs.”
    Saetan studied his son—the flushed skin, the sudden avoidance of looking him in the eyes. “So. How long did it take Daemonar to get the bug out of the box?”
    Daemon’s expression went absolutely blank. Then he muttered, “We found it before Marian did.”
    He could picture Lucivar and Daemon scrambling around to find the exploding beetle before Marian—or Surreal—found it. Since he didn’t think either man was going to find anything amusing about that little adventure—at least for another decade or two—he’d wait until he was safely in the shower before he laughed at them.
    “Then it sounds like Daemonar likes his gift. What about you?” He twisted around to plump up the pillows. “Since you were so eager to open it a few days ago, I assume you opened the gift I gave you.”
    When there was no response, he stopped plumping pillows and looked at Daemon’s sulky expression. “Didn’t you like your gift?”
    “I don’t know,” Daemon growled. “I haven’t been able to unravel the Craft lock you put on the damn box.”
    Saetan blinked. He’d used that same lock on his sons’ gifts when they were young. It used to take Daemon less than five minutes to unravel the thing.
    Winsol gifts weren’t just found in the boxes. They were the moments, and memories, treasured by the heart. Like this one.
    He tried to swallow the butterflies tickling his throat. Seeing the look on