Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5)

Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5) Page 59

Mother Night. Jaenelle.

She was still painfully thin, but standing there, dressed in a rose silk shirt and soft sapphire jacket and trousers, she looked like the woman he’d known and loved before she’d torn both of their lives apart to save Kaeleer. She looked like the Queen of Ebon Askavi, strong and powerful, despite the fact that it was Twilight’s Dawn and not a Black or Ebony Jewel hanging from the gold chain around her neck.

And her eyes . . . Feral. Angry.

Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh.

He wanted to kneel before her, wanted to surrender everything he was and could ever be, wanted to offer his life in any way she would have him.

But she’d obviously heard the rumors. She knew what was being said about him. That’s what had brought her here. Someone’s vicious lies had created a chasm between them, and if he didn’t find a way to bridge that distance, if he lost her now . . .

Despair and fury twisted together, became a roar of pain. “I have not been unfaithful!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Jaenelle replied. “I know you, Daemon. I know you. Even if there had been no hope of me healing, you would have stayed with me, celibate and faithful.”

“Of course I would have. I love you.” The bitterness under her words frightened him, but the fury was turning cold and sharp.

“I know.” Jaenelle looked away, adding, “Maybe it would have been better if that weren’t true.”

“Meaning what?” he asked too softly, taking a step toward her.

“If you were capable of infidelity, it would be easier to believe you were staying with me because you wanted to stay and not because you felt you had to stay.”

“What in the name of Hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you . . . and me.” Pain flickered in Jaenelle’s eyes before she looked away. “I know I don’t look . . . that a man wouldn’t be attracted . . .”

“Damn you.” He didn’t think about it. He grabbed the back of a stuffed chair and let his rage flow.

The chair exploded. Startled, Jaenelle stumbled back a step.

Daemon smiled bitterly. He’d instinctively created a bubble shield to contain the debris so that nothing sprayed over the room, so that not even the smallest sliver would strike Jaenelle and possibly harm her.

But that release was enough to shift ice to heat, so he snapped the leash that held his temper. “Is that why you’ve been pushing me away? Because of how you look?” He moved away from her, needing whatever distance he could get within the confines of the room as the insult churned through him. “I waited for you my whole life. Yearned for you my whole life. After Tersa told me you were coming, I spent seven hundred years searching for you in the court of every Queen who had bought my service as a pleasure slave. I searched in every Territory in Terreille that was within reach of wherever I’d been sent. For you. For Witch. For dreams made flesh. I never gave a damn what you might look like—tall, short, fat, thin, plain, beautiful, ugly. Why would I care what you looked like? The flesh was the shell that housed the glory. It was a way to connect with you, please you, be with you. Even if I couldn’t be your physical lover, there are other ways to be a lover, and I know them all. So don’t stand there and tell me what I feel for you depends on how you look!”

“Doesn’t it?” Jaenelle snapped, her voice shaking with anger and hurt. “I’m healed, but you still can’t bring yourself to touch me, can’t even hold my hand—”

“Do you think it’s because I don’t want to?” Daemon roared. “I can’t touch you!” His breathing hitched, surprising him, as the guilt he’d tried to lock away broke through. “It made me sick when I realized that no matter how careful I was, I couldn’t touch you without hurting you, that even the lightest brush of my fingers left bruises smeared on your arms and hands, that when I helped you sit up in bed, there would be dark bruises in the shape of my hands on your back and shoulders. Every time I touched you, I hurt you, drained more of your strength because there was something else you had to heal.”

“That’s not—” Jaenelle paused. Then she sighed. “In the beginning, that was true. Everything was so . . . frail . . . it didn’t take much to cause damage. But I did heal. It’s been months since I’ve been that fragile.”

He heard the words, but pain drove him now, forcing him to say what he’d hoped he’d never have to admit. “You suffered. Every moment you were awake, every move you made . . . you suffered.” He still couldn’t bear thinking of how much worse it had been when she’d first risen from the healing webs. How had Ladvarian, Kaelas, and the rest of the kindred who had cared for her endured watching her suffer?

Tears filled his eyes. “I understand why you want me out of your life. Sweetheart, I do understand. But I’d hoped you could forgive me.”

Jaenelle’s anger faded, but the hurt was still there. “Forgive you for what?”

“You suffered . . . because of me. You rose up from the healing webs too soon . . . because of me.”

Horror began filling her eyes. “Daemon . . .”

The tears fell. He choked back a sob. “They told me you would come back, but I didn’t believe them. Couldn’t believe them. I wanted you so much, needed you so much . . . and you came back too soon. Because of me.”

“That isn’t true. The healing webs had done all they could and—”

“Liar.” He waited, but she didn’t deny it. She couldn’t—and they both knew it. “You could have stayed longer in the healing webs, could have given your body more time to mend. But you never could withstand a plea for help from someone you cared about. And a cry of pain from me?” He shook his head. “You would have answered that cry no matter what it cost you. You paid the price for my doubts, and there was nothing I could do to make it up to you.”

“Daemon . . .”

“Do you want to try another lie and tell me you didn’t hear me calling to you in the abyss?” he asked bitterly.

Jaenelle’s hands curled into fists. “Yes, I heard you. How could I not hear you? Begging. Pleading. I could feel you breaking under the pain.”

“So you rose out of the healing webs too soon and then discovered the flesh was barely able to survive despite how much healing had already been done.”

“Yes, I rose too soon—and then there was no going back. After that, the healing had to be done from within—and done in a way that only I had the skill to do. But it wasn’t just you, Daemon. Did you think you were the only voice calling to me, pleading with me to come back? You were one voice among hundreds. All of them wanting me to return. I could feel Lucivar’s and Saetan’s yearning, the coven’s grief, the boyos fear that, without me there as a connection for all of them, the Shadow Realm would splinter again, that most of the kindred would retreat from human contact again. And the kindred ... They didn’t want to let go of the dream either, and they held on with everything in them. All of you calling, pleading, hoping that love could do what shouldn’t have been possible. Hell’s fire, Daemon. I’m a Healer. I know better than you ever will what happened to this flesh when I got hit with the backlash of power still left in those webs I’d created. I knew the healing would be hideous and painful, and that after everything was done that could be done, I might not have anything better than a shell that would exist but never really be able to live.” Jaenelle’s eyes filled with tears. “But sometimes,” she added, her voice breaking, “love is worth whatever price must be paid.”

Daemon turned away. He should have felt relieved that it wasn’t his fault—at least, not his alone. But her words had numbed him. No pain now, no anger. Nothing. “So you loved them enough to come back.”

A long silence. Then Jaenelle said, “No. I came back for you.”

He looked at her, not quite trusting enough to hope . . . or believe. But the emotional pain in her eyes now was more devastating than any physical suffering he’d seen.

“I came back for you,” Jaenelle said, tears streaming down her face. “Because you were worth the price.”

His heart ached as emotions flooded him. Pain. Pleasure. And the love. Oh, yes, the love. “Jaenelle.” His legs trembled as he took the few steps that separated them. He raised his hand, intending to brush away the tears, but he was still afraid to touch her.

Jaenelle closed her eyes and took a few breaths before she looked at him. “I don’t know if it will ever be better than this, but I’m healed, Daemon. Completely healed.”

He stared at her, trying to decipher what she was telling him. His heart pounded hard enough for him to feel the beat against his chest as his fingertips touched her cheek. Fever raged through him, settling between his legs. His mouth watered as he brushed a finger over her lips. He wanted his tongue there, slicking her mouth until he slipped inside to stroke her tongue. And after that he wanted to stroke . . .

Healed. Completely healed.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Jaenelle nodded. “I’m completely healed. I have been for weeks now.”

And she hadn’t told him? Or had she tried in some hesitant way and he hadn’t heard because he’d been caged by the memories of her being so frail?

Weeks. She’d been healed for weeks—which is when he’d begun having the erotic dreams, when his hunger for sex had reawakened. His body had known she was ready for him.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. Same words. Different question.

“I’m sure,” she whispered back.

His lips brushed hers, softly, carefully. One hand cupped the back of her head while the other trailed down her spine, urging her to relax against him. As he deepened the kiss, he savored the feel of his tongue caressing hers.

The taste of her. The smell of her. The feel . . .

He eased back in order to brush his lips over her cheek. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he whispered. The tip of his tongue traced the curve of her ear, making her shiver. “They’re lovely clothes, but they are very much in the way right now.”

“We need . . . to talk,” Jaenelle gasped as he licked the pulse in her neck.

“We will,” he promised, drifting back to her mouth to give her a long, sinking kiss. “In an hour . . .” Even through layers of clothing, her nipple hardened as he rubbed his thumb over it. “... or two.”

Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him, changing his desire into something close to desperation. “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice part snarl, part groan. “We’ll talk about anything you want tomorrow.”

Not giving her time to disagree, he picked her up and headed out of the sitting room, maintaining enough control to use Craft to simply open the door rather than rip it off the hinges. As he walked into the entrance hall, he gave his startled butler, Helton, a searing look. “The Lady and I are not at home. To anyone. Is that clear?”

“That is very clear, Prince,” Helton replied. “Shall I inform the cook that you will be dining upstairs this evening?”

“I’ll let you know when to send up a tray,” Daemon replied, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Someone might think you’re in a hurry,” Jaenelle murmured.

The bedroom door flew open as they reached it and slammed shut behind them, the locks clicking into place.

Private now, with the bed only a step away, the fury of lust eased back to the steady blaze of desire.

“Oh, no,” he crooned, setting her on her feet so that he could unbutton the sapphire jacket. “This is going to be a long . . . slow . . . banquet.” He slipped the jacket off her shoulders, slid it down her arms. “And I’m planning to enjoy every single morsel.”

Since that seemed to stun her, he took advantage of her lost wits to unbutton the rose silk shirt and slide that off her. The camisole beneath it was a paler rose and sheer enough to veil her breasts without really hiding them. So he let her keep it on a little longer while he enjoyed the feel of stroking her through the material until her skin warmed under his hands. Then he vanished the camisole, and there was nothing between his hands and her skin.