Good gods, what a night.

How had something as tediously banal as a palace dinner gone so wrong? Her hands clenched in fists around the bedsheets as the memories flooded back, clear and sharp as glass. The palace dinner. Dorian's unexpected and very unwelcome coup in convincing Great Lords Barrial and Morvel to offer marriage ties between one of their sons and Ellysetta Baristani's young sisters. Rain Tairen Soul squiring his common-born mate around the palace as if she were the Queen of Queens.

The affront had been too much. Annoura's simmering resentment had bubbled over, and her desire to put the woodcarver's daughter in her place had turned to bitter determination. A whispered word in a trusted ear ensured that a never-ending flow of heady blue wine poured into the girl's glass and a special brew of intensely potent keflee found its way into her cup.

Get the girl drunk, ply her with the overwhelming aphrodisiacal effects of the keflee, and watch her make an unmitigated fool of herself before the heads of every noble House in Celieria: that had been Annoura's plan.

Only it hadn't worked out the way she'd intended.

Rather than Ellysetta Baristani humiliating herself before the court, every other person in the banquet hall had done so in her stead. Celieria's most powerful nobles had fallen upon each other like ravening wolves. Lords and ladies, Great Lords, even she and Dorian-all helpless to resist the driving sexual hunger.

"Spirit weave," Dorian had gasped into her ear as their hands had reached helplessly for each other. It was only thanks to Dorian's Fey blood that he'd been able to withstand the call of the magic long enough to get them to the privacy of his bedchamber-but even so, he hadn't been able to counter the weave or reduce its power. He, like she, had been a puppet dancing to the magic's capricious command. They'd made love with fevered intensity for more than seven bells. Orgasm after orgasm, each one more shattering than the last. Every climax followed by an even deeper, more insistent burn.

Annoura's throat closed up tight at the memory of it, and her heart pounded like a mallet in a chest that felt as if heavy stones were squeezing all the air from her lungs. As a princess of the Capellan Royal House, she'd been sternly reared to assume command of any situation and never relinquish it. Yet last night, with a single weave of magic, the Fey had robbed her of every last illusion of control. She'd been powerless. Enslaved. Dominated and controlled by the magical will of another.

She sat up and drew her knees to her chest. Helplessness was not a feeling she understood, nor one she knew how to deal with.

Behind her, Dorian stirred. She felt the mattress shift as he moved, felt his hand touch her hip, his fingers curl possessively around her waist.

"Annoura?" His voice was raspy, thick with sleep. "Come back to bed, kem'san.”

She flinched at the Fey endearment and cast a glance over her shoulder. "Come back to bed?" she echoed in disbelief. "Surely you cannot want more mating after last night?”

He chuckled wryly and peeled open an eye. "Doubt I could summon the energy even if I did, my love. I just like the feel of you in my arms. It's been too long since we woke together." His hand stroked her waist, his thumb tracing a line up her spine.

Despite her aching soreness, she felt the nascent tingle of desire bloom in the wake of his hand. She'd never been able to deny him. Not from the first moment they'd met. Her eyes had locked with his, and from that moment on, she'd wanted him-his kiss, his love, his hands upon her, the joy of his smile making her feel as if she could fly.

Now, for the first time in her life, an ugly thought crept in. Had Dorian been working Fey magic on her all these years?

The possibility couldn't be ignored. Powerful Fey blood ran in his veins. Ten generations ago, his ancestor Dorian the First had wed Marikah vol Serranis, sister of the shei'dalin Marissya and twin of Gaelen vel Serranis, the murderous dahl'reisen known as the Dark Lord. That marriage had introduced powerful Fey magic into the royal Celierian bloodline. Even now, diluted by ten generations, Dorian's Fey heritage ensured he would live a life three times that of a normal Celierian. He was exceedingly healthy-common mortal ailments had never afflicted him-and he could weave Air and Spirit, though according to him he possessed less than a tenth the mastery of his magical kin.

Until now, she'd always believed him, always thought her devotion and desire were just natural byproducts of her love for him. But after last night, she had to wonder which feelings were her own and which were the result of Fey influence. Dear gods, could she have been enslaved by Dorian's magic and never even known it?

"Come back, kem’sharra, let me hold you a while longer.”

She flinched away from his hand and rose from the bed. The long platinum mass of her hair tumbled down her back to just above her bu**ocks.

"Annoura?”

"The day is already half gone. The court will be wondering why we have not yet put in an appearance." She stepped over the haphazard pile of discarded clothes she and Dorian had ripped from each other's bodies last night and reached for the silk dressing robe her maid left out for her each evening. Annoura slid her arms into the sleeves. The thin silk helped make her feel less naked, less vulnerable. More herself.

She tugged the belt into a knot at her waist and turned to face her husband. He was propped up on one elbow, frowning at her.

"You need to think about what you're going to do now, Dorian," she said, pleased to hear the familiar sound of command back in her voice. "You cannot let this pass unpunished.”