her otherwise naked body. A fine network of chains draped from her shoulders, linking to rings through her prominent nipples, then gathered to a post through her belly button, creating a nipped-in waist. The chains draped artfully from the panniers and bustle, the fine silver links hiding nothing. The high-heeled black leather boots she wore rose to thigh-high, with higher silver tips at her hips, all framing her lush sex.
I could practically feel Con quiver with trying not to stare at her, and I somehow managed not to laugh.
“We of the Night Court are honored by Your visit,” Delilah purred. “If You wish to participate, there are customs to observe. You will need to register passwords.”
“Not necessary tonight,” I told her.
She frowned, tapping the short whip she carried against her boot, stirring the skirt of chains so they sang with a dark whisper. “I suppose no one would fail to heed any word from Your Highness, regardless. But for Conrí…”
I ignored her snide tone. “We’ll confine ourselves to observing,” I replied, feeling Con relax under my hand.
“Then the only custom we ask You to observe is the privacy sign.” She indicated an example nearby: a white ribbon painted with small images of closed eyes. “Otherwise You are welcome to go anywhere You wish.”
I eyed her, appreciating that she “ruled” here and did it well—something I’d never interfered with, at first because I was only a girl, and later because it suited my strategic disguise—but I also found her ever-so-slightly disdainful of my authority. Understandable, I supposed, as she did govern her small realm with absolute discipline, and yet …
“I would certainly hope so,” I replied in a deliberately and icily imperious tone, “as it is My palace, and My realm. The Night Court exists under My benevolent hand, as do all the people in it.”
Delilah’s face tightened, but she managed to incline her head in something like humble obedience. “Of course, my queen. I apologize if I misspoke. As You command, always.”
After we’d gone a bit farther, Con chuckled, a deep, quiet sound. “Is it wrong that I love it when you do that?”
“What, pull rank?”
“Yes. You do it so effortlessly. Just ease the pins out from under them until they collapse without knowing how it happened. It’s like you hit them with this magic queen power you have. Your own invisible rock hammer.”
I laughed at the analogy, glancing up at him. He’d worn his crown, because I’d insisted, and Ibolya had combed and oiled his hair into a sleek shine, tying it at the base of his neck so it trailed down his back—unfettered since I’d also persuaded him to leave his very visible rock hammer behind. In his black sleeveless shirt and vest, his arms bulged with physical power, the black leather pants fitting tightly over his muscled thighs and narrow hips. Con might be oblivious to his own charisma, but no one else was.
Certainly not me—and he was something else I wanted to be sure to enjoy while I could.
We strolled along the path that wended through a wildly groomed garden as lushly overgrown as a jungle. Beds, sofas, and divans were strewn throughout, however, lending a sensual luxury that no jungle had ever seen. In other places, groups gathered in lit gazebos, enjoying food and wine as they did outside the Night Court, but here waited on by naked servants, who sometimes served as furniture or serving platters.
Beyond the next curve in the path, we came upon a startlingly familiar scene. A throne, so similar to mine it could be the very one, sat on a dais under a bower of orchids. A woman perched regally upon it, wearing a gown I recognized as a copy of one I’d worn several months ago. At least, I hoped it was a copy. It had been altered considerably, leaving her full breasts exposed, and the skirts divided over her bared and parted legs in a way I could personally vouch that particular gown would never do. She wore a black wig and heavy makeup, all decorated with flowers and jewels in close mimicry of my style, though fortunately the crown she had perched upon it was clearly a tinny fake. Deliberately so, I thought, as she wouldn’t dare take the imitation too far. No orchid graced her left hand, either, though she did wear a pretty ring there.
A man groveled at her feet—licking the high and graceful heels she wore—and she allowed it, her expression imperiously bored. Con