“Why should he care about the hired help?” Dillon sneered. “No matter what you let people believe, he’s not your father.”
Hearing Dillon say what she’d almost said to Lucivar because they had been arguing about this . . . male . . . ignited her temper.
“You bastard,” she growled. “He’s more of a father to me than yours is to you.”
Fury filled his eyes. “You bitch!”
She realized he put a defensive shield around himself a moment before he lunged at her. She threw up her own shield—and the extra defensive shield as she’d been taught.
Dillon grabbed her, a blast of his Opal power breaking her first shield. She hadn’t expected that kind of aggressive anger from Dillon, and it scared her, because he was taller and heavier and wore a darker Jewel than hers. But she was an Eyrien who had been trained to fight.
Jillian stopped thinking about who her adversary was and let training dictate her moves as she fought back.
Spotting Jillian, Lucivar folded his wings and dove for the ground. ٭Rothvar! She’s at Witch’s cabin.٭
He didn’t need Rothvar to deal with a Rihlander Warlord. He needed Rothvar to take Jillian away from the place before he started skinning the prick-ass alive.
He spread his wings and backwinged hard to avoid slamming into the ground. Landing a few feet behind them, he pushed aside hot fury enough to realize Jillian was on her feet and Dillon was on the ground, cupping his groin. An impressive-looking fist-sized bruise had already started to color one side of the prick-ass’s face.
Dillon’s eyes widened when he noticed Lucivar, and he made an effort to get to his feet.
Lucivar bared his teeth. ٭Stay down or the next fist you feel will be mine, and my fist will shatter bone.٭ When Dillon flopped back on the ground, Lucivar focused on the girl. “Jillian?” No answer. He took a step toward her, his heart pounding unmercifully hard. “Witchling? Are you hurt?”
She turned and looked at him, her lower lip quivering with the effort not to cry, her left hand cradling her right fist. She looked more like the young girl who had first come to Ebon Rih than the girl who was on the cusp of being a woman.
“Witchling, are you hurt?” he asked again, barely able to breathe.
“I shielded like you taught me,” she finally said. “I did. But . . .” She held out her hand, like Titian did when she had a boo-boo and wanted him, not Marian, to make it better.
He approached slowly, carefully.
٭Lucivar?٭ Rothvar called.
٭I have her,٭ he replied. Then to Jillian, “Let me see.”
He took her right hand, probing gently. “Can you open your hand? That’s it.” More probing. Fingers. Knuckles. “Close. Open.” His chest muscles eased their grip on his lungs, allowing him to breathe. “You’re all right. Nothing broken. You just need some ice on those knuckles.” He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her—and felt relief when her arms came around him and held on hard.
٭She’s all right,٭ he told Rothvar as the other man approached slowly. ٭She’s all right.٭
Rothvar studied Dillon. ٭He wears Opal; she wears Purple Dusk. She clobbered him hard enough through an Opal shield to leave that kind of bruise?٭
Lucivar smiled. ٭Yeah, she did.٭ Then he looked at the Warlord lying on the ground. He wanted to skin him. Here. Now. But Daemon was waiting for him, and he needed to tend to his girl. ٭Take that piece of carrion to the communal eyrie and lock him in a room until I decide what to do with him.٭
٭Done.٭
“Come on, witchling. Let’s go home and find some ice for your hand.” He waited until she let go of him. Then he waited a little more while she sniffled before she spread her wings and headed for his eyrie.
٭Bastard?٭ he called.
٭Prick?٭
٭I’ll be there as soon as I can. There’s something I have to do first.٭
He’d been trembling, like he’d been afraid. She’d felt it when he put his arms around her. Lucivar Yaslana. Afraid. For her.
Jillian sat at the kitchen table at the Yaslana eyrie, watching him chop up ice and wrap it into a cloth to form a cold pad. He laid it over the knuckles of her right hand.
“I remembered what you taught me.” It was the only thing she could think to say that might make him feel better.
He huffed out a laugh. “You certainly did.” Then he sighed. “I have to go.”
She nodded. He was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. “Are you going to scold me later?”
“Should I?”
She almost wanted him to. Almost.
“I think I’ll leave it to Khary to do the scolding. He’s primed for it.”
She looked at him, alarmed. “I wasn’t that stupid.”
She hadn’t meant it to be amusing, but he laughed, kissed the top of her head, and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, Khary rushed in and jumped into the kitchen chair beside her.
٭Jillian!٭ The Sceltie’s joy was real, but so was the other emotion she picked up from him.
“I’m hurt, Khary,” she said quickly. “You can’t scold me when I’m hurt.”
٭Your paw is hurt, not your ears.٭
A quarter of an hour later, her ears—and head—did hurt as she listened to Khary’s scold about wandering off without him and upsetting all the males who belonged to their family pack, but she figured listening to the Sceltie was a fair penance and price for making Lucivar Yaslana feel afraid.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sadi asked me to meet him here,” Lucivar said when he finally arrived at the Keep.
“Yess,” Draca said. “He iss in hiss ssuite.”
“I know the way to the guest rooms.” He started to walk away.
“Not thosse roomss, Prince. He iss in the Conssort’ss ssuite.”
Lucivar froze, turned back to look at the Seneschal. “Why is he there?”
“He needss to be there.”
Worried now, Lucivar strode through the winding corridors. He knew the way to these rooms, but he hadn’t seen this part of the Keep in decades. And yet the moment he walked past the decorative gate that separated the Queen’s part of the Keep from the rest of the mountain, he felt the power. Familiar, like the psychic scent that shouldn’t be that strong, not after so many years. Unless . . .
He put his hand against the stone wall. ٭Cat?٭
Was something’s—someone’s—attention turning toward him, focusing on him?
٭My thanks, Lady, for helping Marian heal. And if you’re the one Daemonar comes to for advice . . . remember to give him a whack upside the head once in a while whether he needs it or not. Just to keep him honest.٭ Lucivar smiled and blinked back tears. ٭You’re still my Queen, so if there is anything you need from me, just ask.٭
No answer. He didn’t expect one. Didn’t need one. Besides, he already knew what she would ask of him right now.
He gave the door of the Consort’s suite one hard rap of his knuckles before walking in. Daemon rose from a desk piled with neat stacks of paperwork.
“Everything all right?” Daemon asked. “It took you a while to get here.”
“Jillian had an argument with the prick-ass and clobbered him. Right now he’s confined to a room at the communal eyrie and she’s icing bruised knuckles.”
Daemon raised one eyebrow. “Didn’t he shield?”
“Yep. She didn’t break his shield—couldn’t, since he outranks her—but she put enough power and temper behind that punch to have him kissing dirt. Gave him an impressive bruise on his face, not to mention sore balls.”