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He held up the pencil in his hand, then used it to point at another one. “I used this pencil and that one and smudged the colors together.”

“Why?”

He handed her the pencil to let her hold the two shades of green side by side. “Because that’s how I see the leaves on the trees around that pool we visit on warm summer days.” He looked at the pads on the fingers of his left hand, now stained green from his color smudging, and called in a handkerchief. As he rubbed the color off his fingers, Titian gasped.

“Papa! You can’t use a handkerchief for that. It might stain it, and you can’t blow your nose on a handkerchief with stains.” She called in a cloth and handed it to him. “Mother gave me a couple of old diapers to use as art rags.”

He vanished the handkerchief and accepted the diaper, scrubbing more color off his fingers. Then his curiosity got the better of him. “If it’s clean, why would it matter if the handkerchief was stained?”

“Because you’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih and Askavi.”

Apparently, that was supposed to be sufficient explanation.

“Come on, witchling. Time for bed.” Lucivar slipped the drawing into the lap desk’s compartment for papers before vanishing the desk. The pencils and the rest of the drawings were put on a shelf set aside for the children’s games. He escorted Titian to her room and tucked her in before checking on the boys. Andulvar was asleep in bed, which meant Daemonar had hauled his younger brother off the floor before going to his own room.

At Daemonar’s bedroom, Lucivar tapped on the door before opening it just enough to look in. The boy was propped on his side in bed, reading.

“A few more minutes to finish this chapter?” Daemonar asked.

“A few more minutes,” Lucivar agreed. He started to close the door.

“Papa?”

He leaned in—and waited, noting the worry in the boy’s eyes. “Son?”

“Mother smells different.”

Ah, Hell’s fire. “Your mother is fine. You just picked up the scent of moon’s blood. There are rules about men dealing with women during that time—and women include mothers. We’ll talk about the rules in the morning.”

Relief flowed from the boy. “All right.”

Lucivar closed the door and headed for his and Marian’s bedroom, thinking, May the Darkness have mercy on her. And on us until she gets used to having two Warlord Princes who are driven to fuss over her.

Marian was already in bed, maybe even asleep, but she had left a candle-light on low so he could see while he undressed. As soon as he settled in bed, she turned to him, the arm around his waist holding him tight while she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I was a bitch,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not a bitch, just a bit bitchy.” He turned his head and kissed her forehead. “Want to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

“It wasn’t you.” She sighed. “I had . . . words . . . with Dorian today when I went to the market.”

“Since I wasn’t informed of a brawl on Riada’s main street, I assume you both kept it to words,” Lucivar said mildly.

“Why would you think we would brawl?” Marian demanded.

“The last time you had words with someone, you and Roxie were tearing into each other—and I, who was just trying to be helpful and rescue you, almost got my balls kicked into my throat and then got slugged in the face.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was you, did I? I felt someone grab me from behind, and I did exactly what you had taught me to do.” She sniffed. “And that was a long time ago, before we were married, and you shouldn’t be remembering it.”

As if he was going to forget it. He’d dodged the kick in the balls and most of Marian’s roundhouse punch after he’d separated the women, but the bruise on his face had still hurt like a wicked bitch.

She wouldn’t have gotten past his guard if he’d thought for a moment that she would try to hit him. He loved her dearly, but he’d never made that mistaken assumption again because his hearth witch could be damn feisty when she was riled.

“You had words with Dorian,” he said. “About . . . ?”

Her fingers dug into his ribs, making him glad she kept her nails short. Even so, he gently pried her fingers off his side and held on to her hand.

“She was offended that Daemonar had insulted Orian in public in front of her friends, and she insisted that he should not only apologize in public but make some amends.”

“Like . . . ?”

“She said he should be Orian’s escort for some dance or other such event—as if our boy is old enough to be doing that. As if that girl is old enough to be thinking about things like that.” She pushed up, struggling out of his hold, and narrowed her eyes at him. “And don’t you think for one moment that Daemonar should oblige either of them in order to soothe Dorian and restore peace in the Eyrien community, because I will loose the hounds of Hell on Riada before I allow that to happen.”

Well . . . shit. If anyone else had said it, he’d think it was a figure of speech, but if Marian Yaslana asked the High Lord of Hell for a couple of Hell hounds in order to cause all sorts of problems, Daemon wouldn’t refuse to help her.

Even as the High Lord, Daemon might be obliging enough to give his brother a warning about what was coming, but Marian was special to him, so he might not do anything beyond keeping her safe while she . . . did whatever she would do with the hounds.

He really hoped this was part of her moontime moodies, and his gentle wife would return in the morning, having forgotten all about Hell’s carnivorous flora and fauna.

“Okay, Daemonar isn’t going to be obliging—and neither am I,” Lucivar said. “Did Dorian say anything about the comments that were made to Titian since that’s what started this?”

“Oh, yes. But Orian’s remarks were just teasing, were harmless. They were an observation that had been kindly meant, but Titian took the words the wrong way because she’s too sensitive and then acted hurt to get her brother to take her side.”

His hand was in her hair and closing into a fist to hold her in place. Marian let out a startled gasp.

“Listen to me, Marian. Are you listening?”

“Y-yes.”

“I know you don’t feel friendly toward Dorian, but up until this clash between Orian and Titian, you’ve gotten along with her well enough. Or is there something you haven’t told me because you didn’t want Endar’s family to be tossed back to Terreille—or end up in Hell?”

He felt her heart beating a fast rhythm as she realized he was worried.

“There’s nothing,” she said. “This all bubbled up because of things said by the children.”

“Then we’ll handle it. But I want your word that you will never tell Daemon what Dorian said about Orian just teasing and Titian being too sensitive.”

“You have my word, but . . . why?”

Lucivar tried to relax his fist and release her, but he couldn’t. “Right now Daemon has a better idea than we do of how deeply those words hurt our girl. And the fact that those words were said by a young Queen? Bitches who inflicted wounds, whether they used knives or whips or words, were the kind of females the Sadist hunted. Especially if they were Queens. If it comes down to that, I would rather have Orian meet my war blade for a clean death than have her destroyed by the Sadist.”

“Mother Night, Lucivar.” Marian searched his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. And you might want to avoid mentioning Hell hounds being set loose in Riada, even as a jest.”