Feeling heat stain her cheeks, Jillian opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“I wasn’t talking about the fruit.”

She looked at the Opal-Jeweled Warlord standing beside her and felt butterfly wings in her belly. He had the dreamiest green eyes and stylishly disheveled russet hair that looked so striking compared with the black hair and gold eyes of the Eyrien race.

“Lord Dillon.” She knew she sounded breathless. Unsophisticated. She always did when she was around him.

“Lady Jillian.” A pleasant voice. A cultured voice with just a trace of an accent that, like his hair and eyes, made him so different from an Eyrien male.

A Rihlander from an influential family who lived in the eastern part of Askavi, Dillon had come to Riada to visit some cousins. She had met him a couple of weeks before at the lending library when he’d noticed her selection of books and asked her opinion of one he had chosen for himself, then apologized for being so forward and speaking to her without a proper introduction. It was such an aristo attitude, no doubt polished for fancy dances held in ballrooms or serving in a Queen’s court, and yet she didn’t get the feeling that he thought of her as a rube—a sentiment some of the aristo girls in the village managed to convey without saying anything that could get them into trouble with Prince Yaslana.

Since then, she and Dillon had met a few times—most often at the lending library, but also while she ran errands for Nurian or Marian. Sometimes she had Titian with her and the meeting was brief—barely a greeting in passing. And sometimes when she flew down to Riada alone, she and Dillon slipped away for a few minutes to talk, to have a few precious minutes in private to . . .

It wasn’t the open-mouthed kind of kiss she’d read about in the romance novels she hid from Nurian and read only in her room at night, but it wasn’t the dry brush of lips she’d experienced with Tamnar either. Dillon’s kisses were romantic, full of promises and desire.

Too much desire wasn’t good, wasn’t safe before she was old enough to have her Virgin Night, the ceremony that would remove the risk of her power and her Jewels being broken by her first experience of sexual intercourse. Dillon was old enough to have made the Offering to the Darkness and was now considered a grown man who wore the mantle of his full power. He was old enough to want a lover, and she couldn’t oblige. But how could she resist a few kisses when he told her he was dazzled by her because she was such a strong woman? How could she say no when he asked for a few minutes alone with her? It wasn’t like she was from an aristo family that required girls to have an escort when they spent time with a male friend.

As she selected the fruit and picked up loaves of crusty bread for herself and Marian, Dillon walked along with her, polite enough not to give offense but not chatting with the merchants. He seemed impatient, even a little aloof—until they passed a wide alleyway that led to the backs of the shops and the fields beyond.

“This way.” Dillon grabbed her arm as he took the basket and dropped it a few steps inside the alleyway.

“Dillon,” Jillian protested, looking back at the abandoned basket of fresh food. “You can’t leave the basket. The village cats will be all over the meat I picked up for Lady Marian!”

“She can wait.” He pulled her into the alleyway a few more steps.

“Well, let me put a shield and cold spell around—”

“You’re not her servant, Jillian. Why do you act like one?”

She blinked, confused by his sharp tone. “I don’t. I help Marian, and I get paid for it, but that doesn’t make me a servant.”

“Hired help, then.”

Tears stung her eyes. Why would she get all weepy just because Dillon didn’t understand that she had a role in the Yaslana household?

A spurt of temper and defiance made her lift her chin. “There is nothing wrong with serving someone or working for a living.”

He studied her, then looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just . . . We haven’t had any time together in days.” His hand slid down her arm and closed over her hand as he looked deep into her eyes. “If you loved me, you’d want to spend time with me.” He bent his head and leaned toward her, whispering, “If you loved me, you’d want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”

His lips brushed her mouth, asking for permission. How could she refuse when she wanted to kiss him with everything in her?

She felt the wall at her back and his erect penis poking at her through their clothing as he pressed himself against her. That made her nervous, made her feel trapped. She pushed at his arms, tried to break the kiss to tell him she didn’t want this, it didn’t feel good, not when she felt trapped. Then his hand closed over her breast, something he’d done once before, but that time she’d had room to pull away.

No, she thought, trying to push him back. Permission before action. That was the rule. Kissing might be overlooked, but she didn’t know how to explain this.

Breathing hard, Dillon broke the kiss. “If you—”

She felt the dark power and hot fury a moment before Prince Yaslana grabbed Dillon by the throat, swung him around, and slammed him into the side of the building.

“No!” Jillian cried as Lucivar’s hand tightened around Dillon’s neck, choking him. Killing him. “No!”

She threw herself at Lucivar. She wasn’t sure he noticed her when he straightened his left arm, turning it into a barrier. She wrapped her hands around that arm, tugging and crying as Dillon, his toes barely touching the ground, struggled against an unyielding hand backed by Ebon-gray Jewels and a vicious temper.

“He didn’t do anything!” she cried.

“He had his hand on your tit in view of anyone who walked by,” Lucivar snarled. “So I say he did plenty.”

“Please.”

Lucivar was the law in this valley, and there was no one in the whole of Askavi strong enough to stand against him.

“Please,” she pleaded. “He didn’t do anything.”

Lucivar opened his hand and took a step back as Dillon slumped to the ground. Then he turned glazed gold eyes on Jillian. “The next time he doesn’t do anything in that way, I will rip off his cock and shove it down his throat. And then I’ll snap his neck. Are we clear?”

Glazed eyes were a warning that a Warlord Prince was riding the killing edge, primed for slaughter. So this wasn’t an idle threat. Lucivar never made idle threats.

“Are we clear?” he snarled softly.

“Y-yes.”

“Then go to my eyrie and wait for me.”

“I h-have to . . .”