“My eyrie. Now!”

She bolted out of the alleyway and leaped for the sky as soon as she had room to spread her wings.

* * *

* * *

Never breaking stride as he left the alleyway, Lucivar grabbed the handle of the basket and kept moving. Had to get away from the market, from the people who were scrambling to avoid him. They looked at him and knew he was riding the killing edge and that something as simple as the wrong inflection on a word might be enough to snap the leash on his formidable temper.

“Prince.” Rothvar, his second-in-command, took a step toward him.

“No,” he rasped, the only warning he could give before he spread his dark wings and flew home.

Something wrong. Too much fury burning in him. Why so much fury? He’d come across other youngsters taking advantage of the illusion of privacy, whether it was someplace in the village or a favorite spot by a stream. When it happened, he simply grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt—or girl’s, if she had the boy pinned—and hauled one youngster away from the other. That was sufficient to make any libido go limp.

Except this time . . . Because it was Jillian in that alleyway? Was that the source of his fury? Or something else?

The moment he walked into the big front room of his home, he heard the weeping coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t be inside, couldn’t let his temper stay inside with his family. Couldn’t.

“Papa.” Daemonar rushed forward, then skidded to a stop, his wings spreading for balance.

Couldn’t be around another male right now, not even his son.

“Keep the other children in the playroom,” Lucivar said, fighting to stay in control. When the boy hesitated and looked toward the kitchen, he snarled, “Get away from me. Now.”

Daemonar didn’t run. Knew better than to run. He backed away for a few steps, looking toward his father but not meeting the glazed eyes, not issuing any kind of challenge. Then he turned and walked down the wide corridor, just as Lucivar had taught him.

Breathing a little easier, Lucivar walked into the kitchen and dropped the basket on the table, momentarily silencing Jillian’s weeping.

“Lucivar.” Marian tightened her hold on the girl.

“I’ll be outside. When she’s taken care of things, she and I are going to have a chat.”

He saw the understanding—and sympathy—in Marian’s eyes.

Walking out of the kitchen, he crossed the big front room and went out the glass doors that opened to the yard, bordered by a stone wall enhanced with a Red shield that kept frisky children from tumbling off the mountain. Since the shield rose to twice his own height, that was enough protection for Daemonar and Titian when they played out here on their own. Once baby Andulvar started walking, and fluttering, he’d reshape the Red walls into an air-cushioned Red dome.

He paced the long length of the yard, tightening the leash on his temper with each step.

Shouldn’t have been that angry, not over something that, while not exactly prudent, wasn’t unexpected. Except . . .

Hell’s fire! She knew his rules, and she wasn’t helpless. Wasn’t usually helpless.

As he reached the far end of the yard, Lucivar felt the presence of a male intruder. Pivoting, he headed for the eyrie, calling in his war blade despite recognizing the psychic scent. Not an intruder, as such, but Rothvar should know better than to come here without being summoned.

Then again, being Nurian’s lover, Rothvar also had an interest in Jillian.

As he strode toward the eyrie, he watched Marian cross the big room to reach the front door. His steps lengthened, then slowed when Marian crossed the room again, carrying another shopping basket—and Rothvar flew away without crossing the threshold.

Lucivar vanished the war blade. A moment later, when Jillian walked out of the eyrie, her eyes puffy from crying but her chin up—a sure sign of temper—he settled into a fighting stance, ready for a different kind of battle.

* * *

* * *

Jillian walked through the open glass doors to have this “chat” with Prince Lucivar Yaslana. It didn’t matter that he was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, that he was the law here. It didn’t matter that he was the second most powerful male in the whole Realm of Kaeleer. It didn’t matter that almost from the day she and Nurian had arrived in Ebon Rih, she had run tame in the Yaslana household, helping Marian with Daemonar when he was a baby, and later helping with Titian and now baby Andulvar. It didn’t matter that Lucivar had defied Eyrien tradition and had given her the training in weapons and fighting that she’d wanted, while insisting on her participation in traditional education—something no ruler in the Realm of Terreille would have done for a young witch who wasn’t from an aristo family.

What mattered today was that he had treated her like a little girl, humiliating her and hurting Dillon. Terrifying her wonderful Dillon.

All right. Prince Yaslana wanted to have a “chat”? Had a few things to say? Well, so did she. She just didn’t know where to start, so she stared at him, waiting for all these boiling feelings to shape themselves into words.

“What in the name of Hell were you doing?” Lucivar shouted, breaking the silence.

“We weren’t doing anything!” Jillian shouted back, wanting to turn words into daggers.

“Witchling, I saw enough to know that he was doing something! And I didn’t walk into that alleyway by chance. ‘Prince, Lady Jillian went that way. I don’t think she’s feeling herself.’ ‘Prince, I saw Lady Jillian’s shopping basket on the ground in that alleyway.’”

Oh, that was more than humiliating that someone had tattled so that she and Dillon would get into trouble.

“I love him, and he loves me! We haven’t seen each other in days and just wanted a few minutes alone. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Lucivar took a step toward her. “He had you pushed against a wall on a day when you’re vulnerable. There is plenty wrong with that, witchling.”

Dillon couldn’t have known her moontime had started. Hell’s fire, she hadn’t known. The fact that Lucivar had sensed the physical change just made the whole thing even worse.

“You’re done with him,” Lucivar said.

“No.” Panic filled her, immediately replaced by fury. “No! I love him and—”

“I don’t doubt your feelings, but I have a lot of doubts about his. Either way, the decision’s made. You’re done with him.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No, you don’t! You’re not . . .”