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.”

Daemon chuckled and shook his head. “At least you know she paid attention to her training.”

As Lucivar studied his brother, he understood what Draca meant about Daemon needing to be here, in these rooms. Where else could a man like Daemon Sadi be accepted for everything he was? Where else could he be everything he was without being feared?

“I’d like you to do me a favor,” Daemon said.

“Ask.”

“I’d like you to leave Dillon’s fate to me.”

“Why?”

“Perzha told me some things about Lord Dillon’s past, about actions that have brought him here. His actions—and the actions of others.”

“You want me to forgive him,” Lucivar said flatly.

“That depends on what he’s done, and what others have done to him.”

“Why in the name of Hell should I do that?”

“Because I’m asking.”

Lucivar paced and swore. “Why are you asking, Bastard? Why should we do this? Why should I do this?”

“Because we’ve made our share of mistakes over the years. Because I’d like to believe—I need to believe—that a man can earn a second chance.”

Hell’s fire, Bastard. Yeah, they had made their share of mistakes, but . . . “He used spells on those girls.”

“On Jillian, certainly. I don’t know about the others. And that spell may have been used on him first.”

“He’s hurt girls.”

“And he’s been hurt by them. We’ve both had experience with that.”

Yes, they had, and they both carried their own kinds of scars because of it.

“Prick, you have my word that if Dillon has caused any girl serious harm, he will live just long enough to regret it.”

Lucivar stopped pacing. He wasn’t sure who had just made that promise—Daemon, the Sadist, or the High Lord of Hell. Didn’t matter. The promise had been made.