“Now,” Saetan said as he settled his cape around his shoulders. “Lucivar is what he is. No social skills, or lack of them, can change a Warlord Prince’s nature. If you want to punish him for snapping at you this morning, you go do the kind of heavy work that will most certainly cause you pain today. But if he matters enough to show him kindness, you’ll let him make the biscuits to go with the stew and you’ll tuck yourself in this afternoon and do something that won’t make demands on your body. You’ll let him fuss over you a little. If he doesn’t have to fight you to protect you, it will make things easier for both of you.”

She studied him. “What you said about Lucivar. You didn’t mean any of it, did you?”

He smiled. “He’s physical, demanding, and rough around the edges. In other words, he’s Eyrien. I wouldn’t want him to be any other way. But it was an effective way of keeping you distracted.”

He brushed a hand over her hair, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. There was something so . . . fatherly . . . in the gesture, she felt tears sting her eyes.

After he left the eyrie, she sat at the table, sipping the brew he’d made for her and thinking about what he’d said.

Lucivar quietly closed the eyrie’s front door, then stood still a moment, listening. No sounds. No indication of any kind of what he was walking into.

He couldn’t stay away. The worry that she’d do something foolish because he’d jumped on her that morning had gnawed at him. He knew witches tended to snap and snarl when they felt the most vulnerable. Hell’s fire, he’d slammed his will against Jaenelle’s enough times over the past three years to figure out aggression pitted against vulnerability only caused hurt feelings on both sides. Asking for a favor always got better results than making demands. But when he saw Marian sweeping the floor that morning, his temper had snapped the leash. Now all he could do was hope he could repair whatever damage he’d done.

He found her in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug. She glanced up when she saw him, then looked down at the mug.

Feeling miserable and awkward, he leaned against the counter. “I . . . ah . . . picked up some bread at the baker’s.” When she just nodded, he winced. Still pissed off at him. “I also picked up this.” He called in a box, set it on the table near her, then stepped back. When she opened it, her lower lip trembled.