Giving an Eyrien war cry that was filled with fury and desperation, Lucivar launched himself into the face of the storm.

As Marian pulled the roast out of the oven and set the pan on top of the stove, the front door slammed.

“You made it,” she said as she hurried into the eyrie’s front room. When she saw him, she took a step back. His teeth were bared, and he stared at her with glazed, wild eyes.

“Get out,” he growled.

“Lucivar . . .”

“Get out!” He ripped off his short wool cape and threw it aside.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his bare, slick skin. It was freezing out there. Why was he so hot? And why wasn’t he wearing a shirt or vest under the cape?

The vicious snarl that erupted from him made her press her back against the wall.

“I want you out of here. Go to Riada and stay with Merry. Go to the Keep. Go anywhere, but go. Now.”

Fear shivered through her. She knew what this was. Survival demanded that every witch learn to recognize the rut. Warlord Princes were always violently passionate and passionately violent, but the rut drove them to a savagery that bordered insanity. Other males were nothing more than rivals to destroy. And women . . .

Her mother had once said that a Warlord Prince in rut had enough sexual hunger that he could service an entire coven twice over and still want more. The problem was, he focused on one female and wouldn’t tolerate the presence of any other. His choice became the vessel for all that drive, all that need.

She’d heard stories about Warlord Princes. She knew what could happen to the woman under him when he was in rut. Tongues partially bitten off. Nipples bitten off. Bones broken or shattered. Any male who tried to stop him would be killed, and he would turn away from the slaughter to mount the female again, oblivious to the carnage around him until the rut finally wore off.

“Marian.”

Lucivar wore Ebon-gray Jewels. If she stayed, she could be maimed, even killed. But if she didn’t stay, what would he do? Trapped here by the blizzard, driven by the violence inside him, he could hurt himself.

“Marian.”

She was young, healthy, stronger than she’d ever been. And she was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with a man who challenged the world to take him on, sometimes with laughing, boyish enthusiasm and other times as a warrior born and trained to kill.

She could do this for him. Would do this for him.

“No.” Her voice quivered with fear, but her heart didn’t waver. “I’m not leaving.”

“GET OUT!” Lucivar screamed.