The only thing she could figure out was the clothing signaled an attempt to leave him. Coming to the kitchen now might provoke another attack, even though a nightgown was hardly sufficient clothing if she tried to leave the eyrie in this storm, but he’d been gone so long, she’d become worried about him.

Apparently, she’d worried for nothing. He was standing at the stove, tending the skillets filled with food, looking much the way he did on other mornings when he insisted on cooking breakfast—if she discounted the fact that he was naked, half-aroused, and didn’t seem to notice the warming spells had faded to the point where the eyrie was chilly, almost cold.

Lucivar had put the warming spells on the eyrie the morning the storm started and told her they would last two days before he’d have to replenish the power in the spells. Which meant they were starting the third day of the rut. Maybe it was over, or at least easing. Should she mention the warming spells?

She shifted from one foot to the other as the cold seeping up from the stone floor bit into her bare feet.

Lucivar gave her a slashing look before turning his attention back to the food. “Go back to bed.”

“I could—”

He charged. She stumbled back and hit the wall. His hands slapped the stone on either side of her head.

She stared into those wild, glazed eyes. No, the rut hadn’t eased.

“You need to eat,” he snarled. “I’ll bring you food.”

She swallowed hard. “I could—”

“You’re not going anywhere! There’s a damn blizzard out there. Nothing is going anywhere until it blows out. And the only thing you’re doing is getting back into bed.” He pushed away from the wall and went back to the stove. “Get out of here before I take you where you stand.”

She recognized a threat when she heard one, so she slipped out of the kitchen while he watched her with eyes that held more cold fury than hot lust. She kept her movements slow until she was on the other side of the wall, out of his sight. Then she ran back to the bedroom.

The fires in the other rooms had burned out, but Lucivar had fed the one in the bedroom. A small table and two chairs were set before the hearth. They usually sat under one of the bedroom windows. He had moved them before going into the kitchen. Had she, on some level, taken that gesture to mean a return of the man she knew? An error on her part. Maybe he had some lucid moments, but the rut was still driving Lucivar—and she couldn’t even guess what he would do when he returned to the bedroom.