Chilled inside and out, Marian sat in a chair close to the fire. That helped warm her, but her feet were freezing. Before she could decide if wrapping herself in a blanket would provoke a violent response, he was back in the bedroom, setting two plates of food on the table.

The look in his eyes . . . Any man facing him on a battlefield would look at those eyes and see death. All she could do was hope she would survive whatever mood was riding him now.

“Eat,” he said, sitting down in the other chair.

Silverware and two mugs of coffee appeared on the table.

Steak, scrambled eggs, and thick pieces of toasted bread spread with butter and some of the berry jam she’d made.

He made no move to begin his own meal. Just watched her.

Eat, he’d said. The first bite of meat stuck in her throat, but she sensed something in him relax as she accepted the food he’d provided. When she tried the toast, his attention turned to his own meal.

Despite the fire and the hot food, she was still so chilled, she didn’t hesitate to scramble back into bed when Lucivar told her to. But even with the covers tucked around her, she couldn’t warm up, and she waited impatiently for him to get back from whatever cleanup he was doing in the kitchen.

The moment he slipped into bed, she felt that wonderful heat that pumped out of him and didn’t hesitate to snuggle up against him. So warm. So wonderfully warm and—

The sound he made fell between a scream and a roar as he lifted straight up out of bed, flinging the covers every which way. The next moment, he was standing beside the bed, his Eyrien war blade in his hand, his eyes scanning the room.

Marian scrambled to the head of the bed and crouched there, her heart pounding. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Get over here,” Lucivar said. “There’s something in the room. Something in the bed.”

“There’s nothing—”

“Something touched me,” he snapped. “Something icy.”

“My feet.” Her teeth started to chatter. She wasn’t sure if it was from fear or cold.

His eyes stopped scanning the room. His head turned slowly until he looked at her. “What?”

“My feet are cold and—”

“Your feet? That was your feet?” He swore with obscene creativity as he vanished the war blade, plopped her back down on the bed, pulled up the covers, and got in with her. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a hiss as he wrapped himself around her and pressed her feet against his legs. “Why aren’t you wearing socks?”

She didn’t want to tell him she’d been afraid of provoking his temper, so she said the first thing that came to mind. “It didn’t seem romantic.”