Pushing that thought aside, she vanished the shovel and her cape and boots as she hurried to the kitchen. Saetan paused in the front room long enough to hang his cape on the coat tree before joining her.

As she filled the teakettle, she said, “Prince Yaslana isn’t here at the moment.”

“I know,” Saetan replied, leaning against the counter. “I came to see you.” He paused. “Do you need a Healer?”

“Do I look like I need a Healer?” she snapped, slamming the kettle down on the stove. Witchfire flared up beneath it. Cursing silently, she pulled the fire back to its proper level.

“Nooo,” Saetan replied dryly, “but the question has to be asked.”

She turned on him. “I can’t be the only woman who spent most of the past three days in bed. Are they going to be asked if they need a Healer?”

“Probably not. But they didn’t spend that time with a Warlord Prince in rut.”

She turned away to get out cups and saucers. “I’m all right.”

“Physically, I tend to agree. But you’re not all right, Marian. You’re upset about something, and most likely, it has to do with the rut.”

She kept silent while she made the tea and set a cup in front of him when he took a seat at the pine table. She didn’t join him. A week ago, she would have. But right now, she felt more like a paid servant than she’d felt in all the months she’d worked for Lucivar.

“He ran away,” she said, feeling her heart ache as she said the words. “He could barely stand to look at me before he . . . bolted out of the eyrie.”

“He’s afraid,” Saetan said quietly.

Baffled, she studied the man watching her. “Of what?”

Temper flashed in Saetan’s eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to be caught in the rut, to be driven by something that eclipses everything else, to lose the veneer of civilized behavior that makes it possible for Warlord Princes to live with other people.”

“I know what it’s like to be with that kind of man,” Marian flashed back.

“Do you remember everything that happened from the time the rut began until it ended?”

“Of course I do!”

“He doesn’t.”

She watched Saetan rein in his temper, watched the visible effort to chain strong feelings.

“He doesn’t,” Saetan said again. “Warlord Princes are not held accountable for anything they do during the rut, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have . . . regrets . . . about things that happen.”

We. It hit her like a fist. Saetan was a Warlord Prince, too, and had gone through the rut.

Her nerves danced. She licked her dry lips. “How can a woman know what it’s like for you if you never tell her?”