Yes, he did. But he hadn’t run far. Just down to the orchard, where he would be out of sight of the eyrie while he puked his guts out in sick relief that he hadn’t seen any visible wounds on her, hadn’t seen any missing limbs. He’d been terrified to look when he woke up that morning, hadn’t known how keen an edge panic could have until she’d walked into the kitchen on her own.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he said, flinching at the tears in her eyes when she turned to face him.

“How can a woman understand if no one will explain?”

“I don’t remember!”

Now she flinched. Then she whispered, “So I was just a body.”

Lucivar shook his head. “Oh, I remember you, Marian. The taste of you, the smell of you, the sounds you made, the feel of you under my hands. The feel of my cock inside you. I remember you. But I don’t—” He closed his eyes. “I remember bits and pieces, moments that are jumbled together and shrouded in a violent, red haze that needed some kind of release. But . . .”

Hadn’t he run from this all day? This one picture in his mind. He’d worked himself to exhaustion because every time he thought of her, desire burned through him, and he couldn’t ask her to be with him tonight. He couldn’t. Because of that one fragment of memory. But he had to ask. Had to know. She couldn’t stay here with him if he didn’t know how close he’d come to destroying her.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I do remember one thing. Me standing by the bed, holding my war blade. And you cowering in one corner of the bed.”

Marian shook her head. Then she paled as his words sank in. “No, Lucivar. No. You weren’t trying to hurt me. You thought something had gotten into the room, into the bed. You were trying to protect me.”

“Nothing could have gotten into that room, not with all the shields I had around it.”

“Nothing did,” she agreed. “But you didn’t know that. You were startled and—”

“By what?” he snapped, feeling raw—and not sure he really believed her.

She mumbled something and wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

“What?”

“I didn’t know my feet were that cold, but then you screamed and leaped out of bed and—”

He looked at her feet.

“I’m wearing socks.”

She sounded grumpy. Grumpy was good. Grumpy was wonderful.

“You didn’t hurt me, Lucivar. Not in any way.”

Relief surged through him, but his heart still ached because he’d sensed a lie beneath her words. He tried to smile. “But you don’t want me for a lover.” He saw hope in her eyes—and maybe something more? “Do you want me, Marian?”