“You don’t seem pleased about that,” Saetan said in a neutral voice.

“She turned me down.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the High Lord’s son.” As soon as he said it, he realized he didn’t want to fight after all—at least, not with words. But as he turned away from the desk and headed for the door, his own pain pushed him into making one more reckless verbal jab. “So you don’t have to worry about the SaDiablo bloodline being diminished by a witch who hasn’t got the education or the accomplishments to—”

The door slammed shut with a force that shook the room.

Lucivar spun around in time to see Saetan slowly rising from the chair behind the desk.

“You will not do this,” Saetan snarled softly as he came around the desk. “You will not use me like this.”

Wary now, his heart pounding because of what he saw in his father’s eyes, Lucivar said, “Like what? I—”

That deep voice became thunder. “You will not use me as a weapon against your own heart!”

“I’m not. I didn’t.”

Saetan slipped into the Hayllian language. Words poured out in a hot river. Lucivar didn’t understand most of it, but he caught a few phrases here and there, as well as the name Peyton.

I lanced an old wound, Lucivar thought with regret as a rage and pain he couldn’t begin to match flooded the room. I wouldn’t have pushed at him if I’d known I’d open an old wound.

“Father.” No response. “Father.”

The words stopped, but the rage still vibrated through the room.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry I said that.” His own temper rose. “I’m not the one who used you as a weapon. And those excuses are nothing but shit.” Since he couldn’t get out of the room until Saetan let him go, he paced. “Just shit. Like that ‘I’m just a hearth witch’ crap she was spewing. I thought we’d gotten past that. Guess I was wrong.” Beaten, he stopped pacing. “The truth is, she doesn’t want an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince as a husband. She’s willing to bed one, but not marry one. That has nothing to do with me being your son . . . and everything to do with me, with who and what I am.”

He turned toward the door. “Let me go.”

“Where?” Saetan asked too softly.

“Just away from people. Out on the land.”

The door opened. He fled the Keep—and wondered what that blankness in Saetan’s eyes meant.

Marian scrambled out of the way as Luthvian pushed past her into the eyrie’s front room.

“You wouldn’t listen, would you?” Luthvian growled. “Wouldn’t heed the warning. Well, I hope you’re satisfied, little witch.”

“I did what you asked,” Marian cried. “I told him I wouldn’t marry him when he asked me this morning.”