He shrugged. “Marian’s been muttering similar things over the past few days.”

“You married a smart woman.”

His only response was a grunt. Then he turned his head and studied her. “Are you coming back to Ebon Rih, or do you want to stay here for a while?”

“Actually, I had my eye on the town house in Amdarh. I’ve missed city living.” When she came to Kaeleer, she’d ended up signing a contract to serve the Prince of Ebon Rih, so, technically, Lucivar could demand that she go back to Ebon Rih with him.

“If that’s what you want,” Lucivar said.

“Well, I don’t really want to watch Falonar make kissy faces at Nurian.”

Temper flared in his eyes, confirming that Falonar hadn’t wasted any time declaring his interest in the Eyrien Healer. “I can take care of that.”

Being related to Warlord Princes was such a joy. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Daemon. If I’d wanted him dead, he wouldn’t still be among the living.”

“Twisting his cock off wouldn’t kill him.”

Surreal laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Lucivar. You’re so subtle.”

He gave her a grudging smile before he pushed away from the desk. “Unlock the damn door so I can see Jaenelle and decide if I should be pissed off with myself for being wrong or with you for being right.”

She released the Gray lock on the door, watched him walk out—and hoped.

Seeing Jaenelle’s hesitant pleasure as he handed her the Eyrien sparring stick bruised Lucivar’s heart.

Are you sure you’re not clipping her wings instead of helping her learn how to fly again?

Had Marian been right about that? Had they placed Jaenelle in a cage because they were so afraid of letting her do anything that might harm that terrifyingly frail body? They’d done it for the best of reasons, and certainly out of love, but a cage was still a cage.

“Partnered warm-up,” he said, taking his position in front of Jaenelle. “Go easy. Don’t push. When you feel tired, we’ll stop.”

He mirrored her slow movements, always watching, always assessing. She remembered the moves, but couldn’t complete any of them. Not fully. Choppy motion where there had once been fluid grace. She began panting by the time they’d gone through the first third of the warm-up. By the halfway point, her arms and legs shook from the effort to shift from one move to the next.

Then one end of her stick hit the floor, and she used its support to stay on her feet. Refusing to look at him, she shuffled to the couch and sank down on the cushion at one end.

“So,” she said. “You were right.”