Minutes passed, but the feelings didn’t. He still rode the killing edge. Violence still sang in his blood. He had to purge that violence—or have it purged out of him. There was only one person who could do that for him.

Roxie was gone when he left the eyrie. That spared him the inconvenience of killing her and taking the bitch’s mangled body back to her family. He would have killed her if she’d still been there. He couldn’t have stopped himself. A Warlord Prince was a born predator, a natural killer, and the “training” he’d received under the hands of the witches in Terreille had honed that killing instinct instead of providing a sheath for it. Right now, he was a danger to everyone.

With one exception.

He opened his psychic senses, searching until he brushed against the dark power that eclipsed his own.

Launching himself skyward, he flew to the cottage beyond the outskirts of Riada. He landed close enough to the porch that two steps and a leap had him standing in front of the door of the neat little cottage Saetan had built for Jaenelle as a place where she could spend solitary time when she needed it. Not that she was ever really alone. There was always a kindred male with her, but a wolf or dog was content to nap for hours while she got lost in a book or would walk with her for miles without wanting conversation.

He hesitated a moment, then opened the door and entered the cottage’s main room. Jaenelle stood near the hearth as if she’d been expecting him. She probably had. She would have felt that flash of temper, would have sensed him coming toward her.

He stood close to the door, wanting to go to her, needing to go to her. He couldn’t do that. Not yet. Not until he’d smoothed some of the jagged edges off his temper.

“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said quietly.

He stared at her, focused on her sapphire eyes.

She walked up to him and placed one hand against his cheek. “Lucivar.”

He closed his eyes and breathed in the physical scent of her and the dark psychic scent that was both a balm and an enticement. He didn’t want her sexually—had never wanted her that way—but the hugs and sisterly kisses kept him balanced in a way nothing else had ever done.

Hold the leash, he silently pleaded. Choke me into obedience if that’s what it takes.

She just stood there, her hand against his cheek, until those jagged edges of temper receded—and made him aware of something that brought a different edge to his temper.

“Where’s your escort?” he demanded.

“It’s been a warm afternoon,” Jaenelle replied. “Jaal is sprawled in the stream out back.”

Lucivar snarled. “He didn’t even rouse himself to find out who had entered the cottage.”