A breathless shriek, a wild kick to free herself from the bedcovers, and a hasty scramble had her standing on the opposite side of the bed from the wolf, who looked equally startled.

The bedroom door was open. She was closer to it. If she could reach the door . . .

She shuffled sideways, never taking her eyes off the wolf—until he put one paw on the bed as if intending to spring over it and reach her.

She bolted through the doorway, sprinted down the corridor, turning the corner so fast she almost hit the opposite wall, and ran down the wide main corridor of the eyrie. Seeing the archway of the only room she recognized, she grabbed at the stone wall and swung into the kitchen, startling Yaslana enough that he almost dropped the mug he was holding.

“What in the name of Hell—” he began.

“The wolf talks!”

“I know,” Yaslana replied. “He’s kindred. Since you’re up, do you want some coffee?”

Marian stared at him. Maybe he wasn’t awake enough to understand what she’d said. “The wolf talks. In sentences.”

“I know.” He studied her for a moment, then added, “He’s kindred. Blood.”

“Blood?” She suddenly felt a bit weak and woozy.

“The Blood from the nonhuman races are called kindred.” Yaslana scratched his cheek. “Tassle is a Warlord, as a matter of fact. Wears the Purple Dusk Jewels.”

Marian groped for the nearest chair to keep from sinking to the floor. Blood? Warlord? Purple Dusk Jewels?

A whine.

She turned. Standing in the archway, the wolf gave her the most woeful look she’d ever seen.

He whined again and slunk away—and she felt as if a small boy had tried to give her something he thought was a wonderful present . . . and she’d smacked him for it.

Confused and feeling guilty, she focused on the familiar sound of sizzling meat—and frowned. “What are you doing?”

Turning back to the stove, Yaslana picked up a fork and flipped the two steaks sizzling in a skillet. “Making breakfast. You want some? There’s plenty.” He poked at something else in the other skillet.

Marian slumped in the chair. “But . . . I should be making breakfast.”

He shrugged. “You were asleep.”

She quailed at the implied criticism. Then she bristled at the unfairness of it. “I’m sorry, Prince Yaslana. You didn’t tell me what time you expected—”

“I woke up early and decided to make breakfast,” he said testily. “It’s not important.”

Not important. The words cut into her, telling her clearly enough what he thought of the skills that usually gave her such pleasure.

He picked up a pot, poured dark liquid into a mug, brought the mug over to the table, and plunked it down in front of her.

She looked at the mug—and shuddered.