Lucivar glanced at his father, expecting to see criticism or anger in Saetan’s expression. Instead, he saw . . . interest.

“I know it isn’t possible,” he said.

“Why not?”

Lucivar stopped pacing and stared at Saetan in disbelief. “For one thing, she works for me. If she thinks that’s part of what I expect from her—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t stand it if she came to my bed because she thought she had to.”

“If she worked for someone else?”

Where he couldn’t protect her, especially now that he knew she needed protecting? Not while he was breathing. But the question made his temper soar. “I’d follow Protocol and stake a claim,” he snarled.

“There’s no reason why you can’t do that,” Saetan said.

“She works for me.”

Saetan made an exasperated sound. “There’s just the three of you. If she worked somewhere else and you expressed interest in her, she’d be scrutinized by everyone in that household because your interest would be public knowledge. This way, you can get to know her—and she can get to know you—in private. The end result will be the same. If she wants to be your lover, she’ll make the choice.”

“She still might think—”

“If I ever have so much as an inkling that you’re doing anything that makes her feel cornered, I will kick your ass from one end of Kaeleer to the other and back again.”

The threat, which was sincere, shouldn’t have cheered him up, but it did.

“You want advice about how to deal with Marian?” Saetan said. “Treat her the same way you treat the coven.”

Lucivar clenched his fists. The coven could take anything he dished out, but ... “She’s too fragile to be handled that way.”

Saetan just looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, “I saw her when Jaenelle brought her to the Keep. The woman who survived that attack has strength she’s never tested, strength she probably doesn’t even realize is inside her. Give her the chance to find it. Give her a reason to test it.”

Marian stared at the open kitchen cupboards. The empty kitchen cupboards. The man had two skillets, a pot, a chipped mixing bowl, four mismatched dishes, two coffee mugs, three glasses, two kitchen knives, and an odd assortment of silverware. No baking dishes, no baking sheets, no measuring cups. No coffeepot or coffee grinder. He didn’t even have wooden spoons. How was she supposed to prepare decent meals for him without any tools?