Marian crept to the archway and saw him outside, throwing the pot at the bales of hay he’d set up for target practice. She sagged against the wall. Eyrien males didn’t tolerate defiance from a witch who didn’t outrank them. Thank the Darkness Lucivar was taking his anger out on a pot and bales of hay. Her father, who didn’t technically outrank her since he also wore Purple Dusk Jewels, would have slapped her for arguing with him. Throwing the pot at him would have earned her a fist in the belly, inflicting pain where it would hurt the worst today.

*Marian?*

She turned and saw Tassle sniffing the spilled sugar.

“Don’t step in that. I have to clean it up.”

Tassle sniffed the air. *You cannot use Craft.*

She bit back a snappish reply. That furry body made it easy to forget at times that Tassle was more than a wolf. Other times, forgetting that he would respond to some things like any other Warlord would only cause more problems.

“You’re right,” she said. “I can’t use Craft, but—”

*I will clean it up for you.*

The sugar on the floor vanished. He looked at her, obviously expecting praise.

Even the furry male didn’t think she was capable of doing anything today. But she petted him and thanked him. Pleased with himself and satisfied with the praise, he left her to roam the mountain since Yas was there to protect her.

She didn’t mention Lucivar might be the very thing she needed protection from. Tassle wouldn’t have a chance of surviving if Lucivar decided to punish her and the wolf got in the way.

When she heard Lucivar come back inside, she looked around for something to do. She winced as she bent over and pulled a skillet from the bottom cupboard. He liked her beef stew. Maybe knowing he’d have it for his midday meal would soften his mood.

Trembling, she put the skillet on the stove and stepped back as he entered the kitchen. Throwing the pot hadn’t eased his temper. If anything, his mood seemed darker.

He set the pot on the counter beside the sink, and growled, “That won’t do it. The balance is off.” Spotting the skillet, he picked it up and took it outside.

Returning a few minutes later, he grabbed her arm and hauled her out to the bales of hay.

“What?” Marian said, trying to pull back. “Prince Yaslana—”

He shoved the skillet’s handle into her hand. “The pot doesn’t have the balance to be an effective weapon. This does.”

He moved toward her. She swung the skillet up over her head.