Tears stung her eyes. Why would she get all weepy just because Dillon didn’t understand that she had a role in the Yaslana household?
A spurt of temper and defiance made her lift her chin. “There is nothing wrong with serving someone or working for a living.”
He studied her, then looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just . . . We haven’t had any time together in days.” His hand slid down her arm and closed over her hand as he looked deep into her eyes. “If you loved me, you’d want to spend time with me.” He bent his head and leaned toward her, whispering, “If you loved me, you’d want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”
His lips brushed her mouth, asking for permission. How could she refuse when she wanted to kiss him with everything in her?
She felt the wall at her back and his erect penis poking at her through their clothing as he pressed himself against her. That made her nervous, made her feel trapped. She pushed at his arms, tried to break the kiss to tell him she didn’t want this, it didn’t feel good, not when she felt trapped. Then his hand closed over her breast, something he’d done once before, but that time she’d had room to pull away.
No, she thought, trying to push him back. Permission before action. That was the rule. Kissing might be overlooked, but she didn’t know how to explain this.
Breathing hard, Dillon broke the kiss. “If you—”
She felt the dark power and hot fury a moment before Prince Yaslana grabbed Dillon by the throat, swung him around, and slammed him into the side of the building.
“No!” Jillian cried as Lucivar’s hand tightened around Dillon’s neck, choking him. Killing him. “No!”
She threw herself at Lucivar. She wasn’t sure he noticed her when he straightened his left arm, turning it into a barrier. She wrapped her hands around that arm, tugging and crying as Dillon, his toes barely touching the ground, struggled against an unyielding hand backed by Ebon-gray Jewels and a vicious temper.
“He didn’t do anything!” she cried.
“He had his hand on your tit in view of anyone who walked by,” Lucivar snarled. “So I say he did plenty.”
“Please.”
Lucivar was the law in this valley, and there was no one in the whole of Askavi strong enough to stand against him.
“Please,” she pleaded. “He didn’t do anything.”
Lucivar opened his hand and took a step back as Dillon slumped to the ground. Then he turned glazed gold eyes on Jillian. “The next time he doesn’t do anything in that way, I will rip off his cock and shove it down his throat. And then I’ll snap his neck. Are we clear?”
Glazed eyes were a warning that a Warlord Prince was riding the killing edge, primed for slaughter. So this wasn’t an idle threat. Lucivar never made idle threats.
“Are we clear?” he snarled softly.
“Y-yes.”
“Then go to my eyrie and wait for me.”
“I h-have to . . .”
“My eyrie. Now!”
She bolted out of the alleyway and leaped for the sky as soon as she had room to spread her wings.
Never breaking stride as he left the alleyway, Lucivar grabbed the handle of the basket and kept moving. Had to get away from the market, from the people who were scrambling to avoid him. They looked at him and knew he was riding the killing edge and that something as simple as the wrong inflection on a word might be enough to snap the leash on his formidable temper.
“Prince.” Rothvar, his second-in-command, took a step toward him.
“No,” he rasped, the only warning he could give before he spread his dark wings and flew home.
Something wrong. Too much fury burning in him. Why so much fury? He’d come across other youngsters taking advantage of the illusion of privacy, whether it was someplace in the village or a favorite spot by a stream. When it happened, he simply grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt—or girl’s, if she had the boy pinned—and hauled one youngster away from the other. That was sufficient to make any libido go limp.
Except this time . . . Because it was Jillian in that alleyway? Was that the source of his fury? Or something else?
The moment he walked into the big front room of his home, he heard the weeping coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t be inside, couldn’t let his temper stay inside with his family. Couldn’t.
“Papa.” Daemonar rushed forward, then skidded to a stop, his wings spreading for balance.
Couldn’t be around another male right now, not even his son.
“Keep the other children in the playroom,” Lucivar said, fighting to stay in control. When the boy hesitated and looked toward the kitchen, he snarled, “Get away from me. Now.”
Daemonar didn’t run. Knew better than to run. He backed away for a few steps, looking toward his father but not meeting the glazed eyes, not issuing any kind of challenge. Then he turned and walked down the wide corridor, just as Lucivar had taught him.
Breathing a little easier, Lucivar walked into the kitchen and dropped the basket on the table, momentarily silencing Jillian’s weeping.
“Lucivar.” Marian tightened her hold on the girl.
“I’ll be outside. When she’s taken care of things, she and I are going to have a chat.”
He saw the understanding—and sympathy—in Marian’s eyes.
Walking out of the kitchen, he crossed the big front room and went out the glass doors that opened to the yard, bordered by a stone wall enhanced with a Red shield that kept frisky children from tumbling off the mountain. Since the shield rose to twice his own height, that was enough protection for Daemonar and Titian when they played out here on their own. Once baby Andulvar started walking, and fluttering, he’d reshape the Red walls into an air-cushioned Red dome.
He paced the long length of the yard, tightening the leash on his temper with each step.
Shouldn’t have been that angry, not over something that, while not exactly prudent, wasn’t unexpected. Except . . .
Hell’s fire! She knew his rules, and she wasn’t helpless. Wasn’t usually helpless.
As he reached the far end of the yard, Lucivar felt the presence of a male intruder. Pivoting, he headed for the eyrie, calling in his war blade despite recognizing the psychic scent. Not an intruder, as such, but Rothvar should know better than to come here without being summoned.
Then again, being Nurian’s lover, Rothvar also had an interest in Jillian.
As he strode toward the eyrie, he watched Marian cross the big room to reach the front door. His steps lengthened, then slowed when Marian crossed the room again, carrying another shopping basket—and Rothvar flew away without crossing the threshold.
Lucivar vanished the war blade. A moment later, when Jillian walked out of the eyrie, her eyes puffy from crying but her chin up—a sure sign of temper—he settled into a fighting stance, ready for a different kind of battle.
Jillian walked through the open glass doors to have this “chat” with Prince Lucivar Yaslana. It didn’t matter that he was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, that he was the law here. It didn’t matter that he was the second most powerful male in the whole Realm of Kaeleer. It didn’t matter that almost from the day she and Nurian had arrived in Ebon Rih, she had run tame in the Yaslana household, helping Marian with Daemonar when he was a baby, and later helping with Titian and now baby Andulvar. It didn’t matter that Lucivar had defied Eyrien tradition and had given her the training in weapons and fighting that she’d wanted, while insisting on her participation in traditional education—something no ruler in the Realm of Terreille would have done for a young witch who wasn’t from an aristo family.