But Jaenelle was at her house in Scelt for a few weeks, and the woman he wanted, the woman who made his blood burn and sing . . .
He had to get Marian out of the eyrie, had to get her away from him before the storm closed in and made it too dangerous to travel, even on the Winds. Because if she was still in the eyrie when the storm inside him broke, if they were trapped together for several days . . . If that happened, may the Darkness be merciful . . . because there would be no mercy in him.
Giving an Eyrien war cry that was filled with fury and desperation, Lucivar launched himself into the face of the storm.
As Marian pulled the roast out of the oven and set the pan on top of the stove, the front door slammed.
“You made it,” she said as she hurried into the eyrie’s front room. When she saw him, she took a step back. His teeth were bared, and he stared at her with glazed, wild eyes.
“Get out,” he growled.
“Lucivar . . .”
“Get out!” He ripped off his short wool cape and threw it aside.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his bare, slick skin. It was freezing out there. Why was he so hot? And why wasn’t he wearing a shirt or vest under the cape?
The vicious snarl that erupted from him made her press her back against the wall.
“I want you out of here. Go to Riada and stay with Merry. Go to the Keep. Go anywhere, but go. Now.”
Fear shivered through her. She knew what this was. Survival demanded that every witch learn to recognize the rut. Warlord Princes were always violently passionate and passionately violent, but the rut drove them to a savagery that bordered insanity. Other males were nothing more than rivals to destroy. And women . . .
Her mother had once said that a Warlord Prince in rut had enough sexual hunger that he could service an entire coven twice over and still want more. The problem was, he focused on one female and wouldn’t tolerate the presence of any other. His choice became the vessel for all that drive, all that need.
She’d heard stories about Warlord Princes. She knew what could happen to the woman under him when he was in rut. Tongues partially bitten off. Nipples bitten off. Bones broken or shattered. Any male who tried to stop him would be killed, and he would turn away from the slaughter to mount the female again, oblivious to the carnage around him until the rut finally wore off.
“Marian.”
Lucivar wore Ebon-gray Jewels. If she stayed, she could be maimed, even killed. But if she didn’t stay, what would he do? Trapped here by the blizzard, driven by the violence inside him, he could hurt himself.
“Marian.”
She was young, healthy, stronger than she’d ever been. And she was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with a man who challenged the world to take him on, sometimes with laughing, boyish enthusiasm and other times as a warrior born and trained to kill.
She could do this for him. Would do this for him.
“No.” Her voice quivered with fear, but her heart didn’t waver. “I’m not leaving.”
“GET OUT!” Lucivar screamed.
“No.” As she stepped away from the wall, she thought of the basic rules of survival. Move slowly because fast moves excite the predator instinct, and he’ll be on you without thought, without mercy. Stay passive. Don’t refuse him. Don’t offer resistance to anything he wants to do to you.
Lucivar snarled, his glazed eyes watching her.
Vanishing her undershirt, Marian slowly unbuttoned her tunic and pulled it open just enough to display her breasts.
His breathing became ragged. His hands curled into fists.
“I’m not leaving,” she said quietly.
He was on her so fast, there wasn’t even time to draw breath. One hand fisted in her long hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat. The other hand pressed her against the cock straining to be free of the leather trousers.
“You should have run,” he snarled.
He lowered his head. His teeth closed on the spot where her neck joined her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her heart pound.
When she remained passive, he shifted suddenly, his teeth closing on her neck. He licked, explored, until her pulse throbbed against the tip of his tongue.
Moving slowly, she raised her hands and rested them on his waist. His teeth tightened in warning, then he shifted again, capturing her earlobe.
Quiet. Passive. The only way to survive. But she couldn’t stop her hands from stroking his hot skin, couldn’t slow her pounding heart when every breath rubbed her breasts against his chest, teasing, arousing.
“Give me your mouth.” His voice sounded rough, barely human.
She hesitated, then parted her lips. Those wild, glazed eyes stared at her too long before his mouth covered hers.
She was prepared for teeth and pain. Instead, he gave her a long, lazy kiss, his tongue playing with hers. Her hands slid up his back, curled around his shoulders, pressing her tighter against him. The fist that gripped her hair relaxed, opening to cradle her head. And still he kissed her as if there was nothing more to want, nothing more to need.
Then he broke the kiss, yanked her off her feet, and carried her into his bedroom.
He vanished her clothes as he laid her on the bed, then grabbed her hands and pinned them on either side of her head. When he let go, phantom restraints kept her hands locked in position. He spread her legs, using more phantom restraints to keep her open for his pleasure, then lifted her enough so that she could tuck her wings tight to her body.
He vanished his clothes and stretched out beside her.
She expected him to mount her and take his release, fast and hard. Instead, he started with her arms and licked, nibbled, caressed. He suckled one breast while his thumb stroked the nipple of the other. Finally he moved lower, his mouth brushing the hair between her legs, his fingers delicately stroking, slick with her readiness. He moved lower, licking the skin on her inner thighs, nibbling on her calves, his hands always moving.
Finally, he sheathed himself inside her in one slow stroke. His hips pressed down on hers, denying her any movement while he braced himself on his elbows and went back to suckling her breasts, flexing his hips just enough to keep her on the edge but not enough for release. He held her on that edge for a lifetime while he licked, suckled, demanded kisses.
If she could have gotten her hands free of the phantom restraints, she would have strangled him.
Desperate to respond in some way to this tormenting pleasure, she settled for the only thing she could reach. She raised her head, clamped her teeth on his upper arm and bit down.
His snarl mixed pain and fury. He clamped a hand around her throat.
“Get your teeth out of my arm.”
Even knowing she was pushing him toward violence, she paused to lick his skin before she let go.
His glazed eyes studied her as his hand relaxed around her throat. “You do get feisty when you’re riled.” His mouth hovered over hers. Hesitated. Withdrew. “Don’t bite me again until you’re coming.”
He moved then. Deep, strong thrusts that sent her soaring, sent her over the edge. Before she could glide down all the way, he drove her up again.
“Not yet, witchling,” he growled. “You haven’t flown high enough yet.”
Driving her up and up until her world narrowed to the feel of his cock inside her. When he thrust her over the edge this time, her teeth found his arm again, muffling her scream as she climaxed.
This time he laughed, a sound ripe with dark pleasure, as he set his teeth into her shoulder and followed her.
Shivering, Marian eased into the kitchen, wishing she could have put her winter robe on over the flannel nightgown. But the only time Lucivar had turned violent was when she’d offered to get them some food. He’d agreed to that—until she’d put some clothes on. He attacked without warning, ripping the clothes off her before flinging her back on the bed and pinning her down. When she didn’t struggle, his temper shifted back to that raging sexual hunger, and he spent the next hour playing with her and feasting on her arousal and climaxes until they were both wrung dry and exhausted. Since then, he hadn’t allowed her out of the bedroom any farther than the adjoining bathroom.
The only thing she could figure out was the clothing signaled an attempt to leave him. Coming to the kitchen now might provoke another attack, even though a nightgown was hardly sufficient clothing if she tried to leave the eyrie in this storm, but he’d been gone so long, she’d become worried about him.
Apparently, she’d worried for nothing. He was standing at the stove, tending the skillets filled with food, looking much the way he did on other mornings when he insisted on cooking breakfast—if she discounted the fact that he was naked, half-aroused, and didn’t seem to notice the warming spells had faded to the point where the eyrie was chilly, almost cold.
Lucivar had put the warming spells on the eyrie the morning the storm started and told her they would last two days before he’d have to replenish the power in the spells. Which meant they were starting the third day of the rut. Maybe it was over, or at least easing. Should she mention the warming spells?