Dreams Made Flesh (21 page)

Spending Winsol, the winter holiday that was a celebration of the Darkness, at the Hall had been fun and dazzling. She'd felt disappointed that Andulvar and Prothvar Yaslana hadn't been there, since she'd been hoping to meet them, but meeting the coven almost made up for that. There had been long walks and snowball fights, afternoons when the women had gathered to talk and laugh.

During one of those afternoons, it had suddenly occurred to her that the women who were including her as if she were one of them were the Queens who ruled their respective Territories. But they didn't seem to notice that she was just a hearth witch, just a housekeeper. And the looks on their faces the day she'd told them she'd spent the morning with Mrs. Beale, helping prepare the midday meal…

No one, she was told, was allowed in Mrs. Beale s kitchen. It was probably for the best that she hadn't mentioned trading recipes with the woman who ruled the Hall's kitchen.

Then there was Lucivar. Seeing him with his family, the coven, and the boyos had been a revelation. Demanding and yielding, stubborn and considerate, arguing with one of them and defending that person in the next breath. He'd insisted on morning workouts, which hadn't pleased her until she discovered the whole coven showed up without grumbling. Watching them move through the warmups, watching them spar with him and each other, she realized how serious he was about witches being comfortable using weapons in order to defend themselves.

And watching him spar with Jaenelle… Her heart had been in her throat the whole time she watched that violent dance.

But the biggest difference was the way he'd responded to her. Ever since the day when he'd promised to help her learn to fly again, he'd been touching her, giving her easy, friendly kisses. The kisses he'd given her at the Hall made her wonder, made her hungry. They were the kisses of a man who wanted. Except he hadn't asked if he could come to her bed, hadn't invited her to come to his. So she wasn't sure what those kisses meant, but she wondered what it would be like to be with him.

And she shouldn't wonder. She was his housekeeper. It would be too easy to forget that if she responded to him as a woman.

Had he wanted her to invite him? Was that why he was so testy now?

Marian looked out the kitchen window. The snow was falling so fast now, she couldn't see anything. Where was he?

Lucivar stood on a mountain ledge on the other side of Ebon Rih, watching the storm come over the mountains. It matched his mood, matched a temper already primed to explode.

Hell's fire! Why had Luthvian wanted to ride out the storm in his home? She had plenty of food, and with warming spells on the pipes that ran from the house to the well, she'd wouldn't be without water. And hadn't he filled every damn woodbox in her house? Using Craft, she could call in more wood from the woodpile without going outside. So why did she suddenly want to spend time with him?

Not that he would have her. Not today. Just the smell of her, and the lingering scent of her female students, had been enough to make him want to smash furniture, shatter bone. And the males in the villages…

The sight of them had been enough to bring him a heartbeat away from the killing edge. They hadn't done anything wrong, had, in fact, done everything they could to prepare the villages in Ebon Rih to ride out the storm. But he'd wanted to hurt them, had felt something close to blind hatred for all of them.

His father was at the Keep. He could sense that dark power. So tempting to go to Ebon Askavi and test his precarious control against that darker strength.

What in the name of Hell was wrong with him? He wanted to get home before the storm really broke.Wanted to get back to his eyrie, back to…

Marian.

Fury avalanched through him. Changed into something violent, hot, and impossible to resist.

Marian.

He knew what this was now. It had never hit him quite this way before, but he recognized it now.

Rut. That time when a Warlord Prince's sex drive overwhelmed everything else.

Every male was a rival to be eliminated. Every female but the one he'd chosen scraped a temper turned wild and unpredictable.

Sex or violence.The rut worked itself out one way or the other. Sometimes both.

He'd gone into rut several times since coming to Kaeleer and had had no desire to slake that drive in a woman's body. He'd depended on Jaenelle's presence to keep him chained. She had soothed his need to be close to a female and had channeled the violence into grueling physical activity that he'd thrown himself into with vicious willingness.

But Jaenelle was at her house in Seek 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?

She shifted from one foot to the other as the cold seeping up from the stone floor bit into her bare feet.

Lucivar gave her a slashing look before turning his attention back to the food.

"Go back to bed."

"I could—"

He charged. She stumbled back and hit the wall. His hands slapped the stone on either side of her head.