“There will be opportunities for kissing, but there won’t be time for him to take the play and petting beyond what is acceptable to me—and what I can persuade Lucivar to agree to.”

“But I love Dillon!”

“I don’t doubt it. But he’s reached the age of majority, and you have decades ahead of you before you reach yours. So a chaperon is required when you go down to the village. An adult has to be home if Dillon comes to visit—and if you’re not within sight of that adult, you have to be visible to anyone who might fly past the eyrie. That way, if Dillon’s hands, or anything else, end up where they’re not supposed to be, no one will wonder why an Eyrien war blade sliced through his wrists.”

The wind changed direction. Surreal finger combed her hair away from her face and used Craft to twist it into a casual knot at the back of her head.

“You want time to think about it?” Surreal asked.

“I’ll follow your rules.” She wasn’t sure how Dillon was going to react when he heard what was required in order for them to see each other, but she would deal with that later.

“Then it’s time we got back to the eyrie.”

The thought was there and the words were out before Jillian had time to consider. “I think you did have a crush on a boy once, before the bad things happened. I think you did feel that tingle of anticipation, of waiting for him to visit and notice you.”

Surreal gave her the queerest look. “Maybe. And maybe I also know what an impulsive, imprudent action can cost a girl and don’t want you to carry that same kind of regret.”

Sobering words. But Dillon would never ask her to do something she would regret.

When they reached the open ground outside her home, Jillian thanked Surreal for the outing and hurried into the eyrie. As she set the table for dinner and cleaned the vegetables, she wished she had thought to ask the waitress to box up the remaining cakes so that she could bring them home and share them with Nurian.

 

* * *

 

* * *

Not looking at Surreal because it would piss him off if he looked at her right now, Lucivar picked up one of the chunks of wood on his desk and blasted it with power and temper, then watched the sawdust drift into a pile on his desk like sifted flour.

“You want me to back off, let him court her.”

Surreal nodded. “Yes, I do. Allowing men the opportunities and space to court young women is part of being Blood, regardless of race.”

He picked up the next chunk of wood and blasted it, watched it dribble onto the desk. “That’s true for Warlord Princes, not the Blood in general.”

“No, Warlord Princes are given a clear field once they express interest in a woman to avoid having their potential rivals splattered all over the walls. But all social gatherings allow people to meet and get to know one another—and see if the attraction one person feels for another is friendship or romance.”

“You think I overreacted, that my instincts about that little prick-ass are wrong.”

“Oh, no,” Surreal said with a tight smile. “There is nothing wrong with your instincts. If we were still in Terreille, I would have been tempted to gut Lord Dillon in a way that would have had his intestines spilling into the street when he walked out of the cake shop this afternoon. But we’re not in Terreille, so while our instincts about Dillon aren’t wrong, they might not be quite right either. He’s . . . Hell’s fire, Lucivar, if you take away Dillon’s veneer of polish, Daemonar has better social skills than that Rihlander Warlord.”

He’d been reaching for the third chunk of wood. Now he stopped and looked at her—and was glad the desk was between them and her hands were in sight and empty.

“There’s something off about him.”

“Yes, but I can’t decide if he really is an arrogant prick who deserves a knife in the guts or if his social maturity is stunted for some reason. He wants to be fawned over and admired. Not just wants it. Needs it. I suspect that’s what he finds so appealing about Jillian. She’s young enough not to see his flaws—or recognize his subtle cruelty,” she added softly.

Wondering if she was still talking about Dillon, Lucivar picked up the chunk of wood, came around the desk, and held it out to her. Her right hand slipped off her lap, then came up fast. Lucivar saw the glint of a blade and released the wood, jerking his hand out of the way at the same time he created an Ebon-gray shield around himself.

The big hunting knife she’d commissioned from Kohlvar several years ago flashed up, then left to right.

Four smaller pieces of wood hit the floor.

“Impressive speed,” he murmured. She had always been good with a knife, and he knew better than to be careless around her.

“He’s new and exciting,” Surreal said. “He’s pretty on the outside, and he talks a good game. He’s every aristo thing you despise, but if you stop this now, all she’ll remember is that you stopped her from spending time with the boy she loves.”

“Loves?” Lucivar bared his teeth. “Loves? How can she love that piece of walking carrion?”

“She doesn’t know him.” Surreal slid the hunting knife into its leather sheath and vanished it. “Let her discover who he is while she’s standing safely in your shadow.”

He blew out a breath. “She’ll get hurt.”

“Better a skinned knee than a broken wing.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension. “We still have a wolf pack on the mountain. I can ask them to keep a discreet lookout at my eyrie and Nurian’s. They won’t be seen, but they’ll sound a warning if the prick-ass crosses a line.”

“Discreet watchers are good,” Surreal agreed. “But you don’t want to be that subtle. Not this time. So I was thinking of chaperons who will be overlooked by the inexperienced but will be louder, faster, and more insistent about announcing any wrongdoing than a whole pack of younger siblings.”

Lucivar paled. “Oh, Hell’s fire, no.”

“They’ll just come for a visit. Then they’ll go home.”

“Swear to me on your Jewels that they will go home.”

Surreal blinked. Then she laughed so hard she gasped for breath. “I swear, Lucivar. I swear I will never tell anyone that you’re afraid of Scelties.”

Since he wasn’t going to admit it, he hauled her out of the chair—and hoped the dogs let her keep her promise.

 

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

 

Someone kept pounding on his front door. Swearing, Lucivar secured the loin wrap around his hips as he hurried through the eyrie to stop the damn noise before it woke up the children.