Dreams Made Flesh

him?
    As he landed lightly on the flagstone courtyard, he sent a thought out on a psychic spear thread. *Tassle?*
    *Yas.*
    The wolf sounded sulky, almost edgy.
    *What's wrong?*
    A pause. Then, *I don't like that female. I don't want to be friends.*
    Lucivar felt his temper unsheath as he studied the front door of his home. An Ebon-gray shield formed a finger-length above his skin, an instinctive response to walking into a situation where it was safer to guard against a potential attack. The fact that he was reacting that way before entering his home honed his temper until the slightest push would have him riding the killing edge.
    He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The female psychic scent hit him the moment he crossed the threshold. He knew that scent. Loathed the young witch it belonged to.
    Roxie.
    She'd been one of Luthvian's students when he'd first come to Kaeleer…a Rihlander witch from Doun whose family was aristo enough that she thought she could do anything she pleased. She used lovers the way other women used handkerchiefs. She soiled them, then tossed them aside. But from the first day she'd met him, her goal had been to corner him and force him into bedding her. The bitch had never understood that if she had managed to corner him, bedding her would have been the last thing on his mind.
    And now she was here. In his home.
    He moved silently until he reached his bedroom door. The wide corridor reeked of her.
    As he pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom, Roxie
    raised her bare arms over her head and smiled at him, her body clearly defined under the sheet that covered her.
    He usually had a hot, explosive temper. As he approached the bed, he felt chillingly calm.
    "Get out of my bed," he said softly.
    She shifted a little, the movement uncovering more of her breasts. "Why don't you join me? You want to. You know you do."
    The revulsion that washed through him almost sheared his self-control.
    A triumphant look filled her face when he stepped up to the bed. A moment later, the look changed to terror.
    He hadn't consciously made the decision to call in his Eyrien war blade. But the edge of that blade, honed so sharp it could make air bleed, suddenly hovered just above Roxie's neck. If he relaxed his hand, the blade would slide through skin and muscle until it gently came to rest against bone. He wouldn't have to do anything, wouldn't have to exert any force. Just relax his hand.
    "If I ever find you in my bed again, I'll slit your throat," he said, his voice still calm and soft.
    Roxie swallowed. The movement was enough to push her skin against the blade.
    Lucivar watched the blood trickle from the shallow wound, becoming seduced by the heat of it, the smell of it. He stepped back before the temptation to let the war blade sing became too great. As he stepped back, the cold inside him broke and hot temper flared.
    Vanishing the war blade, he scooped up her clothes in one hand, hauled her out of bed with the other, and dragged her through the eyrie, ignoring her squeals and protests. He flung her and her clothes out the door and slammed it shut, not knowing or caring if she got hurt when she landed.
    Then he stood with his teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to open that door and purge the memories of all the witches he'd known in Terreille who were just like her. He wanted to pound those memories into her flesh, exorcising them from his own.
    Minutes passed, but the feelings didn't. He still rode the killing edge.
    Violence still sang in his blood. He had to purge that violence…or have it purged out of him. There was only one person who could do that for him.
    Roxie was gone when he left the eyrie. That spared him the inconvenience of killing her and taking the bitch's mangled body back to her family. He would have killed her if she'd still been there. He couldn't have stopped himself. A Warlord Prince was a born predator, a natural killer, and the "training" he'd received under the hands of the witches in Ter-reille had honed that killing instinct instead of providing a sheath for it. Right now, he was a danger to everyone.
    With one exception.
    He opened his psychic senses, searching until he brushed against the dark power that eclipsed his own.
    Launching himself skyward, he flew to the cottage beyond the outskirts of Riada. He landed close enough to the porch that two steps and a leap had him standing in front of the door of the neat little cottage