Dreams Made Flesh

down his body until her feet touched the floor.
    As soon as he released her, the rational part of her mind scampered off, leaving her with less sense than a rabbit. So she bolted.
    Grab… lift… swing… plop. And she was right back where she'd started.
    "You're going to learn to defend yourself, Marian," Lucivar said, an unyielding look in his gold eyes. "You don't have to like it, but you're going to learn."
    When he called in the Eyrien sticks, Marian sagged with relief. At least these were the sparring sticks and not the bladed sticks used for fighting. Even so, an opponent could take a terrible beating. Her father had done it enough times to young warriors he brought to her mother's eyrie. He'd insist on a sparring session, with his daughters in attendance, so the young warrior could "show off his skills." Even a skilled youth couldn't match a full-grown Eyrien male who had been trained to fight.
    And an unskilled hearth witch was no match for an Eyrien Warlord Prince.
    She tightened her grip on the stick and set her feet in the stance she'd seen her father take.
    Lucivar just looked at her feet. "What are you doing?"
    She tensed, wondering where his first blow would hit. "This is the stance for sparring."
    "Only if you want to be knocked on your ass."
    She lowered the stick. "What?"
    "You set your feet like that, you're going to eat dirt unless your opponent is smaller than you are."
    So that explained why she'd never seen her father spar with anyone but half-trained youths. The fighting skills her father bragged about were nothing more than brags, just words without substance to justify what he did, and didn't do, for his family.
    She hadn't thought about living with a man, hadn't really wanted to. That had never been part of her dream. Now she wondered what it would be like to live that dream with a man who wasn't like her father. With Lucivar.
    "Marian?"
    She looked at him and realized she had no idea how long he'd been standing there, waiting, while her thoughts had wandered. "Are we going to spar?"
    His lips twitched. "We'll get to it eventually. First you have to learn how to move."
    Slow. Quiet. As graceful as a dance. He took her through each move, his voice flowing over her as he explained, corrected, praised. The warmth of his hand on her waist or hip as he guided her body. The movement of his own muscles as he demonstrated the next move. The clean male scent of him.
    "Now we'll put all the moves together," Lucivar said. "Watch."
    She watched. Grace and power. What would it be like to kiss him? Really kiss him? Would he bring all that grace and power to the bed? Would he be a generous lover? She'd only had one experience with sex after her Virgin Night, and that had been disappointing enough that she'd never been interested in trying again. But when a woman loved, wouldn't there be some pleasure from the act even if the body received none?
    The thought staggered her, thrilled her, terrified her. Had she been falling in love with him all along? That would be foolish, wouldn't it? He might take a hearth witch for a lover to satisfy his body's needs, but he'd never give his heart to one. Would he?
    "That's enough for the day."
    She tripped over the sound of his voice, struggled to regain her balance. "What?"
    "That's enough." He tugged the stick out of her hands. "I'm not sure where your mind wandered off to, but you weren't paying attention."
    Oh, she'd been paying attention, but she'd been focused on the man and not the lesson.
    "It's close to midday, and the weather has cleared." Lucivar smiled at her. "Why don't we fly down to the village? I'll buy you a meal."
    Pain lanced her heart, fierce and deep. She shook her head and backed away from him. "I can't."
    "Sure you can." He sighed. "Marian, eating a meal you didn't cook isn't neglecting your work."
    "I can't." He'd mentioned once or twice that he'd never seen her fly, but she'd been able to avoid giving him a reason. Now…
    "Why not?" Lucivar asked.
    Tears filled her eyes. "I can't fly! My wings… they were damaged. They're useless."
    Grief and understanding filled his eyes. Here was someone who understood what that loss meant to her.
    Then his eyes chilled. "Who told you that?" he asked too softly.
    "It doesn't matter. I can't…"
    "Who told you that?"
    Uneasy now, she wiped the tears off her face. She could almost see the temper beginning to burn in him, could almost see it rising from spike to spike until it would reach the explosion