Heir to the Shadows

regular basis just to keep your temper in check."
    "I've never needed it before," he snarled, "and I don't need it now. I can keep my temper in check just fine— when I choose to."
    "Then you don't choose to very often!"
    "No, I don't. Especially when I'm being forced into a bed."
    Luthvian smashed the chair against the table. She bared her teeth. "Forced to. Oh, yes, it's such an onerous task to give a little pleasure, isn't it? Forced to! You sound like—"
    your father.
    He'd tolerated her temper before, withstood her tantrums before. He'd tried to be understanding. He was trying hard now. What he couldn't understand was why a man like the High Lord had ever wanted to mount and breed such a troubled young woman.
    "Tell me about my father, Luthvian."
    Desperation and a keening rage flooded the kitchen. "It's past. It's done. He's not part of our lives."
    "Tell me."
    "He didn't want us! He didn't love us! He threatened to slit your throat in the cradle if I didn't do what he wanted." The length of the table stood between them. She stood there, shaking, hugging herself.
    So young. So troubled. And he couldn't help her. They would destroy each other inside of a week if he tried to stay here with her.
    She gave him a wavering smile. "We can be together. You can stay—"
    "I'm already in service." He hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly, but it was kinder than saying he would never serve her.
    Vulnerability crystallized into rejection, rejection froze
    into rage. "Jaenelle," Luthvian said, her voice dangerously empty. "She has a gift for wrapping males around her little finger." She braced her hands on the table. "You want to know about your father? Go ask precious Jaenelle. She knows him better than I ever did."
    Lucivar snapped to his feet, knocking the chair over. "No."
    Luthvian smiled with pleased malice. "Be careful how you play with your sire's toys, little Prince. He just might snip your balls off. Not that it would matter."
    Never taking his eyes off her, Lucivar righted the chair and backed away to the outer kitchen door. Years of training kept him surefooted as he crossed the threshold. One more step. Two.
    The door slammed in his face.
    A moment later, he heard dishes smashing on the floor.
    She knows him better than I ever did.
    It was late afternoon by the time he reached the cabin. He was dirty, hungry, and shaking from physical and emotional fatigue.
    He approached slowly but couldn't bring himself to step onto the porch where Jaenelle sat reading.
    She closed the book and looked at him.
    Wise eyes. Ancient eyes. Haunting and haunted eyes.
    He forced the words out. "I want to meet my father. Now."
    She studied him. When she finally answered, her gentle compassion inflicted pain he had no defense against. "Are you sure, Lucivar?"
    No, he wasn't sure! "Yes, I'm sure."
    Jaenelle remained seated. "Then there's something you need to understand before we go."
    He heard the warning underneath the gentleness and compassion.
    "Lucivar, your father is also my adopted father."
    Frozen, he stared at her, finally understanding. He could accept them both or walk away from both, but he wouldn't be allowed to serve her and battle with a man who already had a claim on her love.
    She'd been right when she'd said there were reasons he might not be able or willing to serve her. The Keep he could handle. He could deal with Luthvian as well. But the High Lord?
    There was only one way to find out.
    "Let's go," he said.
    5 / Kaeleer
    Jaenelle stepped off the landing web. "This is the family seat."
    Lucivar reluctantly stepped off the web. A few months ago, he'd walked through the ruins of SaDiablo Hall in Terreille. Ruins didn't prepare a man for this dark-gray mountain of a building. Hell's fire, an entire court could live in the place and not get in each other's way.
    Then the significance of her living at the Hall finally hit him, and he turned and stared at her as if he'd never seen her before.
    All of those amusing stories she had told him about her loving, beleaguered papa—she had been talking about Saetan. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. The man who had built the cabin for her, who had helped her rebuild her life. He couldn't reconcile the conflicting images of the man any better than he could reconcile the Hall with the manor house he'd imagined.
    And he would never reconcile anything by just standing there.
    "Come on, Cat. Let's knock on the door."
    The door opened before they reached the