Heir to the Shadows

bones, Cat," but Jaenelle had stomped out of the Hall spitting Eyrien curses, and Lucivar had seemed grimly pleased.
    That had been three days ago.
    She had returned abruptly that afternoon, snarled at Beale, "Tell Lucivar I used my knee," and had locked herself in her room.
    Disturbed, Beale had informed him of her return and the comment meant for Lucivar, and had added that the Lady seemed unwell.
    Jaenelle always seemed unwell after a visit to Little Terreille. He'd never been able to pry the reason for that out of her. Nothing she said about the activities she'd participated in explained the strained, haunted look in her eyes, the weight loss, the restless nights afterward, or the inability to eat.
    The only person besides Beale who saw Jaenelle after she returned was Karla. And Karla, teary-eyed and dis-
    tressed, had picked a fight with the one person she could count on to give her a battle—Lucivar.
    After enduring a vicious harangue about males, Lucivar had hauled her out to the lawn, handed her one of the Eyrien sticks, and let her try to whack him. He'd pushed and taunted her until her muscles and emotions finally gave out. He'd offered no explanation, and the fury in his eyes had warned all of them not to ask.
    The dining room door opened. Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis joined him, the concern in their eyes needing no words.
    Karla arrived a minute later, moving stiffly. Lucivar came in behind her, threw an arm around her shoulders—which, amazingly, produced no temperamental explosion—and helped her into a chair.
    Beale appeared, looking as strained as Saetan felt, and said, "The Lady says she will be unable to join you for dinner."
    Lucivar pulled out the chair on Saetan's right. "Tell the Lady she's joining us for dinner. She can come down on her own two feet or over my shoulder. Her choice."
    Beale's eyes widened.
    A low growl of displeasure came, unexpectedly, from Mephis.
    The room smelled dangerous.
    Wanting to avoid the confrontation building up between the men in the family, Saetan nodded to Beale, silently backing Lucivar.
    Beale hastily retreated.
    Lucivar just leaned against the chair and waited.
    Jaenelle appeared a few minutes later, her face drained of color except for the dark smudges underneath her eyes.
    Smiling that lazy, arrogant smile, Lucivar pulled out the chair beside his and waited.
    Jaenelle swallowed hard. "I—I'm sorry. I can't.*'
    She moved fast. Lucivar moved faster.
    In stunned silence, they watched him drag her to her place at the table and dump her in the chair. She immediately shot upward, smacking into the fist he calmly held
    above her head. Dazed, she didn't protest when he pushed her chair up to the table and sat down beside her.
    Saetan sat down, torn between his concern for Jaenelle and his desire to treat Lucivar to the same kind of affection.
    Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis took their seats, bristling. If Lucivar noticed the anger being directed at him, he ignored it.
    The arrogance of not acknowledging the displeasure of males of equal or darker rank galled Saetan, but he held his tongue and his temper. There would be time to unleash both later.
    "You're going to eat," Lucivar said calmly.
    Jaenelle stared at the place setting in front of her. "I can't."
    "Cat, if we have to dump the soup on the floor so that you can puke into the tureen, then that's what we'll do. But you're going to eat."
    Jaenelle snarled at him.
    A pale, shaky footman brought the soup.
    Lucivar put a ladle full into her bowl and filled his own halfway. He picked up his spoon and waited.
    Her snarl grew louder as she reluctantly picked up her spoon.
    After a narrow-eyed, considering look at Lucivar, Karla asked a question about a Craft lesson she was working on.
    Mephis responded, and the discussion covered the first course.
    Jaenelle ate one spoonful of soup.
    Andulvar shifted in his seat, rustling his wings.
    Saetan flicked a glance at Andulvar, warning him to keep still. He'd caught the scent of feminine anger. He'd caught Lucivar's tightly focused awareness of Jaenelle and her rising temper—a temper Lucivar was able to provoke with frightening ease.
    With each dish offered in the second course, Lucivar selected food for her, pricked at her, scraped away her self-control.
    "Liver?" Lucivar asked.
    "Only if it's yours," she snapped, her eyes glittering queerly.
    Lucivar smiled slightly.
    By the end of the second course, Jaenelle was an explosion waiting for a spark, and Saetan couldn't