Black Moon Draw(12)

The boar head tilts to the side and he reaches for the whip. “Halt.”

I do. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. It may not be a bad thing, if that’s what it takes to jar me out of this bizarre place.

“You wear purple like a witch.”

“This?” I glance down at the cloak. “I borrowed it.”

“You wear the witching stone of my kingdom.”

My hand goes to the medallion at my chest.

“Tell me you borrowed what belongs to me and no one else.” With the warning growl, the man-beast steps towards me.

Shit. “Wait, wait!” I hold up my hand. “I can explain!”

He halts.

“So maybe I found this, not borrowed it,” I say quickly. “I can see it’s important to you. I’ll take it back to where I found it. It was just right back there.” I point and turn. “Taking it back. Don’t kill me.”

Leather creaks as he reaches for some weapon and I bolt, panicking. A flash of metal flies over me. I duck instinctively.

The huge axe smashes into the tree ahead of me, severing the trunk clean through. The tree groans and crashes into others as it topples over backwards. The weapon acts as a boomerang and returns to the man who threw it, far enough above my head to tell me that was a warning.

He just cut a tree in half with no effort. It hits me then. The Shadow Knight has to be the Villain of this story. I mean, he’s not even human and he tears through the armies of this world like they’re toy soldiers.

I start forward.

The crack of a whip makes me run, but the thin leather winds around my waist, holding me in place.

“Okay. I, uh, see your point,” I say, raising my hands. “How can we get through this without you chopping me in half?”

“You tell me you’re the witch or prove you didn’t steal the witching stone from her.”

“That’s reasonable. But . . . hear me out here.” Silently, I’m cursing, my mind racing. I face him. He’s got the axe in one hand, the whip in the other, poised for battle. Sexy as sin, I’ve also never seen anything so terrifying in all my life. My chant of this is fiction sizzles and bursts into flames in the face of this man’s intensity. “What if neither is true and this is a huge misunderstanding? I mean, I’m not supposed to be here. I had a bad day because of Jason and was drinking wine and watching TV and then blacked out and . . . I’m not supposed to be here!” There’s a hysterical note in my voice and my eyes are watering. I’m two seconds from a breakdown.

The man-beast is listening, or I assume he is. There’s no expression on his boar-face, but he’s not moving and not trying to kill me.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I repeat, my throat tight. “This is a mistake.”

“You are the witch.”

“I’m not a witch! I’m a librarian! I read books for a living, not run through forests or eat jerky or wear big boots or talk to birds!” I’m shouting the words, but I don’t care.

“You are a new witch. I will show you.” He strides towards me, the sight of him moving manages to still some of my panic. He jiggles the whip loose and winds it deftly, replacing it at his hip.

The man is . . . incredible. He’s got a body unlike anything in the real world. He’s too beefcake-y, too perfect to be anything other than a character in a book. Wide, thick, muscular torso, lean abdomen, not an ounce of fat on him, and biceps and thighs that make me drool, or would, if not for his weird boar’s head.

Should I run away instead of stare at him? My face is hot and I can’t stop looking at his chest when he approaches and halts close enough for me to smell him. Some part of me melts.

My god, he smells like. . .night. And sweet clover. And horses. And . . . man. A combination I’ve never experienced before in the real world. It’s strong and makes my mouth water, a tantalizing combination of his skin, dark musk, and a drop of sweetness that gives me the sudden urge to nibble on him. It reminds me a little of food, but I can’t place what.

He takes my arm.

“You are newly come from the edge of the world,” he says.

I look up and cringe. No matter how good he smells and how ripped his body is, he’s got the head of a freaking monster.

Figures I find a man who looks like this and isn’t human. If there’s one thing LF has got spot on, it’s my horrible luck with men.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“’Tis obvious by your hysterics. You are behaving most unwitchly.”

Pretty sure that’s not a real word, LF. “A man with a monster head is making fun of me,” I mumble.

He takes my forearm. His hand is huge, warm, and rough, and his touch sends a spark of electricity through me. For a fictional character, he’s feeling like the real thing.

With his other hand, he lifts the axe.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I say, yanking at my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Showing you that you are a witch,” he replies calmly. “I will chop off your hand and you will watch it grown back. Then you will believe me.”

“Chop off my hand?” I echo in astonishment. “No!”

“You wish me to chop off another part of your body?”

“What? No! What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand. “You can’t go around chopping off parts of my body!”