Black Moon Draw(46)

“Not this again. Woman, if you-”

“No! You listen! I am so sick of being ignored or put down when I know I’m right! I am from a different world and in that world, you aren’t real and you die in battle!” She started forward and tripped.

The Shadow Knight caught her this time, and she leaned into him, her soft body melting against his despite her anger. He wrapped both arms around her, plagued by the compulsion to do more than hold her steady. It took great will to keep his hands from roaming her body. “You make no sense,” he snapped.

“I make perfect sense.” She tossed her head back to glare at him. “You wear a boar head and refuse to marry your betrothed!”

Failing to see how that was an insult or sign of his nonsense, the Shadow Knight pulled the necklace from her bodice with his other hand.

“You are drunk, but you are not blind,” he growled. “You see this?”

She grabbed at the medallion, missed then tried again. “Yes.”

“It means you are mine.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head solemnly. “The Red Knight said . . . you don’t want me. Or you’d have ritual. Done the ritual. And you have a princess.”

The Shadow Knight almost released her. She wasn’t steady enough on her feet. He was so, so tempted to let her take her chances. That the Red Knight put this foolishness into her head was not helping.

“What ritual?” she asked, puzzled gaze going from the medallion to his face again.

The Shadow Knight relaxed. There was no ritual between a knight and his witch. It had been a ploy by the Red Knight, one she fell for. “He may be right. I may not keep you.”

“You can’t sell me.” Her tone took on a plaintive note, her features falling into sorrow.

“You are a terrible battle-witch,” he replied.

“I’m not a virgin either.”

He froze. “What?” His body responded in a way he couldn’t control. Heat unfurled in his lower belly and spread outward quickly. He’d purposely tried not to notice the flush of her cheeks that made her eyes sparkle, or the way her shapely body molded against his. Unaccustomed to restraint, he’d been moderately proud of himself for not acting on how enchanting his witch was.

“Not for three years. Maybe that’s why.” Sagging against him, the battle-witch planted her forehead in his shoulder. “I need brownies.”

Her nonsense was straining his patience. “I have seen you use your magic.”

“Maybe all those witches lied to you.”

The Shadow Knight took her shoulders and pushed her away from him, seeking her eyes. She gazed up at him, a combination of lost and confused.

But she was not lying. The soft skin, perfect curves, and spirited woman before him retained her magic despite not being pure.

“You jest,” he said, thoughts flying to a little known line in the legends about his family, a mad, prophetic mumbling that made no sense until now. Only one other battle-witch was rumored to have maintained her magic after losing her purity.

It is not possible. He had fancifully entertained the idea the woman who bore the name from legend was destined for a similar fate: to become a warrior queen.

But he had not considered it truly possible. The day his war was over, he retired the battle-witch or the gods returned her to her home. The idea his hands didn’t have to stop the next time they met her bare skin . . .

“It is possible.” She rolled her eyes at him with a noisy sigh. “I’ll show you.” The battle-witch took his cheeks in her hand and pulled his face to hers, kissing him.

Rarely did anyone catch the Shadow Knight by surprise, but his witch had a way about her that left him . . . leery. His guard was down with the drunken wreck of a woman in his arms, and the kiss was the last act he expected of the woman that was either frightened of him or angry.

As with any woman, he instinctively responded. She was drunk, but her kiss was deep, firm.

Hungry.

She tasted of wine and what herbs the Red Knight used on her, her velvety tongue and the warm, moist depths of her mouth inciting his imagination to consider how the depths between her legs would feel. Desire flared to life within him, fire making him more sensitive to her womanly musk and the petal softness of her skin.

Suddenly, she sagged in his arms, unconscious.

He lifted his head, not expecting his body to respond to her the way it did. His thoughts were spinning, his body fevered. Was this part of her magic? To seduce a man? For he had not felt this besotted from one kiss ever.

One of his hands went to his loins, where his arousal strained against his breeches. Thus far, his man parts had not fallen off.

Maybe all those witches lied to you. He had never directly asked a witch if she were pure; it was a fact for every witch but the great warrior queen of Black Moon Draw. This witch claimed not to be and even more vexing, had kissed him expertly and left his manhood intact.

Bewildered by what passed, the Shadow Knight stooped to pick her up. She was unconscious, breathing deeply, her lips reddened from the kiss.

She did not kiss like a woman who had never been touched.

He set her down on the bed and straightened, gaze lingering on the rise and fall of her chest and her perfect, large breasts.

Taking a step back, the Shadow Knight battled internally for a long moment, torn between the desire in his body and the reeling of his mind. If what she said was true, that she retained her magic despite not being pure, she was not the kind of witch he was accustomed to. She was different, like the warrior queen from long ago, destined for a fate he had not considered.