Page 10 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

RYKER

I f I had seen this woman in battle, I’d have died right there without striking another blow.

Her beauty is a gift from the gods. I’ve never seen a soul so lovely.

From her dark hair with waves that caress her face as the wind slips between us, to her striking hazel eyes that spark mischief and wisdom.

She embodies a power in her slender frame that is draped in such delicate cloth.

I don’t think I could look away even if I wanted to. I’m entrapped and I do not fear it. My body wishes to bow to her. It is as overwhelming as it is soothing. Laying eyes on the witch is like coming home.

She’s tall, though not nearly as tall as I am, and the curves under her dress are shapely, mouthwatering spells.

Her eyes in the firelight are a color I can’t name.

I need to take her face in my hands and draw her closer so I can put a name to that hue, but my training keeps me in my place.

My fingers itch to explore every inch of her skin.

She’s intoxicating and I have barely breathed her in.

My orders were not to find the witch and lay claim to her.

My orders were to find her so that she might help me charge my crystal and find a way out of here.

I have a duty to uphold the honor of my oath.

And yet it all seems to shatter the moment I scent her mouthwatering fragrance.

It’s nearly terrifying, the pull I feel to her.

The problem is that my oath seems to be no match for the fullness of her lips and the red flush on her cheeks. Those things, together with the gorgeous body hidden under her dress, have caught the attention of my wolf.

It stirs inside me, demanding that I inhale deeper, demanding to get closer to her scent. It is the same scent I caught on the wind—the one that made me burn with curiosity.

Heat engulfs me in an instant, and it is far stronger than the urges that struck me when I thought I was mere minutes from returning home.

It’s as if the fire has jumped out of her grate and into my blood.

I bite back a growl and plant my boots on the muddy ground, using all the power of my muscles to stand still.

This does not matter to my wolf. My senses sharpen, telling me more about the lines of her face and the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat and her quick, shallow breathing.

The witch grips an athame in one hand, and her posture tells me she knows how to use it, but her pupils are blown large and dark with interest. The scent coming off her now is fresh and even more intoxicating.

There is a pull between us—some recognition, I think, or that is what my wolf wishes it to be.

The witch cocks her head slightly to the side and inhales, shifting the air around her and sending more of her scent into my veins as I pray for control. As I demand it from my wolf. This was a mistake. This woman…she bewitches me. I am sure of it.

“You,” she begins, adjusting her grip on the athame. “Are not human.”

“No. I am a shifter.” I barely get out. As if I am breathless before her.

“I see…your eyes…” She takes a small step forward. The witch—this beautiful creature—is close enough for me to reach out and touch, yet the space she leaves between us is intentional. I do not breach it. If I do, I will not stop until I have satisfied my wolf. Until I have satisfied myself.

She gazes into my eyes, her own bright. “They are sharp and gray. Your wolf wants…” The witch looks for another long moment, then takes a sharp breath. “Your wolf wishes to hunt.”

With a step back, her hand raises, and the door seems to obey her. Her hand is on the wood by the time I put my hand up to stop it. The pressure of the door seems greater than it should be. Even if the witch pushed it hard, it should not be swinging so heavily into my hand.

Magic. The power of the witch.

I have more strength than the door, though I must adjust my stance and engage my arm to hold it.

This door must not close on me. She must not send me back out into the rain.

Not only because of the crystals, but because my wolf is nipping and growling and demanding to be near her, and he will howl for hours if he is denied.

“Please. I…I will not cause you harm.” Not an ounce of shame is felt although my plea is desperate.

Her hand tightens on the door, rising an inch like she might try to slam it shut in my face, but after a few beats she lowers her hand and steps back once again although the door does not budge an itch. Still I fight against its push.

The witch’s eyes lower, to the doorknob I grip.

“You may come in.” Her voice low, testing something on the tip of her tongue. With her permission, the magic pushing the door subsides and although my heart still races, everything around me seems to slow. With one breath, I look at her and easily push the door open.

I step through the threshold and shiver at the sudden change in temperature.

A fire burns in the fireplace, throwing heat and light into a good-sized main room.

It is a cozy place with a blue velvet sofa and a colorful chair by the fire.

A quilt lays in a basket between the two.

There’s a small table by the window with jars of herbs and crystals strewn about it.

Farther into the cottage, I can make out the kitchen and another table with four chairs around it.

Many shelves line the walls, and there are crystals, books, and spell jars everywhere.

A journal lays open on the chair closest to me and as my eyes turn to it, the thing closes on its own.

Sharply and with an authority that catches me off guard.

There are enough odd curiosities to look at for days, but I only spare them a short glance.

My wolf is hungry for the sight of the witch.

With a few steps backward, she puts a few feet between us, her brow creased, then waves her hand at me in an odd way. Her slender fingers each taking a turn in a quick wave. As if she reads me like she reads the books that lay everywhere in this place.

I had not known how much rain was weighing me down until it lifts off.

I feel her magic on my skin, and a low growl works at the back of my throat.

I swallow it down before I can let the sound loose.

We have only just spoken for the first time.

I do not wish to frighten her with the growls of my wolf.

The rumors promised the witch was all-powerful, but perhaps I didn’t know what that meant.

With a wave of her hand she casts a drying spell.

Lifting away water from my clothes and bag and boots, leaving me warm and dry.

The change is sudden and leaves me still questioning the magic she possesses. It seemed to take no effort at all.

“Thank you,” I say instead, swallowing thickly, and surprised at how much control I’ve gained by simply being welcomed. At being under her spell.

“You’re welcome,” she answers softly, bowing her head just slightly which causes her hair to brush against her collar. My mouth waters at the sight of her bare skin exposed at her neck. My cock stirs and I feel heady with thoughts I should not have. “Come over to the table, would you?”

I follow her to the table. No light—except for the lightning—shines onto the surface.

On the edge of the room candlelight flickers but this space seems different.

It is clearly a worktable, with a crystal ball in the center.

There is a small stack of cut flowers, some lengths of ribbon, more jars and crystals, and a little wicker basket.

The witch pauses at the table, her eyes flickering over her things as if she expects something to be missing.

“What is it you used to summon your portal?”

I swing my backpack off my shoulder and let it rest on the floor, then reach inside for the anchor and the crystal I used before.

I show her without speaking. I know not of what has happened to my voice as I obey this witch without question.

Amusement and curiosity has taken over my decades of training.

“And do you hold them like you are now?”

“No.”

I bend down and place the anchor on the floor, then place the crystal in its place as well.

The witch’s eyebrow lifts, but she does not seem to be surprised—merely curious.

I feel that way about her. The more I look at her, the more stunning she appears to me.

Every feature I linger on becomes more elegant.

More beautiful. More intriguing. I curl my fingers into my palms, keeping them still.

While she studies the anchor, I study the witch. Her hair curls wildly in the humidity of the storm. Her dress looks well-worn but also well-made.

She meets my eyes, and my wolf lets out a yip of pleasure.

The witch blinks a few times, as if she could hear it, and moves closer to the table.

She places one hand on the crystal ball, the tips of her nails clicking against the crystal as she does, and stretches the other out toward the anchor and my crystal as if to offer energy to it. To charge it with her own power.

There is a faint flicker in the air above the anchor, as if the portal is about to return, but it does not.

The witch frowns, then opens her hand wider. This time, the flicker is even lighter.

She makes a soft noise of irritation, then tries a third time.

Nothing. There is not so much as a shadow.

The witch rolls her shoulders and stretches her wrists.

She does not reach for the crystal ball again.

Instead, she extends both hands toward the anchor.

Her shoulders square and her body steadies as she faces the anchor.

My gods, she’s fucking gorgeous. I wish nothing more than to ravage her as she harnesses such power.

It takes great effort to snap out of it.