Page 11 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

I realize I’m holding my breath in anticipation and let it out as subtly as I can. Her magic, it seems, is the kind that can be offered through the air, and I find myself fascinated.

She has long, graceful fingers and a confident bearing about her, as if she recharges crystals every day before breakfast and does much more complicated spells every night before bed. This is a woman who knows her power.

The surge is strong, but no portal appears. Nothing happens. No shadows. No flickers. It did not work.

The witch drops her hands to her sides, saying something sharp under her breath, and closes her eyes tightly. Fucking adorable. Her little hiss of dissatisfaction. My cock twitches and for a moment, I forget all reason.

I wonder what her thumb would feel like under the pad of my thumb. I wonder what her mouth would taste like.

This feeling—this curiosity and desire—is not to be trusted.

Yes, my wolf wants to know everything about her, wants to claim her, but I am alone in a land without a portal.

The witch is supposed to be all-powerful.

Why is she unable to charge the crystal?

Why can’t she send me home? The questions tick and I remind myself not to trust her.

Not to trust a damn thing about any of this.

I shouldn’t be having these feelings—never. I’m meant to be alone.

The witch opens her eyes and holds her hands out to the anchor. More power moves through the air between us, and once again I find myself holding my breath. The air is magnetized and the pull is undeniable. Her magic floods the room with an intensity that nearly pushes me over.

But nothing happens to the portal.

“I do not know why your crystal is not charging—why I cannot charge it.” She frowns at my anchor, chewing at the inside of her lip. She looks to the shuttered windows. “Perhaps it’s the storm,” she whispers as if to herself.

The rain beats down harder on the roof as if the storm heard her. Three peals of thunder come, one after the other, and lightning sizzles near the cottage. It sounds like it might have touched down in the field. All the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up.

I do not relish the idea of going back out into that storm.

It should be waning by now, but instead it’s getting stronger.

If I were to go outside, I would have to huddle close to the cottage.

With lightning like that, it is too dangerous to cross into the forest. My gaze shifts to the witch…

and then I wouldn’t be here with her. And all this curiosity.

“May I stay here tonight?”

Our eyes lock. Her beautiful gaze is wide for a few beats of my heart.

She’s completely still as if the very notion I’d stay here rather than in the depths of the storm hadn’t occurred to her.

Has she never had another visitor before?

Is she… confined in this cottage by the powers that be?

Is it so strange to seek the only shelter in a violent storm?

She blinks, her eyelashes fluttering, and I feel like I’ve been put under a spell. I do not trust the intense need my wolf has for her or the interest I have in her. I do not trust the way her magic failed to charge my crystal.

I do not trust any of what has come over me, starting with the desire to leave my responsibilities behind and explore until I found the source of that scent. I do not trust the hold the beauty of this land had on me. I do not trust the storm that seemed to conspire to keep me here.

Every instinct I have from the army warns me that this cottage—and a night spent with this enthralling witch—may not be any less dangerous than the violent storm raging outside. It warns that I might be better off taking my chances with the lightning.

“I…” The witch’s hand comes up to the collar of her dress, and then she drops it back to her side.

There is more color in her cheeks now. Is that because of the power she used or because she is looking at me?

Is it because she is too warm in her dress with the roaring fire in the grate? “I only have one bed,” she finishes.

My cock stirs again, and I can hardly contain my desire as her lips part just slightly. This woman could be the death of me, and I would gladly welcome it.

She spoke so quietly that I could almost pretend I did not hear. I could ask her to repeat herself, if I was willing to pretend. But my eyes were locked on her lips from the moment she started speaking, so I saw her mouth form the word bed .

I crave to take her to bed.

One bed. There is nothing my wolf wants more than to take her to bed.

He scented her and hasn’t stopped pushing for more.

He can smell every part of her, and the sweet, floral scent is driving him wild.

Hours would not matter to him at all. When my wolf is in full control, human concepts like time do not mean anything, and that part of me is becoming more needy with every second I stand here.

My muscles tense and relax, straining against my wolf. She is a witch and this is not real. It is the only logical conclusion.

I don’t let the desire drive me wild. I’m a soldier. Trained and hardened.

I can withstand a wild desire from my wolf. I can keep him under control.

I can keep myself under control. My hands flex at my side as I glance back at the door, the rain pounding against it.

The storm or the siren in front of me. Fucking hell. My eyes drift back to the gorgeous woman, and I hate the reality that I will never mate. There is no wolf in the world for me. I am fated to be alone, which means these desires can only hurt me.

Because if I tasted her—if I touched her—if I attempted the ritual to claim her as mine?—

It would fail. I cannot claim her as mine. I will not have a mate. No wolf will ever be my fated mate.

But , a small voice in the back of my head says, she is not a wolf.

Those thoughts are so far down any potential path that I should not even be having them, yet I cannot stop the images from filling my mind.

I have only heard a handful of words out of her mouth, and I can already imagine how her moans would sound.

I have not touched her, but I can imagine how her sweet curves would feel under my palms.

I swallow down all the feral noises I want to make and the filthy words I want to say.

I forcefully stop thinking of all the delicious images of her spread out on a bed or in a pile of blankets on the floor.

I do not let a single image come to my mind except for what is right in front of me—the witch, standing near her worktable, watching me right back.

She swallows thickly and my eyes are drawn to the little dip in her throat. Fuck me.

I cannot take my eyes off her. I cannot pretend I want to look anywhere else. I cannot pretend I would rather be out in the storm, smelling mud and wet grass and lightning.

“I just,” she starts, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “There’s only the one bed.”

I nod my head without thinking, hoping it looks polite and restrained. “I can sleep on the floor.”