Free Black Moon Draw by Lizzy Ford Page A

attention is elsewhere. There’s a basin of water on a tree stump and he heads there. His head comes off, followed by his weapons. I watch him strip off weapons, astonished by the size of the equipment and how authentic the different pieces are. There’s blood on the blade of his sword and I move away, squeamish.
    He strips off his kilt. I freeze, staring at the backside of his naked body.
    His round ass, bulging thighs, the thick muscles of his back and shoulders . . . holy shit is he hot. Unnaturally so.
    Glancing over his shoulder at me, he raises an eyebrow over one of those enigmatic eyes. They’re dark blue again.
    I quickly turn my back to him.
    “You have never seen an unclothed man?” He’s amused.
    My mind is too occupied with the image of him naked for me to come up with a smart answer. I fan myself.
    “You have naught to fear from me, lady, so long as you follow my rules. A battle-witch is only good to me if she is pure.”
    He has no idea how far from the truth that is. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism started by these battle-witches to keep the barbarians from hurting them. If so, it’s smart, and I’m not about to ruin it for any fellow witches. This man crushes armies and slaughters thousands to win wars. He isn’t the kind who likes to be denied something he wants.
    “Thank god you’re betrothed.” I flush at the disappointment in my voice – and the fact I said it out loud at all.
    “Aye, there’s that,” he says shortly. He throws a wet rag across the space hard enough that it splats against the tree trunk wall.
    “My god, she’s perfect. How can you sound so . . . meh?” I ask.
    “Not your concern,” he grumbles. “I have never had a new battle-witch.”
    You can have me any way you want, honey. I banish the words, knowing they’re not the right ones for this situation, even if I am sitting so close to a man that looks like that.
    “I’m not here for the long term,” I manage. “I’m going home.”
    “No one who leaves the edge of the world ever returns.”
    “I’m sure someone goes back.” It’s not clear if we’re talking about the same place – the real world, where I came from – or this ambiguous place I can’t quite figure out.
    “Never.”
    “But if people come from there, then there has to be a way back.”
    “There is.”
    “You know it?” I ask. “You know how to get me home?”
    “I do. But why would you want to go now that you are free?”
    Free? “Are we talking about the same thing?”
    “The edge of the world from whence you escaped the slave lords that rule the seas.”
    At this, I turn and face him, too surprised to be self-conscious. Thank god he’s got the kilt back on and is finishing up sponging down his shapely arms with a wet rag. He’s studying me with eyes that glimmer purple and green in the lantern light.
    “You did not come from the edge of the world,” he assesses.
    The Red Knight’s warning returns. I’m not supposed to reveal where I’m really from. The way he said it makes me think battle-witches as a whole come from somewhere other than the edge of the world, that it’s some kind of conspiracy. If the edge of the world is filled with slave traders, then I definitely don’t want to return there.
    “Where did you come from?” he asks in a low, careful tone, one I instinctively know to be afraid of.
    “I have to go home,” I say, distraught.
    “You are home.” His tone is firm enough that I look up. “That medallion marks you as mine and belonging to my kingdom.”
    A thrilled flutter goes through me, until I recall he’s got a woman a million times more beautiful than me. He’s claiming me like he might a horse and nothing else. Touching the medallion, I start to pull it off. “If I give it back, can I leave?”
    “If you take it off, I’ll do more than take off your hand.” He’s gone tense, his piercing eyes gray with emotion and perfect body ready to snap me in half. I’m not sure how I can be turned on