Black Moon Draw

"Oh, I do," I whisper, lifting my gaze to his as he stops close enough for our toes to touch. I feel a little lost looking up at him, overwhelmed as much by his size as I am my circumstances - and oh-so-aware of that fantastically amazing body.

"Where are you from?"

I swallow hard.

He steps into me and I back away until I bump into the wall of the tree. He doesn't stop at the edge of my comfort zone, but closes the distance between us until our bodies touch.

I have no idea what this man is capable of. From the first few chapters I read on Wattpad, he slaughtered the armies of seven kingdoms in his quest for victory over the realm. He rarely takes prisoners, never stops for more than one night in the same spot, and is driven by near-madness to fight the next battle. There were no details about his dealings with women, friends, or family.

His eyes are gray once more, the color they were earlier after his battle.

Bad sign.

"You are on very dangerous territory right now, witch." The warning pierces the buffer between this imaginary world and me. I am almost able to write off the deaths I saw today because the characters aren't real. One of his hands rests on my collar, its size enough to remind me of his strength, if he chooses to act. I've never been small, delicate, or ultra-feminine, but I feel that way now, like I'd shatter faster than a plate hitting the floor.

"Another world," I whisper. "I'm from another world."

His eyes narrow.

"I don't know how I got here or why."

"'Tis simple. I prayed to the gods for you to come and they sent you to lift the curse," he says, glaring down at me.

"What curse?"

"The one that ends in nine days."

Nine days. I want to look at my hand to check the countdown, but can't move until he does.

His eyes travel down my face, lingering on my lips. Without releasing me, he shifts away to continue his visual examination.

I resist the urge to wrap the cloak around me more, so he doesn't notice my chubby thighs and wide hips. When he's finished his perusal, his attention returns to the crisscrossing straps on my torso. He lifts one of my hands, rubbing his thumb across my palm before he studies my fingernails.

"You have the hands of a queen," he says.

It doesn't sound like a compliment.

"You have never known true work. You do not bear the mark of slave traders or the brand of any other kingdom."