Black Moon Draw

Firelight brightened her features, which were becoming prettier every time he noticed them. With a mind always on his next battle, he rarely glanced twice at a woman's face. Normally, he was interested in what was between her legs more than how she looked. A battle-witch could not be touched the way a normal woman could, hence his restraint around her. In spite of the knowledge that a witch's kiss caused a man's parts to fall off, he took a moment to genuinely observe her.

"I'm serious. What part did you hear me say?" she asked.

Oval face, feminine features, large eyes with thick eyelashes, and a slender neck. His battle-witch was far younger than any other witch ever to serve him, and beautiful in an earthy, natural way as opposed to his betrothed's cool, chiseled beauty. She seemed too interested in his response to her mad question to heed the warning of his eyes turning colors.

His own men never grew this close to him for that reason.

"That you believe this not to be real," he answered finally.

"But it's not real! You're not real. Those men who died today - they're not real either!" There was a note of hysteria in her voice, one he recognized from earlier.

"What madness has claimed you?" he questioned. "Are you suffering from a curse?"

"No, of course not. This is all . . . fake." She waved her hand towards the encampment. "This, too." This time, she waved at the sky.

He snatched her arms, his restraint sizzling. "Enough."

She jerked.

"Am I not real?" he demanded.

The witch tried to pull away, but he held her in place before him, moving closer to her appealing, feminine shape with its large breasts, tucked waist, and the rounded hips, while keeping her where she was.

"Are my hands not on you?" He certainly felt her skin, saw her chest rise and fall with each breath, watched the wisps of her hair bounce in the night breeze. He had never noticed this of his betrothed or the many women he took to his bed, never felt compelled to understand what any woman thought and why.

The Shadow Knight drew her against him. It was natural for his hips to press to hers, for him to gaze down into the eyes the colors of the shallow sea.

"Yes," she said more quietly.

"Then how am I not real?"

"You're just . . . not. You can't be."

"Maybe the world you came from is the one that is not real."

She gasped. Alarm and fear spun through her eyes, her breathing erratic.

"You had not thought of that," he assessed. He held her gaze and lifted one hand to touch her face. "You feel my hands on you. When I cut you, did you not feel pain and bleed?"