He just cut a tree in half with no effort. It hits me then. The Shadow Knight has to be the Villain of this story. I mean, he's not even human and he tears through the armies of this world like they're toy soldiers.

I start forward.

The crack of a whip makes me run, but the thin leather winds around my waist, holding me in place.

"Okay. I, uh, see your point," I say, raising my hands. "How can we get through this without you chopping me in half?"

"You tell me you're the witch or prove you didn't steal the witching stone from her."

"That's reasonable. But . . . hear me out here." Silently, I'm cursing, my mind racing. I face him. He's got the axe in one hand, the whip in the other, poised for battle. Sexy as sin, I've also never seen anything so terrifying in all my life. My chant of this is fiction sizzles and bursts into flames in the face of this man's intensity. "What if neither is true and this is a huge misunderstanding? I mean, I'm not supposed to be here. I had a bad day because of Jason and was drinking wine and watching TV and then blacked out and . . . I'm not supposed to be here!" There's a hysterical note in my voice and my eyes are watering. I'm two seconds from a breakdown.

The man-beast is listening, or I assume he is. There's no expression on his boar-face, but he's not moving and not trying to kill me.

"I'm not supposed to be here," I repeat, my throat tight. "This is a mistake."

"You are the witch."

"I'm not a witch! I'm a librarian! I read books for a living, not run through forests or eat jerky or wear big boots or talk to birds!" I'm shouting the words, but I don't care.

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"You are a new witch. I will show you." He strides towards me, the sight of him moving manages to still some of my panic. He jiggles the whip loose and winds it deftly, replacing it at his hip.

The man is . . . incredible. He's got a physique unlike anything in the real world. He's too beefcake-y, too perfect to be anything other than a character in a book. Wide, thick, muscular torso, lean abdomen, not an ounce of fat on him, and biceps and thighs that make me drool, or would, if not for his weird boar's head.

Should I run away instead of stare at him? My face is hot and I can't stop looking at his chest when he approaches and halts close enough for me to smell him. Some part of me melts.




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