Page 5 of Witch's Fate

She pressed her hand against his hard chest, sending a bolt of heat meant to burn and punish.

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark smile and he pressed his palm over hers, absorbing what she gave him without reacting at all.

Her jaw slackened. It should have hurt like hell. Made him jump back at the very least, if not fall to the ground.

But his golden eyes flared with desire and his full lips kicked up at the corners.

He liked it.

What the hell?

Malcolm absorbed the heat of her touch, relishing the burn. It wasn’t that he liked it, necessarily. But he liked that it made him feel something. And that it came from her.

Sofia’s skin was smooth and soft, her hand so tiny beneath his. She made him feel like a great, hulking beast. Which he was. As part wulver, the wolf was inside him. And the things that beast wanted to do to her…

Suitable for one such as him. But another voice in his head suggested that those things ought not be done to one as beautiful and delicate as she. That part of his mind was quiet enough to ignore.

He wanted her too bloody much. He’d wanted her for centuries—a gnawing, aching need that only got worse as the years passed.

Finally, after centuries without her, he’d caved. Power could keep him warm for only so long. He’d taken the dagger to help his brother, the one person that Malcolm had managed to maintain a semblance of a relationship with after becoming a warlock. Felix had needed the demon blade to save his mate. Afterward Malcolm had decided to keep it for himself.

So that he could have her.

And she’d come to him as he’d expected. As he’d forced her to.

She jerked her palm free. He almost reached out to snatch it back, but he clenched his fist. She still had him by the balls after all this time, but there was no way in hell he’d let her know it.

“I don’t care why you took it. I don’t have time to care,” she said. Her sultry voice, laced with the hint of Brazilian accent, wrapped around him. Her dark eyes flashed with rage and her normally full lips pressed into a thin line.

She was so lovely. Golden skin and the elegant features of her Brazilian and Portuguese ancestors. Still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he hadn’t been able to forget her.

“That dagger is this year’s tribute to the High Witches,” she said. “I need it back.Now.”

He knew. He’d known when he’d taken it that she needed it to protect her village. In exchange for not destroying her village, the High Witches demanded that she find and bring them a treasure of their choosing.

“Are you late in offering it?” he asked, though he also knew that answer. He’d been keeping an eye on her for centuries. Every year, on October the twenty-eighth, she made the offering. Today was that day.

He’d been waiting for her.

“I am.” Fear flashed in her dark eyes. He didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like that it dampened the desire he could sense in her. “And you’re going to come with me to make the offering. To explain why it’s late. And to take the hit if necessary.”

“Am I?”

“You are.” Her voice was hard, its normally husky tone replaced with steel. “Your theft made me break the terms. That’s punishable by death. And if one of us has to die for this, it’ll be you.”

A growl rose in his throat at the idea of the High Witches daring to threaten either of them. “Why would I do that?”

Her hand flashed up and lightning streaked from her palm, hitting him square in the chest. He grunted in pain, smelled singed flesh, and then grabbed her wrist tight enough to make her stop. The little witch had put more into this second strike.

“You can’t threaten me. You’re quick, but not nearly as powerful as I.” He rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin at the base of her slender wrist.

Her features hardened. “I know that all too well.”

He didn’t want to talk about their past, so he made his offer. “I’ll help you, in exchange for a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Any sort of my choosing.”

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