defense of their women. It had been a bad time, and Jarrod was glad he’d not been mated.
Now he sensed that was no longer true. He remembered the Goddess’s words. Had he truly chosen Freya all those years ago? And now, if there came a time for Freya to choose, would she ever choose him?
The sky had settled, and the last flickers of lightning died away.
Freya lay curled up on the blanket, her knees hugging her chest.
She hadn’t bothered dressing, and that gave him some hope.
She blinked open her eyes as he came to stand over her, her expression dazed with the lingering remnants of pleasure.
“I hate you. I hate all warlocks.”
But her tone held confusion and a hint of panic. He shrugged.
What could he say? He didn’t blame her for her hatred.
Her arched brows drew together. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I need time.”
He nodded, but the need to make her completely his was growing too strong to constrain. Her nakedness didn’t help. Unbuttoning his shirt, he slid out of it, tossing it to her. “Here put this on.” He waited while she scrambled up and shrugged into the shirt, unable to drag his eyes away from the full curve of her breasts, the nipples engorged with her pleasure—pleasure he had given her. He was almost relieved when the buttons were fastened, and she was hidden from him.
“I want you,” he said. “I want you right now, but I’ll give you time.”
He took comfort from the fact that she was staring at his naked chest. She licked her lips, and he groaned. She wanted time, but she wasn’t following the rules.
“If you really want time, I suggest you stop looking at me like that.”
Shock flared in her eyes, and she looked away abruptly.
Chapter Six
Freya glanced sideways at Jarrod. He faced straight ahead and for a moment, she wished he would turn her way. For two days now, he’d kept his distance. At least mentally—traveling together, it was impossible for him to be far from her physically.
She had asked for time, but his coolness was beginning to irk her.
Jarrod hadn’t suggested they share the horse again. Instead, he walked alongside while Freya rode. Or they both walked, one on either side, keeping the horse between them.
He talked to her though, keeping the conversation impersonal, telling her about the places and things he had seen in his long life.
Of the high mountains to the north, where dragons still flew, and the wild lands beyond, where even stranger things lived. The seas to the south where the water went for as far as you could see. He told her of an Arroway before the Laws of Segregation, when the witches’ moons had shone brightly, and the whole world had bloomed.
“Perhaps it can be that way again,” he said.
Freya didn’t answer. These last few days had shown to her clearly what the Order had done by stealing their magic. For the first time she felt complete, the empty place inside her filled. She wanted that for all her sisters; she wanted Arroway to bloom again. But freeing the Goddess seemed harder than ever. She had to find three witches with the mark. Shayla was the only one she knew, and she was gone.
Freya had no clue what their next move should be. But they desperately needed more information, and the only source she could think of was the man who’d first told her of the clearing where Shayla had disappeared. They were heading to his village now, and she hoped he’d be able and willing to tell them more.
There was no sign of pursuit, and some of the urgency had gone.
They traveled slowly, but for long hours, so at night they both slept deeply. She no longer worried that Shayla was dead. She sensed her presence in that new place where the magic now lived, growing stronger each hour. And as the magic strengthened, so did the desire, warming the coldness she had lived with all her life.
She peeked at Jarrod again. She could feel his tension, but he hadn’t attempted to touch her again or insisted on any intimacy
Now he sensed that was no longer true. He remembered the Goddess’s words. Had he truly chosen Freya all those years ago? And now, if there came a time for Freya to choose, would she ever choose him?
The sky had settled, and the last flickers of lightning died away.
Freya lay curled up on the blanket, her knees hugging her chest.
She hadn’t bothered dressing, and that gave him some hope.
She blinked open her eyes as he came to stand over her, her expression dazed with the lingering remnants of pleasure.
“I hate you. I hate all warlocks.”
But her tone held confusion and a hint of panic. He shrugged.
What could he say? He didn’t blame her for her hatred.
Her arched brows drew together. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I need time.”
He nodded, but the need to make her completely his was growing too strong to constrain. Her nakedness didn’t help. Unbuttoning his shirt, he slid out of it, tossing it to her. “Here put this on.” He waited while she scrambled up and shrugged into the shirt, unable to drag his eyes away from the full curve of her breasts, the nipples engorged with her pleasure—pleasure he had given her. He was almost relieved when the buttons were fastened, and she was hidden from him.
“I want you,” he said. “I want you right now, but I’ll give you time.”
He took comfort from the fact that she was staring at his naked chest. She licked her lips, and he groaned. She wanted time, but she wasn’t following the rules.
“If you really want time, I suggest you stop looking at me like that.”
Shock flared in her eyes, and she looked away abruptly.
Chapter Six
Freya glanced sideways at Jarrod. He faced straight ahead and for a moment, she wished he would turn her way. For two days now, he’d kept his distance. At least mentally—traveling together, it was impossible for him to be far from her physically.
She had asked for time, but his coolness was beginning to irk her.
Jarrod hadn’t suggested they share the horse again. Instead, he walked alongside while Freya rode. Or they both walked, one on either side, keeping the horse between them.
He talked to her though, keeping the conversation impersonal, telling her about the places and things he had seen in his long life.
Of the high mountains to the north, where dragons still flew, and the wild lands beyond, where even stranger things lived. The seas to the south where the water went for as far as you could see. He told her of an Arroway before the Laws of Segregation, when the witches’ moons had shone brightly, and the whole world had bloomed.
“Perhaps it can be that way again,” he said.
Freya didn’t answer. These last few days had shown to her clearly what the Order had done by stealing their magic. For the first time she felt complete, the empty place inside her filled. She wanted that for all her sisters; she wanted Arroway to bloom again. But freeing the Goddess seemed harder than ever. She had to find three witches with the mark. Shayla was the only one she knew, and she was gone.
Freya had no clue what their next move should be. But they desperately needed more information, and the only source she could think of was the man who’d first told her of the clearing where Shayla had disappeared. They were heading to his village now, and she hoped he’d be able and willing to tell them more.
There was no sign of pursuit, and some of the urgency had gone.
They traveled slowly, but for long hours, so at night they both slept deeply. She no longer worried that Shayla was dead. She sensed her presence in that new place where the magic now lived, growing stronger each hour. And as the magic strengthened, so did the desire, warming the coldness she had lived with all her life.
She peeked at Jarrod again. She could feel his tension, but he hadn’t attempted to touch her again or insisted on any intimacy
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