dismay. How can this be? they wondered. All the auspices were good. How can this be?
Were none of the warlocks her True Mate? Were none of them even worthy?
And then, from behind the line of men, another warlock stepped forward. He appeared in the Circle with a shimmering, as though he’d just emerged from behind an enchanted curtain.
He was tall and dark and broad. His eyes were large and brown and his brows had a wicked slant. His hair was an unruly mop of curls so maddening her fingers twitched to smooth it. He smiled and her attention shifted to his lips and…oh. What beautiful lips.
Arousal shot through her womb. Midea’s potion had finally awoken. Willow stared at him, this warlock, this man. And she saw it. With her inner eye. She saw the eddies of magic, the brilliant whorls of iridescent light swirling around him.
Drawn to him, she stepped forward.
Behind her, she heard the restless rustle as the other postulants recognized defeat. She heard the whispers, the outrage, the denials of her coven. But it was all muted, silenced, by his presence.
Slowly, she raised her hand. He took it.
A hush fell over the glen.
“This is Damien,” the Great Warlock announced. “He is my son.”
“Damien.” His name was a whisper on her lips.
“Willow.”
They walked together, hand in hand, to the altar. She tried to pull her gaze from his, to glance around at all the watchers, but couldn’t bear to look away. She wanted to drink him in, fill herself with him, be quenched by him.
As they approached the great stone altar, her body thrummed, preparing itself for him. He stepped on the dais and brought her up beside him.
But instead of lifting her onto the altar as he was supposed to do, he fell to his knees.
Willow blinked. Midea had not prepared her for this. A man on his knees before a woman meant one thing and one thing only—no matter what the society.
He knelt there on the hard stone and held her hand and looked up into her eyes. “I’m so pleased you chose me, Willow.” These words were whispered, for her ears only, but what he said next was for the whole company. A very public declaration. “I, Damien DeWinter, pledge myself to you Willow Ostreth, for now and forever more.”
She shivered. This was a portentous pronouncement, to be sure, but there was an undercurrent here, a tantalizing trail of…something that led her to believe it was even more important than she suspected. What it was, she couldn’t quite unravel.
“Do you accept my troth?”
“Yes.” The word came. No thoughts prompted it. She just opened her mouth and let her heart speak for her. One look at his face and she knew—just knew—she’d said the right thing. He fairly glowed with satisfaction.
He stood and lifted her then onto the stone altar and, while she was still sitting, kissed her. His lips were strong and firm and familiar. She was drawn into the embrace, forgetting about the watchers, forgetting about the altar, forgetting about the ceremony and focusing only on him.
His hand was heavy and warm on her thigh. With a shock, she realized it was under her gown. She murmured and shifted her legs farther apart, knowing—just knowing—it was what he wanted. He groaned in appreciation and let his fingers trail higher and higher still. And then he caressed her, found her center and pressed in. His finger was gentle on her clit but she gasped anyway at his touch. Because as he brushed it, it swelled. His other hand found her breast and he teased one nipple, then the other. She shifted restlessly as a damp, warm rain fell.
“Please,” she whispered, but he heard her. He understood. He cradled her head in his palms and laid her down on the altar, and then levered himself beside her, over her.
He looked down at her face and grinned. She couldn’t help but respond. There was just something about him that warmed her. She felt as though she’d always known him.
“I’m not crazy about doing this here,” he murmured. His
Were none of the warlocks her True Mate? Were none of them even worthy?
And then, from behind the line of men, another warlock stepped forward. He appeared in the Circle with a shimmering, as though he’d just emerged from behind an enchanted curtain.
He was tall and dark and broad. His eyes were large and brown and his brows had a wicked slant. His hair was an unruly mop of curls so maddening her fingers twitched to smooth it. He smiled and her attention shifted to his lips and…oh. What beautiful lips.
Arousal shot through her womb. Midea’s potion had finally awoken. Willow stared at him, this warlock, this man. And she saw it. With her inner eye. She saw the eddies of magic, the brilliant whorls of iridescent light swirling around him.
Drawn to him, she stepped forward.
Behind her, she heard the restless rustle as the other postulants recognized defeat. She heard the whispers, the outrage, the denials of her coven. But it was all muted, silenced, by his presence.
Slowly, she raised her hand. He took it.
A hush fell over the glen.
“This is Damien,” the Great Warlock announced. “He is my son.”
“Damien.” His name was a whisper on her lips.
“Willow.”
They walked together, hand in hand, to the altar. She tried to pull her gaze from his, to glance around at all the watchers, but couldn’t bear to look away. She wanted to drink him in, fill herself with him, be quenched by him.
As they approached the great stone altar, her body thrummed, preparing itself for him. He stepped on the dais and brought her up beside him.
But instead of lifting her onto the altar as he was supposed to do, he fell to his knees.
Willow blinked. Midea had not prepared her for this. A man on his knees before a woman meant one thing and one thing only—no matter what the society.
He knelt there on the hard stone and held her hand and looked up into her eyes. “I’m so pleased you chose me, Willow.” These words were whispered, for her ears only, but what he said next was for the whole company. A very public declaration. “I, Damien DeWinter, pledge myself to you Willow Ostreth, for now and forever more.”
She shivered. This was a portentous pronouncement, to be sure, but there was an undercurrent here, a tantalizing trail of…something that led her to believe it was even more important than she suspected. What it was, she couldn’t quite unravel.
“Do you accept my troth?”
“Yes.” The word came. No thoughts prompted it. She just opened her mouth and let her heart speak for her. One look at his face and she knew—just knew—she’d said the right thing. He fairly glowed with satisfaction.
He stood and lifted her then onto the stone altar and, while she was still sitting, kissed her. His lips were strong and firm and familiar. She was drawn into the embrace, forgetting about the watchers, forgetting about the altar, forgetting about the ceremony and focusing only on him.
His hand was heavy and warm on her thigh. With a shock, she realized it was under her gown. She murmured and shifted her legs farther apart, knowing—just knowing—it was what he wanted. He groaned in appreciation and let his fingers trail higher and higher still. And then he caressed her, found her center and pressed in. His finger was gentle on her clit but she gasped anyway at his touch. Because as he brushed it, it swelled. His other hand found her breast and he teased one nipple, then the other. She shifted restlessly as a damp, warm rain fell.
“Please,” she whispered, but he heard her. He understood. He cradled her head in his palms and laid her down on the altar, and then levered himself beside her, over her.
He looked down at her face and grinned. She couldn’t help but respond. There was just something about him that warmed her. She felt as though she’d always known him.
“I’m not crazy about doing this here,” he murmured. His
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