Page 4 of How to Claim A Shadow King

He pauses, and the being furthest to the right pulls his hood back, showcasing by far the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—until his face shifts, turning into a desiccated skull. “With the promise of new life and protection, a pact is drawn. We give our power as the Elder Gods of the Elder Forest⁠—”

“In return for the Witch Brides of Wild Oak Woods.” The third figure pulls his hood down, revealing a swirling maelstrom, a mass of shadows and storms, violent and unpredictable as nature itself.

Eyes like burning embers in a face that constantly shifts.

My breath catches, because under that cloud of smoke, of shadows—I see his face, and I realize I was wrong. This one is the most beautiful of all three. I take a step forward, and time feels sticky as it grabs at me.

“You must prepare your chosen witch brides, or the wild magic of the Elder Forest will overrun Wild Oak Woods,” he continues.

He doesn’t see me.

He should see me.

I can see him. Under that swirling, terrifying façade, that veil of pure darkness, I see his face.

The creature, this Elder God, he finally lifts his gaze past the turmoil of the shadows around him, and our eyes meet.

I know him. The words ring through my skull like a bell I can’t unhear.

“I am promised to the Elder Forest.” The words slip out of my mouth so quietly, so sure, that I hardly remember saying them.

The Elder God raises a hand, and time speeds up, a band stretched too tight.

I’m at his side between one blink and the next.

A strong, muscled arm wraps around my waist. He leans down, and I catch the scent of the forest after the rain, of pine and wet soil and night. “So you are. And you are mine.”

The words are soft, warm against my ear, where no breath has ever been.

He presses me close to his body, and the shadows around him expand.

“Do not let go,” he commands, and I realize belatedly my fingers have curled, unladylike, unbidden, into the strange material of his cloak.

Then I see nothing at all as the world goes dark around us.

2

AVELINE

“Breathe, human witch,” a voice says, a hint of sardonic humor in each syllable. “You’re going to swoon.”

I open my eyes and suck in a breath, forcing air into my chest—which presses right up against the Elder God’s chest. Gone are the cobbles and tents.

A dense, rotting carpet of primeval loam coats the forest floor. The air practically vibrates with a green-gold current, filling the thick air with the sharp, metallic tang of copper, damp moss, and crushed pine needles.

“I don’t swoon,” I manage. “I’ve never swooned in my life. Not even once.”

Not cloak. No.

He’s bare chested, save for a strange black harness around his shoulders. Two blades hang from his back.

I have never seen a man’s chest bare, except for the one elderly stable hand who preferred to work the horses without a shirt on. The stable hand’s chest looked nothing like this man’s—not that he’s a man.

He smirks down at me with an ancient, unfathomable expression.

Well, except for the fact that he looks utterly and totally amused by me.

Which grates.