The Magic Queen by Jovee Winters

slipped to the inside of her thigh where a leather strap was tied to it, and with a jerk, she pulled out a wicked-looking knife. His brows rose, and this time, she smirked. Eyeing him with a look that said clearly she knew exactly where his thoughts had been, she snorted and began peeling the root with said knife.
    He chuckled. “ Touché , love.”
    Pointing the knife his way, she sneered, “I’m no one’s love, least of all yours.”
    Freyr held up his hands. “Ignore my idioms. They mean nothing. So if not love, what should I call you?” No need to tell her that he had no plans of stopping, especially not when every time he did it, blood rushed up her swan’s neck and turned it a pretty shade of pearl pink. Mostly, he was just curious who exactly was this woman the goddesses decided was his type.
    To be honest, when Aphrodite approached him, Freyr had sensed an air of desperation about her. Something in her entreaty led him to believe he had not been their first choice for this foul-mouthed wench. But maybe they it’d all been in his head because there was something about this crazy female that both repulsed and mesmerized him. She was a mystery he was growing increasingly curious about.
    For several long minutes, she said nothing and only occasionally tossed him a sidelong glance.
    She tested him. The woman was smart.
    Maybe she figured that if she kept her silence, he’d grow bored. And normally, that’s exactly what he’d have done. But he liked her look, and until he got into her panties, he’d keep up his seduction tactics, confident in the fact that once he tasted of the honey between her thighs, his attraction would fizzle out as it always did. She’d be just another lay, exactly like all the rest of them.
    Freyr had decided long ago that what he enjoyed more than the sex was the chase. There’d only ever been one who’d taken him on a merry chase and given him good sex. Not great sex. There was a difference. And she’d died long ago.
    Root peeled, she tossed the bulb over her shoulder.
    Pursing his lips, he shook his head. The woman boggled his mind. “Why did I go through all the effort of showing off for you, for you to only toss away my gift, woman?”
    Rather than snap at him, as he’d expected, she laughed. The sound so shocked him that all he could do was stare at her in awed silence. Her entire face had transformed. The shrew was gorgeous even when scowling, but there was an almost magical, ethereal quality to her that made him incapable of looking away, a softening to her features and form that made her seem far less attainable than the prickly pear aspect had.
    The idea so startled him that he frowned. No one was unattainable to him.
    Never knowing the way she’d just tilted his world on its axis, she said in her musical cadence, “The root is of no importance, male. The magick’s in the skin.” Dropping to her knees, she gathered the skins still coated in layers of dust into a tight pile.
    Curious despite himself, Freyr walked toward her watching studiously. Her movements were nimble and dexterous as she tugged on the pendant around her neck and tipped it forward. A glowing purple powder filled her palm.
    “Crushed dragon scale tossed onto a bed of peridragon thorn shavings. Extremely flammable and able to burn steadily for hours,” she said absently, like a teacher instructing her student. Tossing the powder onto the pile, she scooted quickly back, jumping away from the raging glow of amethyst flame that soared into the sky. The heat that rolled off it was intense and very much appreciated in the growing chilliness of the night.
    He’d seen magick aplenty among his own people and so wasn’t all that impressed. But he sort of was because hers was purple.
    “You’ve provided us fire, love.”
    She hissed, and he chuckled.
    “Wish me to cease with the pet names? Give me your real one. Otherwise, I’m liable to keep—”
    Slapping her hands onto her hips, she stared at him