The Magic Queen by Jovee Winters Page B

together what few details he could from his short time knowing her. One. She wasn’t all that vain. She had the body of a nubile goddess but hardly flaunted it. Her dress was little more than rags sewn together. Some of the fabric was even threadbare in spots. Two. She’d dug her hands into dirt and had never once complained of grime beneath her fingernails. Three. She liked to laugh, though he was sure she did not know it yet. Four. Being a crone—while one was able to get away with a multitude of sins because most people would assume any vitriol that poured from such an ancient mouth was simply the ramblings of a touched mind—was no fun. The body would ache. The joints would hurt. He knew because he too had an ancient form. Five. The maiden would often be overlooked as silly and flighty, too young to understand the truths of the world.
    He smirked, and she arched a brow.
    “Well?”
    “The mother,” he said without missing a beat. “She is your preferred form.”
    He wanted to crow with satisfaction when a look of befuddled shock flitted so quickly across her face that he knew the emotion to be truthful. She quickly schooled her features back to calm, but he’d already witnessed the betrayal of her practiced façade.
    “ Hm ,” was all she said.
    Puffing out his chest proudly, he quickly picked up the final few rocks to finish off the task. He dusted off his hands and waited for her thanks.
    She looked at the rocks, at him, at the rocks, and then said, “I hope you don’t expect praise for that.” Without another word, she sat down cross-legged in front of the fire, rucking her skirts up around her knees, and stared directly into the flames. Two sensations filled him. One, she’d not applauded his paltry efforts. Two, she really did have nice knees.
    More and more intrigued, he walked over to her, sat at a close but far enough distance so as not to get punched for his impudence, and glanced at her.
    She waited at least a minute before looking over at him. “Let’s get three things straight right now, Fellatio. One. It’s never going to happen. Two. I’m not here to make friends—”
    He cleared his throat, rather liking her pet name for him, but unwilling to admit it.
    “Or become sex buddies. Whatever.”
    He snorted.
    “And three.” She inhaled deeply. “You need to move.”
    Laughing, he shook his head. “I’m not here to make waves, love.”
    She growled but didn’t punch him. She might not want to admit this, but she wouldn’t dare. He was more than just a god of sex. There was one small, but crucial part of his godhood she didn’t seem to understand. Perhaps it should have offended his godly hubris that she didn’t seem to know as much about him as he did about her, but the woman was entertaining as hell, and no matter how cranky he knew he should be, he simply wasn’t.
    He scooted a little to the left. “Good?”
    He’d basically only moved an inch. She sighed and hung her head, which caused her hair to curtain her face, and shook it. “Whatever.”
    “I’m wearing you down. Admit it. You love me,” he teased.
    Her green eyes reflected the amethyst of the flames as she stared back at him. “Don’t imagine that I don’t know who you are, Freyr. I make it a habit to know all there is to know about you gods.”
    “Indeed? Do tell, love.” He leaned back on his hands.
    Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked as though she’d rather suck on a lemon than be forced to interact with him. The woman was hard on a man’s ego.
    Blowing out a raspberry, she said, “You’re the god who can be hated by none, which is why, no doubt, I cannot seem to turn you into a slug though I desperately wish to.”
    He chuckled deeply. “Good to know. You may continue.”
    She shook her head. “You exasperate me.”
    “So I’ve heard time and again. But please, this is fun. Do proceed, love.”
    “Argh!” Her hand moved so quickly he didn’t see it coming, but she did punch him. On the