“I’m not a druid,” Matt said quietly. It took less will than he’d expected to force his voice to stay steady. “I’m an ex-geology student who’s taught himself to be a blacksmith as a method of survival.”
The Hecate’s laughter was unexpectedly low and rich, though the knife she had to his throat never wavered and the arm around his waist only drew him tighter against her. “They don’t know your secret,” she said softly, almost tenderly—though it was a tenderness that had razor-sharp edges, a tenderness that shot shivers down his spine. “But I refuse to believe that you’re not aware of what’s inside you. I refuse to believe that you’re completely unaware of the power tethered to the soul you share with the Ridden Druid.”
Matt’s stomach dropped.
She knows.
“If you think I have Cíar mac Dúbhshláin’s power, then you’re sadly mistaken. That power died with him.”
“Did it?” the witch-goddess purred. “How would you know, blacksmith? How could you know if the power died with him?”
Stay calm. If you stay calm, she won’t realize you’re lying through your frakking teeth. “Because I bloody well asked,” he said, his voice even. “They all agreed. It’s gone. I don’t have it. There’s no spark in me, so you’re wasting your time.” He took a deep breath. “Now slit my throat if that’s what you damned well showed up here to do.”
“You’re a good liar,” the Hecate whispered, “but so am I and I don’t believe you for an instant.” Her breath was warm against his ear, tickling it even as his flesh puckered. “Being a liar helps, you know.”
It was getting hard to breathe.
“What do you want?” Matt asked.
“I should think it obvious.” She pulled him tighter, closer, and he didn’t bother to suppress his shudder. He could almost feel her smile. “Your camp is full of prizes, blacksmith, and the prize I came here for today is you.”
Well, that can’t be good