The Wolf and the Witch (Witch Walker, #3)

by Charissa Weaks

Why suddenly, you think I need a hero. I’m my own fucking hero. Don’t forget it.”

“Who do I think I am?” He growls a guttural animal sound that belongs in the deepest, darkest wilds of Frostwater Wood, not inside a Malgrosian tavern. Then he looks up at the faces staring back at him in shock and fear, his eyes glowing like orbs of sunlight from beneath his cowl, his fangs descending like blades. “I’m your motherfucking god,” he says. “That’s who I am.”

“Tell Thamaos to go fuck himself!”

White chest heaving and the entirety of him covered in blood, my wolf looks down at me with that beastly face, his golden eyes intent on me, and somehow, I fucking swoon for the beast and the god within.

Power lies in the greatness of humanity. Because of Nephele, I now know how to feel.

But right now, just like I felt in the reading room, I am the prey, captured by a little bird who grew teeth.