I'm afraid to know what's there and certain I'm going to find out.

After several hours, I'm hungry, and we haven't spoken at all since I tripped. It was morning when we started. Time is hard to tell when the skies are covered with gray all day, but I think it's close to four or five o'clock.

The overbearing brute of a man who never leaves a soul standing on the battlefield has been quiet and calm the entire day, holding my hand and walking with me through the beautiful lands of his like we're headed to the chapel and not to battle. I don't get his calm, unless he's happy to be home.

In contrast, my head is a mess, torn between wanting more from him and hating myself for even considering it. I'm too good to take advantage of the situation, though I suspect he won't be the one to back out if I wanted more than hand holding. I can't get the idea he thinks I'm a coward out of my head either. He's held a mirror to me today and I'm embarrassed by what I see in my reflection: someone so afraid of failure and being judged, she never tried to follow any dream.

I'm changing that. Little by little. For the first time in my life, I'm occasionally standing up for myself, even if it's only with the Shadow Knight, and taking chances. I've been in mortal danger, went to battle, and rode a horse . . .

I'm doing it. I'm becoming someone even I can respect. The mushroom part of me panics every once in a while, wanting to disappear into the shadows and run away to my safe apartment. While I have a long way to go, I'm starting to think that the occasional adventure, preferably one that doesn't involve war or a curse, might be good for me.

With a sidelong look at the Shadow Knight, I reluctantly acknowledge another nagging instinct, one that's harder to accept. My experiences with him and this world have been rattling around my head all day. I've been mustering up the courage for an hour or so to utter words I never thought I'd say to the man beside me.

I'm about to burst from flip-flopping about saying anything, when I finally decide that the New-Improved-Naia needs to go for it. "Atreyu, I'm sorry." I start. "I've been kind of a jerk since arriving. If I stopped to ask why you do what you do instead of judging you or if I hadn't been so hell bent on going home . . ." I drift off and then shake my head. "I don't know what I'm saying or thinking. I should know better because I live that every day. I'm sorry I judged you when I should've listened and given you a chance. I should've tried hard to use magic and help you."

"You apologize too much," he replies. "I have lived with this knowledge since I was a babe. My master-at-arms was the only one who knew the truth. I never intended to tell anyone before I met you."

"Even your other battle-witches or betrothed?"

"No one."

So I am special. A shot of hopeful, ecstatic energy lifts some of my exhaustion.

"I am only grateful my man parts did not fall off when we kissed," he adds.

"You had to go there!" I pull my hand free of his and cross my arms.

"'Tis a relief for a man."

My face feels hot. "I swear men everywhere are the same!"

He chuckles. "We will have time to discuss whether you become my queen or my mistress when the final battle is over."

I'm not sure I like the sound of that. Like I'm not going home. Does he want me to stay? Do I want to stay?

Any confidence I had about being surer of myself fizzles. I'm feeling anxious again, a warm flutter of desire mixed with a whole lot of fear.

"You'll be sending me home after this, right?" I ask.

The corner of his lips lifts. He doesn't answer.

We don't talk anymore, not for another couple of hours. I'm dragging soon enough, the result of not eating in who knows how long and recovering from death, I suppose. In truth, I'm kinda glad it's quiet. He and his world are no longer fictional to me. They've become very real, and I'm not sure what to make of him calling me beautiful or the way my lower belly ignites into a furnace whenever he regards me a tad too long. Every time we talk, I'm a little more confused about what I want.

Night begins to creep across the land. We're still a great distance from the hold. My well-fitted boots have rubbed blisters into my heels and the outside of one pinky toe. Darkness brings the cold ocean wind and I'm soon shaking and miserable.

"Okay," I say finally, thoroughly exhausted. "I need a break."

"We cannot stop all night," he warns.

"I know. Just for a bit?"

The Shadow Knight relents, albeit unhappily. He leads us off the road.

When he's not looking, I let myself limp. My god I haven't had blisters since I was a kid! I forgot how much they sting.

He chooses a spot at the base of a hill to offer some protection from the wind whipping by and sits down. I sit beside him and lean back against the sweet smelling grass, groaning.

"My warriors can march for two days without stopping to rest," he says.

"I'm not a warrior," I mutter under my breath. My teeth begin chattering soon after we stop.

"Never met a battle-witch who could not start a fire."

"Are you trying to make me feel bad?" I snap.

"Anger keeps you warm."

Rolling my eyes, I pull my knees in and hug them with my arms. "Maybe it was a bad idea to stop." I'm too cold to take the nap my body needs.

"I imagine returning from the dead requires rest." His shoulder brushes against mine as he shifts closer. A moment later, his arm circles my shoulders.

"Um, probably not a good idea," I say, tugging away. My thoughts go to earlier, when he seemed amused by my rationale behind not wanting to hurt his fiancee's feelings.

"I respect your honor and your cowardice. You need rest."

After a brief hesitation, I let him pull me into his body.

Guiding us onto our sides, he wraps his other arm around me and tucks me against him. One of his legs drapes over my thighs, drawing our hips together. Folding my hands to my chest, I rest a cheek on his bicep and breathe in the scent of brownies and grass, unable to recall when I last experienced anything nearly as comfortable.

He's so warm and strong, his chest wide and firm. He's not shivering in the cold air like I am, and he's radiating heat that banishes the chills from me completely. I'd like to think I offer some resistance before melting into his body, but I'm pretty sure I don't.

Instead, my eyes close, and I relax. He maneuvers me until he, too, is comfortable, my face tucked into the nook of his neck while his chin rests on my hair. He brushes a curl from my face, hand resting briefly on my neck and thumb rubbing my jawline. The movement is absentminded, as if he's deep in thought, rather than meant to provoke the fire in my blood.

"Are you worried?" I ask.

"I do not worry."

I sink a little more into Black Moon Draw, a little further from my apartment in the city. The more I think of him, the fewer barriers I can throw up between us. While still barbaric, he's single handedly trying to prevent this world's equivalent of the apocalypse. I'd like to think, if given the chance, I could leave my home for twenty-five years to risk my life fighting a war that hasn't been successfully won in a thousand years.

Then again, I won't submit a resume to a new position to find a job making more money that might require me to step outside my comfort zone. What does that say about me? What right do I have to judge him?

"You're so much braver than I am," I whisper, stricken by the comparison of our two existences. Between us, he deserves to be the real person and me the secondary, cardboard book character thrown into a story so the hero has someone to talk plot points out with. No one can stand that kind of character.

In my place, in reality, he'd change the world.

The single thought cores me. Fatigued, sorrowful, I start crying.

"I have never seen a battle-witch weep so readily," he complains. He hugs me closer to him, rubbing his stubbly cheek against mine.

I touch his jaw and neck tentatively with the fingertips of one hand, awed by the sandpapery roughness, warm skin, and the pulse beating strong and steady. This reality is like the sunrise, a flare of light in the darkness followed shortly thereafter by the entire world bathed in brilliance.

I am the worst person ever to live. Drawing a shaky breath, I close my eyes and review my life up until now. What the dead warrior queen says clicks, and her words repeat on a loop in my head.

How often are we given a chance to make a difference?

She's right in every way. My life was a waste before Black Moon Draw; it was utterly meaningless, filled with empty dreams and fear of failure covered by a thick layer of insecurity and desperation.

But here, in Black Moon Draw, I can help the most courageous man who ever existed save his world. He doesn't wear Christian Grey's suits or have Mr. Darcy's gentlemanly manners, and his world isn't perfect and pretty, waiting only for a heroine he can't resist to complete it.

My mind spirals down this track for quite some time. The Shadow Knight holds me quietly. Any chance I had of remaining emotionally untangled is rapidly fleeing.

"Atreyu, I want to help you," I murmur when the emotions start to quiet.

"You will."

"So far I think I've caused you a lot more heartache."

"In many ways," he says, his chuckle making the chest beneath my hand rumble. "I understand what it is to be thrust into a position you had no choice about."

"You are this weird mix of batshit, mass-murdering crazy in battle and super sweet when we're alone. I can't figure you out," I say.

"And you are sometimes a battle-witch and sometimes worse than any page I have trained."

"I like everything about you except that sense of humor!" Irked with him once more, I lift my head and push at his chest.

"Quiet," he rumbles. "I am enjoying having you in my arms, Naia."

God I love the way he says my name. That easily, he manages to melt my frustration. I relax and tuck my head back where it feels natural, in the nape of his neck. I want to do what my cats do and nuzzle him, rub my cheeks and hands all over him in what I'm pretty sure is a feline expression of ownership.

Hollowness has settled into my heart, and my chest aches in response. The mess with Jason seems distant and irrelevant, like it happened ten years ago instead of ten days. There's no comparing breaking up with someone who made me feel bad about myself with helping someone this incredible save his world.

When I start to think too deeply about how I was destined to get sucked into a book, I get a mild headache reminiscent of a wine hangover.

"There is naught about you that is not beautiful, even your tears," he whispers.

Then you need glasses. I'm instantly angry at myself for not being able to enjoy one tiny moment with him. Banishing the negative thoughts born of lifelong insecurity, I decide to accept his compliment and pretend the most handsome, bravest, and sexiest man ever means what he says.

It feels . . . good. As strong as the urge to cry was, only like a bubble of happiness.

"Is your determination to remain honorable this night intact?" he adds, amusement in his tone.

I hesitate, my physical body humming with desire. His muscular frame is pressed to mine and images of him naked flash through my thoughts. I know how thick his biceps are and the shape of the muscles of his back and chest, how round and perfect that ass of his is. And his thighs . . .

The hollow between my thighs has been wet and hot since we lay down together, and the fact he's flat out offering to make love to me . . .

Where I was cold before, I'm burning up now.

We're alone out here. No one would know if we made love under the sky atop clover grass that smells so sweet.

His hand travels up my back to my neck and he cups the back of it, lifting my chin with his thumb. His scratchy cheek brushes mine, the pad of his thumb tracing my lower lip. He dips it into my mouth and I suck on the tip lightly. Withdrawing it, he replaces his thumb with his lips.

His kiss is deep and slow, his depths tasting as good as he smells. His velvety tongue explores my mouth, and any bone in my body that wasn't already a wet noodle turns into one. I kiss his plump, soft lips with fervor, needing more of him, wanting to know how otherworldly his perfect body moves in bed.

My whole body lights up on fire from the inside out, a combination of warm electricity and desire stronger than any physical sensation I've ever experienced. He's growing hard, his arousal long and thick, pressed to my hips. The Shadow Knight's hand leaves my face and travels down my torso. He squeezes one butt cheek and pulls me into him.

My core aches in response.

Breaking away from my mouth, he begins a trail of hot kisses down the side of my face to the sensitive skin of my neck below my ear. Breathlessly, I run my fingers through his hair. I'm standing on the edge of the tower once more, ready to leap off and trust him to catch me. Thrilled, terrified, horny . . . I want to jump, to lose myself completely in his brownies scent, hard body, and warmth.

For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid to take a chance and really feel.

"Honorable or no?" he whispers against my skin.

I'm breathless, my entire body alive and screaming for him in a way it never did Jason. Opening my eyes, I'm struck by how deep the sensations run and by how nagging one tiny voice remains.

I don't want to disrespect Disney Princess. I also suddenly have the urge not to disrespect me, either, not to settle for being second-rung, no matter how incredible a night in this man's arms might be. I don't want to be a one-night stand, to open my heart and soul to someone I can never have, no matter how much I know he'll do things to me that I'll never, ever forget.

I deserve better.

"I do not disagree," he says before I can voice my response aloud. "You deserve a man I cannot be at this moment."

In my heightened state of awareness, the words crush me. The ultimate rejection. I'm regretting my decision, even if some part of me knows it's the right one.

He releases my ass and shifts his hips back, wrapping me once more in a hug as intimate as it is platonic.

The tears are back, a combination of hurt and frustration. What are the chances I find a man who makes me feel the way this one does and he turns out not only to be a fictional character, but one who is engaged to someone else?

Par for the course. It takes me a good five minutes before I can breathe steadily again, and there's no way my humming body is going to let me sleep or calm down when I'm in his arms. His passion has the power of a tsunami, and it would be so easy for me to surrender and let him sweep me away.

But not right. As much as I hate to admit it.

Blinking away tears, I press my face to his neck and breathe his scent.

He says nothing, and I work on calming down. What's clear: there's no way I can take a nap. My body responds to his touch rather than my silent commands, and bleakly, I realize this might be the only opportunity I ever have to experience a night with someone like him.

And I can't do it.

Chapter Seventeen.

We don't remain much longer. I want to write off my inability to sleep on the cold weather and grass tickling my cheeks, but I know it's the wired energy, hard body, and sexually-charged tension that's preventing me from calming down enough to sleep.