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Lyric
Ascream rips from my throat, and my hand, still coated in my sweet cream, flies from my panties. The sheets tangle around my legs as I try to leap from the bed, ready to grab the wine bottle and use it as a weapon.
A deep chuckle sounds from the corner of the darkened room, and fear sprints down my spine. “Who the fuck are you?” I shout, fighting with the sheets.
“Ye ken who I am,” he drawls, his accent thick and rolling. I pause.
Um…what the fuck?
“Uh, no. I definitely don’t ken who you are.” Finally, my legs are freed, and I fall to the floor, landing with a hard thud. I groan at the impact, but quickly remember there’s a strange man in my room and force myself to forget about the pain.
Shit falls off the nightstand as I feel around, but I finally find the switch and turn the lamp on. Golden light floods the room, and something hits the wall again.
“How did ye do that? Are ye a witch?” The horror in his voice makes my lips twitch. It shouldn’t be funny. I should still feel terrified, but there’s something about him—his presence—that makes me irrationally comfortable.
Safe, even.
Which is absolutely batshit insane, considering I haven’t even looked at this man. And, you know…he’s a man. So I totally shouldn’t feel safe with him. But…I do.
With a deep breath, I turn around. My jaw hits the floor, and my eyes widen so much, I swear they’re about to roll from my head.
“What the—who the—how the—” I stare at him before dropping my eyes to the book on my bed. “Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. What the fuck? Okay, what the actual fuck?”
“I ask again: are ye a witch?” he asks, sounding totally horrified.
“I mean, no. Not usually. But I guess now I am?” I say absentmindedly.
It takes all the courage I have in my body to turn and look at the giant Highlander currently in the corner of my bedroom.
And when I say giant, I mean giant. Massive. He’s huge.
God, I really hope his size wasn't wasted solely on his height and there's something left to gag on.
Easily six-foot-five, and solid muscle. His chiseled jaw could cut glass, and his bright green orbs seem to glow in the lamp light. And don’t even get me started on the red curls on his head.
Talk about swoon-worthy.
But it’s the kilt wrapped around his waist and the dirty white shirt billowing in the make-believe wind that makes my knees weak.
“I’m Lyric,” I sigh dreamily. “And you’re Ian, right?”
His eyes shift from me to the lamp. “I am,” he says warily. “Lyric?”
I nearly squirt from the way he rolls the R in my name.
It doesn’t dawn on me to ask how he’s real or why he’s here. Truthfully, I don’t even care. All I care about is climbing this Scotsman like a damn tree.
“It’s just a lamp.” His brows twitch together.
“A lamp?” He finally removes himself from the safe corner of the room and staggers forward a step, like a moth to the flame. “That’s no lamp I’ve ever seen.”
I shrug. Considering he’s fictional, he’s never actually seen a lamp.
I freeze at the thought.
He’s fictional. And I’m well aware of that fact—unless he’s some random weirdo who likes cosplaying as book cover models. I guess that could happen, but the chances are slim, right?
I tilt my head to the side, inspecting him. How would I test him to see if he’s him and not some actor?
