It's time to vote on the vellum overlay artwork for Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night! Which scene with Bowen and Mariketa do you want to bring to life?

Our artist, @skaiwitch, has provided a loose sketch for each of the three scene options. This is a glimpse behind-the-scenes into how the art comes together. The earliest sketches can be a little hard to envision what the final will look like, so as an example of other art we've made with skaiwitch, here's how the first sketch looked along with the finished product! This example art is not from this book!

The witch seethed with power. Spells and magicks swirled about her. Bowen could sense them, could perceive them tangling around him, binding him to her—because she was beckoning him to kiss her. . . .

No, he couldn’t get distracted from his aim! He wouldn’t. So much was at stake with this competition. His past, his future. He knew what he was fighting for—so why couldn’t he drag his eyes away from the witch’s face?

As she gazed up at him, her features seemed to shift. Her irises briefly flickered from an ordinary blue to a stormy, intense gray. She licked her lips, and right before him they turned from pink to the deepest, most enticing red. His shaft throbbed harder, straining against his pants.

Yes, he had to taste her. To walk away without knowing what those glistening lips promised . . . ? Impossible. Not after beholding the body she’d concealed beneath her cloak. She was lush, surprisingly curvy with high, plump breasts.

And in that tunnel, when she’d crawled in front of him, the allure of her generous hips and arse had been as strong as a siren’s call. He’d have followed her for miles, hard as rock, heart thundering in anticipation.

Then to be wedged against her in that position? Hell, he’d just stopped himself from thrusting uncontrollably against her arse—

“Bowen . . .” she whispered, an edge of need in her voice. The witch wanted; he was helpless not to give.

His first kiss in nearly two centuries.

Pulling her closer with his hand at her nape, he leaned down and took her mouth with his. The merest contact rocked him. From the first touch, he felt how giving her lips were, parting in welcome. She gave a cry against him, and her palms traced up his chest to rest at his neck, her fingers twining in his hair.

He slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she met it with her own, with slow, wicked laps that made him inhale sharply to groan against her. His free hand grasped her waist to hold her as he deepened the kiss. She moaned her approval, going soft against him.

She was the one enthralling him, so why did she seem out of her head with desire? She seemed . . . lost for him.

The need to kiss her suddenly became critical.

“Oh, not again!” She tried to wriggle out from under him, which only made his erection grow harder. When her lips parted on a breath, he knew she’d felt it pulse against her.

“I’ll put you across the cave, MacRieve.”

In a flash, he pinned her wrists behind her back. “I doona believe you can, no’ with your hands like this.” He eased to his side and used his free hand to slowly unbutton the shirt.

“What do you think you’re do—” She broke off with a little moan when he raised his knee and pressed his thigh between hers, languidly moving it against her sex.

With an openmouthed kiss on her collarbone, he pulled the shirt open, one side and then the other. But he fumbled at unclasping her transparent bra from the front. This was partly because he had no experience with modern female undergarments, but also because he couldn’t stop staring as her nipples budded right before his eyes, jutting against the gauzy material.

He finally sliced the front clasp with his claw. By the time he brushed the material over those tight peaks, she was panting, making that bared flesh rise and fall so temptingly.

She struggled again, and her breasts quivered. His voice rough, he said, “Ah, beauty, now you’re just showin’ off.”

She stilled, her face and chest flushing hotly.

Leaning down to her nipple, he said, “I’ve heard rumors about bedding witches, heard that if you can close your lips around one of these, the witch will be a slave to your hands.”

He was breathing hard, with that muscled chest heaving. His eyes were still light blue, and were locked on her as if she was his most coveted possession—one he’d feared losing.

MacRieve was fresh from the fight. At the assembly, she could have watched this Lykae for hours. But that night she hadn’t been able to kiss him as she’d desired, or stroke his powerful body.

Yet now . . .

Ferocity, the intensity. She’d craved it, always had—even before this uncontrollable, immortal need had begun to consume her. Want it . . . want him.

Her expression must have betrayed her hunger. His brows drew together. “Mariketa?”

Her hand shot up and cupped the back of his neck, tugging him down so she could kiss him.

Obviously shocked, he stilled for a moment. Then, with a groan, he released his clenching hold on her arms. His hands landed heavily on her ass, kneading as if he’d only been awaiting a chance to feel her like that. Against her mouth, he rasped, “Lusty witch.”

“Kiss me really hard, MacRieve, like you mean it.”

“Lusty and demanding. Gods, how you please me.” He did kiss her then, slanting his lips over hers, slipping his tongue between them to sweep it against her own. Hot . . . wet . . . hard. She could do nothing but mindlessly meet him.

His big palms on her ass rocked her up to him, forcing her against his rigid shaft.

She was in heaven.