Addictive Nightshade Read Free

around the chalice like fruity nail polish.
    The goblet was espresso sized in his large hand. I swallow down the first lump of anxiety.
    “I'm Macala.” Moving back to his chair he flops into it, lifting his own drink and raising it in my direction. His voice is distracting and I pause to process the fact that he just introduced himself. The riddle has a name.
    “ Hi,” I say lamely. He knows mine already so introducing myself is moot.
    I survey him as he drinks. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows expose defined bulk, thick wrists, and neat fingers. Glancing into his ethereal face I lift my glass in salute, taking in the black hair pushed untidily off his brow in chaotic spikes. It's uncontrived, as though he's been worrying his hair while I slumbered.
    His complexion is pale as if he seldom sees the sun, starkly contrasting his choice of wardrobe and hair coloring. Frazzled by the intensity in his stare I look into the gold juice, sniffing it experimentally. It smells like apple mingled with pineapple. The bouquet waters my mouth and my stomach rumbles loudly in the tense interlude. Embarrassed, I fold an arm across my midsection and squeeze to mute my hunger.
    Sipping, the injection of tasty fluid scalds my tongue. Tropical vapors scorch up my nose when I swallow and I revel the warmth chasing into my body with an afterburn of tantalizing zing.
    Looking around I quickly peruse the white gossamer curtains draped over us like a tent, the walls open except for the one behind my chair which is a sheet of polished stone, and the deeply impressive fireplace holding half a tree crumbling to glowing embers. Beyond us lurk eternal shadows which hint at a vast open cavity.
    The only other light we have comes from a lamp on the table beside his chair; it's a substantial shell coiling up as a cone, lit from within.
    Putting my feet together on the dark floor I watch as my Gothic dress flops to cover my shit kickers. My courage is so small it would get lost in a teaspoon but I grab the fumes left of it and face him, daring to blurt, “Why am I here?”
    Finally the expressionless face betrays a hint of humanity with the quirking of sharp corners, veneering his mouth in humor, “I've watched you for months.”
    “Excuse me?” I challenge, cocking my head.
    What the hell for? I'm so mediocre I am unworthy of a stalker, enormous or otherwise. I've moped for three new moons, lost between the facade of eking a paycheck and living for the weekends to hide in music and the Fraternity, looking for Guy, hoping he hasn't left me alone in this world.
    “You are not hard of hearing, Emma. Your soul registers my words before your mind does, otherwise you wouldn't have been affected by me the way you were.”
    The timbre of his voice hums my bones, stripping my body of strength again. It's such a unique voice as if he's speaking in tongues, casting absolution and hallucinogens into the room to tickle the vibrations in the air stretching taut between us. It's angelic and mesmerizing.
    Soothed by the luxury of his baritone I find it challenging to interrogate his words. Leaning heavily into the depth of the leather chair I gawp at him. What are you? A wizard? A master of satanic script who performs miracles while stripping your quarry of free will? What?
    Leaving his drink on the rustic table he leans forward with his elbows on his knees to stare at me, reminding me that he's tall, with shins that look ultra sexy in those ink-black jeans.
    I have a closet fetish over towering guys. I don't care if they're muscular or not, I am just a total slut for a neck cricking dude. I love the grace of long legs, they are sumptuous and attention grabbing with the way material curls around slightly bowed bones and muscle. They're even hotter walking. My heart does the two step, palpitating to pound my pulse uncomfortably up my neck.
    “ Macala, why the hell did you bring me here?” I insist, knowing I have to do this while I still have a semblance of my