Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
There's no response, so I race to the wall panel, flick the switch, and flood the room with light.
If someone is trying to scare me, it's not going to work. I'm not afraid of anything. Even with the lights on, I still can't see anything. I race to the fireplace and grab the longest, heaviest fire iron in the set.
With a fire iron in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, I'm ready for battle. Watch out, evildoers, because I'm throwing Molotov cocktails.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I shout, and then I remember I don't have the right equipment to make a bomb. Never mind. I'll figure out something.
"Put the bottle down."
I can't figure out where the growly baritone is coming from. It feels like I'm surrounded by the commanding voice, which doesn't make sense. There's a hint of urgency in his tone. Whoever he is, he wants what I've got, and I can work with that. But I'm not giving up the bottle until I get some answers.
Why won't you come out and show yourself?
"Why? There's nothing special about Glenfiddich. My dad drinks it all the time."
"I'm sure he does." His voice sends a tingle up my spine and a thrill of delight between my legs. "That bottle has sentimental value."
"If you want it, come get it yourself." Oh geez, when did I get so sassy?
"See the sideboard under the mirror with a gilt-edged frame? There's a candelabra on it with a box of matches close by. Light the candles."
Bossy much? Yikes.
If anyone else spoke to me that way, I'd tell them to stick their attitude where the sun doesn't shine, but his voice intrigues me. As for his scent … the heady blend of sweetness and musk scrambles my senses. It's new but familiar.
Tightening my grip around the neck of his precious bottle, I scoot to the light switch and turn off the overhead lights. Using the flashlight as my guide, I rush to the sideboard to light the candles. I'm making myself vulnerable with my back to the room, and my fingers tremble as I light the candles one by one. Candlelight flickers, casting long shadows on the walls.
A wave of heat builds behind my back, but I don't turn around. I stand my ground, aware that there's more than curiosity making my heart speed up. When all six candles are alight, I shake out the match. I glance up and see a mountain of a man seated in an armchair a few feet behind me. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I stand rooted to the spot, swallowing around the lump in my throat. A stranger observing me with keen interest should be unnerving, but I'm unable to wrench my gaze away.
Oh. Of course, it's you. Draven.
The sharp contours of his cheekbones and jaw are softened by a thick head of…blue hair? It's just long enough to graze the collar of his shirt and either the mirror is warped, or the light is playing tricks because there are two lumpy things on his head that look an awful lot like … No. it must be my imagination.
Remembering my manners, I twist to face him, but he holds up his hand to stop me. "Stay where you are," he says. "Crack the seal and pour yourself a glass." He's so direct. So bossy.
"I'm not much of a whiskey drinker."
His eyes glimmer in the dim light. "Open the bottle and breathe it in."
Intrigued, I do as he asks. Heady aromas assault my senses. I feel intoxicated without tasting a single drop. "Ooh."
"Take a sip and close your eyes," he commands. "Hold it in your mouth a while before you swallow." Really? An amused smile plays on his lips. "What can you taste?"
I pull a face when it burns my throat. My taste buds light up when I suck in a breath. "Wow. It tastes like dark chocolate and spices."
He dips his head in a nod and arches a brow. He's impressed.
"There's something else. Another flavor."
Feeling bold, I sip more, rolling the fiery aromatic liquor around my mouth. Swallowing it, I squeeze my eyes shut, savoring the aftereffects. It burns my mouth and throat.
I hear him moving closer, his steps heavy on the wooden floor, but I don't open my eyes. Not even when I feel the heat of his body against my back.
"Tell me," he rasps.
The combination of his voice and the heady mix of spices on my lips scrambles my senses. He makes me feel like my opinion matters. Struggling to find words to describe the unique combination of fig and almond, I hesitate, but it comes to me in a flash. Only the word that pops into my head is one I've never used before. It has nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with him.