Page 42

She swallowed.

And someone from the doorway cleared their throat, loudly.

Alastair pulled his hand back, all sexual tension vanishing from the room as though it was never there. “Come in,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, the pinnacle of professionalism.

Right.

Jasper entered the office, two drinks in hand. He set a whiskey neat in front of Alastair, and something deliciously red and full of crushed ice and cherries in front of the Witch before nodding at them both and leaving. If he’d noticed the pulse of desire in the room, he gave no indication, but to his credit, Jasper made sure to close the door behind him as he left.

And then it was just the two of them.

Alone.

Again.

Alastair took his drink and moved around the desk to his chair. He needed some space, needed some distance from this little Witch and her intoxicating scent. She was riling him up again, and fuck, he wanted to play with her.

Seemingly uninterested in him or why he’d moved away, Fey frowned at the drink in front of her.

“Go on,” Alastair urged, nodding toward the drink. He took a sip from his glass, feeling the whiskey burn away a little more of his willpower.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously. She plucked an obscenely red cherry from the glass, spinning the stem between her fingers, before dropping it back onto the ice.

“Jasper made it especially for you. It’s called a Shirley Temple,” Alastair answered with a condescending smirk.

When she raised an eyebrow at him, he laughed. “You might be fooling other people into thinking you were drinking earlier, but not me. And not Jasper. He was very offended you didn’t have any of the drink he gave you down at the bar.”

“How did—” she started, but Alastair held up a hand to stop her.

“You don’t have a drop of alcohol in your system, Fey, and you didn’t the other night either.”

“There’s no way you could have known that.”

“Oh?” Alastair smiled. “I tasted you, remember?” His voice was dark, and he couldn’t help the surge of desire racing through his veins at the memory. “And you want to know what I tasted in your blood? Power. Power, and fire.”

From the way her pupils dilated, from the way her breathing hitched, Alastair knew the memory was affecting her as well.

“But you know what I didn’t taste? I didn’t taste any alcohol. Not one drop,” he finished. He motioned to the drink again. “Try it. You’ll offend Jasper if you don’t. It’s nonalcoholic… and I think the color suits you.” He raised his glass to his lips again to hide his smile.

She considered the bright red drink before her but still hesitated.

“It’s not poisoned,” he insisted. “And … wouldn’t you be able to tell, anyway? I thought Witches could sense poison.”

“Only Earth Witches,” she admitted, “Which I’m not.” For a moment he thought she would refuse the drink. He couldn’t blame her. He was just some male she didn’t even know, even worse some Vamp she didn’t even know. But there was a challenge in his voice, a tacit dare hanging in the air between them, and he wanted to know if she’d rise to it.

Finally, eyes locked on his, she plucked the drink off the table and took a sip.

Her eyes widened, ever so slightly, as she tasted it, and he swallowed a laugh.

“It’s… sweet. Like candy,” Fey said, sounding almost amazed. She took another drink, more of a gulp, and Alastair found it very hard to pry his eyes away from the way she licked her lips, chasing the taste.

He smiled at her. “See? Jasper knows his shit.”

She smiled back at him, just slightly, but it was enough.

“So,” Alastair prompted. “You said you needed my help?”

Fey nodded, setting her glass down carefully. “My sister. She, uh, she was murdered. Almost two months ago.”