Page 45 of Stolen
His voice wraps around my name like silk and smoke.
We sit.
Or I try to sit gracefully, which is hard when my legs still feel jelly-like from how he looks at me.
He serves me first—yes, actually serves me—scooping something sweet and savory onto my plate before tending to his own.
The food? Ridiculous.
Like magic met comfort food and decided to flex.
Tender meats with flavors I can’t name but want to chase.
Fruit that bursts like sunlight on my tongue.
Bread so soft it could make angels weep.
And the whole time, he watches me.
As if each bite I take is something he’s hoarded. Something that feeds him, too.
We talk.
Well, sort of.
It’s a mix of banter and flirtation, little challenges and teases.
He tells me about Nightfall’s skies and this special stone that if you hold it, it will change color when you lie.
I tell him he talks like a walking storybook.
At one point, he reaches over and brushes a crumb from my lip, and I swear my entire soul short circuits.
Then, when I’ve eaten more than I should admit, he sits back, wineglass in hand, and lets his eyes rake slowly down my body.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice darkening with intent, “I believe it’s time for dessert.”
“Oh? And what’s on the menu?” I tease, even though my pulse stutters.
His smile is dangerous now. Lethal in that beautiful, slow way.
“You are.”
“Why me?” I ask, because really,why me?
I can’t fathom a single reason why someone like him would choose to take me—a chubby bartender from Jersey—to this magical place.
“Because in all my travels, Jules Strano, in all the centuries I have walked this realm, I cannot imagine a single being I would rather have here with me right now.”
And before I can come up with a single witty response, Alaric moves, crossing the distance between us in the blink of an eye.
His face hovers for a moment. His pupils elongate. Like something else is watching me from within him, then he moves.
He kisses me.
Not gently. Not hesitantly.
Like he’s claiming something.
