He stiffened and pulled back.Shit.
I quickly grabbed my martini and took a sip, pretending the movement was casual, as if standing had been my plan all along. But my sip turned into a big gulp. I was so sick and tired of finding him attractive, of getting lost in his stupid eyes. Peace? I thought I’d felt peace? No. The only peace I had ever found was in Aspen’s arms, and I needed that back.
“Aphesis. It means liberation,” he stated, unfazed by my sudden lack of interest.
I polished off my martini, focusing on the spiced blackberry taste and the burn that pushed the invasive feelings away.
“And what exactly would the big, bad Dark Seraphim want to be liberated from?” I asked, my voice tinged with irritation.
He stepped closer and brought his face inches from mine. “You.”
His sharp retort made me laugh.
The alcohol had a serious role in my laughter, especially as he lorded over me. He was at least a foot taller, and the fierce intensity of his proximity should’ve made me nervous, but I couldn’t have cared less. The glare furrowing his brows only made me laugh harder.
“That’s right, General Storm-Cloud.” I faced him. “What were your words exactly? I’m a problem, an annoyance, anirritating menace,” I said, booping him on the nose and sniggering at his glare. “Which is so funny, because last I checked, you knew little about me. You’ve made assumptions on heaven only knows what to fit whatever terrible image you’ve crafted in that stormy mind of yours.” I patted him on the chest, as if to say I forgave him for his misgivings, the warmth of the martini I downed severely taking over my actions.
He dropped his gaze to the hand I’d yet to remove from his soft button-up, the tips of my fingers pressed against his exposed skin by his collarbone. Enthralled, I traced my fingers over the inked design, then toyed with his top button, curious what lay beneath his shirt. The thought stopped me short, and I had enough clarity left in my muddled mind to take back my hand before the shadows swirling in his irises devoured it.
Walking around him, I copied his move and tiptoed up to his ear. “But do you know what I think, General?” I whispered, raising goosebumps along his neck. “I think you’re intrigued by me.”
“Is that so?”
I shifted closer as I moved to his other ear and stumbled. My hands latched onto his hard sides to steady myself, and he tensed.
Damn, was he just pure muscle beneath his clothes?
It took me a couple seconds to regain my train of thought and release him. “Why else would you stay to talk to me?” I asked, myvoice dripping with smugness. I blinked away the darkness encroaching on my vision. But it didn’t help. “Would you please put your shadows away?”
He grunted, grabbing my arms and forcing me back onto my stool.
Why wasn’t he doing it? Was he trying to make the whole bar go black?
But the longer I focused on the darkness, the more I realized it wasn’t his shadows—it was my vision. Suddenly, the general, the bar, everything slipped away.
My stomach dropped, and I grabbed his arms. Surprisingly, the contact helped to calm my rising panic, but not enough to stop the piercing tingles along my arms. “Ronen, why can’t I see?”
“The Abyssal martini. You didn’t read the warning.” His voice was matter-of-fact, like he knew I hadn’t.
That was what that long, hard look was for. He knew. He knew, and he stayed not just to pay for my drink, but because of its effects.
I squeezed his forearms harder, my frustration boiling. “What was the warning?”
“The martini steals your senses.”
“For how long?” I demanded.
“Until it passes from your system. A few hours.”
Unbelievable. I dug my nails into the soft fabric of his shirt, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
His warm breath brushed my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. “Because I wanted to see how far you’d go with your little game. Now, how about you tell me the truthabout why you came over here?Then maybe I’ll help you out,” he whispered, his voice carrying a thread of danger.
“Help me out how?”
“I’ll bring your senses back,” he taunted.
He didn’t find me intriguing—he saw an opportunity to get the answer he hadn’t gotten earlier. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was the general, after all. By definition, he was a strategist—calculated, methodical—the kind of male who never acted on impulse, who weighed every action like a chess move.
