“Good girl.” He caressed my cheek once before releasing me.
He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and I kept my back stiff against the chair while looking around the room again. I squinted, seeing faint etchings on the walls. While Iwanted to stand up and inspect them better, I kept my ass glued to the chair.
To ease my anxiety, I tapped my foot.
Dragged my nails against the table.
When Enzo returned, he was holding two crystal glasses filled with amber liquor. He set them on the table, then slid back into the booth.
He pushed a glass toward me. “Drink.”
I shoved it away.
His voice turned a touch harder. “Drink.” He nudged the glass closer until it almost fell off the edge and into my lap.
“I don’t drink.” Though the longer this night went on, the more I contemplated changing that.
He dipped his finger into his glass and splashed liquid at me. “Are you lying to me, Blair?”
I shook my head, meeting his eyes to show the truth in them.
“Have you ever had a drink?”
“Twice. My freshman year of college.”
Growing up, I’d been taught by my father that anything other than water was toxic. Even juice andespeciallyalcohol. As I got older and away from him, I realized that was complete bullshit. Nearly everything he’d spouted was.
I’d had my first drink when I went to college. I took it easy. The second time, I hadn’t and spent the rest of the night hugging the toilet.
“Looks like tonight will be your third,” he told me.
I still didn’t take a drink.
He leaned in closer. “Unless you want me to pour it down your throat?”
I curled my fingers around the glass and raised it to my lips. My front teeth slid over the glass as I took a slow drink. I gagged at the taste of burned sugar and firewood as a wave of revulsion hit me. My throat burned as the liquid rolled down.
A low chuckle rumbled from Enzo. “It seems bourbon isn’t your thing. I’ll get you somethingdifferent.”
“Water?” I coughed, resting my hand on my chest. “Can I just have a water?”
He stood, finished his drink, took my glass, and left the room with both of them.
I tried to regulate my breathing while he was gone. To meditate. To manifest that I was anywhere but here.
He came back and dropped the glass in front of me again. Clear liquid splashed from the top.
Water? Or vodka? Or hell, poison?
“Your water,” he said, motioning toward the glass while taking his seat again. “Figured you’d want a drink for this, but if you don’t want liquor, that’s your call.”
His glass was full again with bourbon.
“A drink for what?” I asked.
His response to my question was to draw a knife from his pocket. I shrank back in my chair. He slammed it onto the table, and my gaze dropped to the handle, where something had been etched into it.
I blinked, seeing what resembled a broken halo.
