Évrard D'Aboville has been the lethal left hand of King Sabien Arceneaux for centuries. Using his deadly skills, he's indiscriminately killed and maimed at his master's behest. He had never once been disobedient. That is until he was asked to kill a...
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Izmir Lefeuvre- The Witch
"Why are you so much better at drinking than I am?" I squint through red-rimmed eyes. This was my fifth or sixth shot. I can't tell which. Dolly Parton played softly in the crowded dive bar we'd been drinking at for hours. Although I don't remember how I got there, what happened prior to this, nor agreeing to this being a competition but somehow it turned out to be.
"Let's be honest, Love, I'm better at everything." He pulled his lips into a wide smile. God! He has beautiful teeth.
I love the way the light shone off his olive skin and danced in his thick black hair. He had the exotic look of a Persian Prince, fresh from my wildest fantasies.
He put the glass to his lips and tipped it back. His gaze always assessing. Always studying.
"Solid point." I answer.
I'd known Évrard only a few days by my recollection, but it felt like I'd known him much longer. His dark eyes caught me indulging in appreciation of his lips.
Why him? You might wonder, when only two weeks ago I was still curling up next to Amelie. It's a good question. Why not one of the high-earning suits that float through my job several times a day begging me to be their sugar-baby? Or the girl with the warm smile and perfect manners from the gym? Why did I choose him- him with the dangerous aura, mysterious smirks, and flirtatious winks?
Maybe it's because at every turn he challenges me. From the moment he walked into that restaurant my heart and my world stood still. He infuriates and frustrates me at times, but in the end, no one made me feel the way he did; safe and accepted.
Yes! Freer than I've ever been. There are no limits or restrictions with him. There's no walking on eggshells the way I did with my family or with Amelie. I know it's strange to say that I could be my black ass self with a British man that could pass for Middle Eastern, but yes, I can. He lit a fire in me that was unquenchable.
We lock eyes again. His head cocks to the side and a stray curl falls across his tanned skin. I fight the urge to brush it from his face. He scoffs quietly when he notices my grimace.
