Page 215 of The Edge of Darkness

“In the garden where I saw you turn flowers to crispy husks?”

She lifted her eyes to me. “Does that bother you?”

“That depends. Are the apples poisoned?”

Her lips spread into a grin that had me deciding I wouldn’t even care if the fruit was poisoned. I’d devour it all just to see that smile again and again.

“Poison is the amusement of a lesser witch. I have far more creative ways to make my enemies miserable.” She lifted a fig and turned it in her fingertips. “But you are not my enemy.”

She sank her teeth into the fig’s flesh, tempting me to do the same just by the way she was looking at me. Holding her stare, I bit into the apple, and instead of the tartness I’d expected, a burst of sugar coated my tongue. It was the sweetest apple I’d ever tasted.

“It’s delicious,” I said, going back for a second bite.

Her grin returned. “I never said they weren’t enchanted.”

She licked her fingers, and I watched every fucking move.

I knew a tease when I saw it.

Whatever she was doing, she was doing it on purpose now. Part of me itched to join the game she was playing, but the other half urged me to err on the side of caution. This could very well be one of those moments where I’d get my hopes up only to watch her drift away again.

Still, that ache returned, making it difficult to continue sitting in the position I was in with my clothes still clinging to every inch of me.

We ate, trading looks back and forth, that sweet tension building between us again like it had earlier.

When the plate was cleaned, I reached into my pocket in space and brought forth a small, silver flask. In it, was a never-ending supply of my favorite whiskey—an enchantment of my own that I’d learned at an embarrassingly young age. The lid was well worn, its grooves nearly buffed smooth from centuries of use. My finger found the edge and unscrewed it, releasing a potent smell of caramel, smoky oak, and grain.

“What is that?” Nivelle asked, breaking our eye contact to stare at the flask.

“A different kind of poison,” I said, grinning as I tipped the container against my lips.

A small, breathy noise, like a throaty laugh, broke free from her, and I nearly choked at the sound of it. What in the gods’ names was happening? Smiles, laughs, finger licking? Had I stepped into some sort of spell, or was this actually the reality I was living in?

If this was indeed a spell, fuck it. Fuck it all. I’d embrace it.

I cleared my throat and held the flask out toward her. “It truly is a form of poison, though—if you drink enough of it.”

She took it, sniffing the contents first. “More of that liquid you all like to drink in the fae realm?”

“Better.” I gestured for her to try it.

She scrunched her nose as she sipped, anticipating the worst, but one swallow led to another, and her brows lifted in surprise.

“Easy there, killer,” I said, reaching for the container. “It’s meant to be savored.”

Her cheeks flushed pink as she handed it over. “I like it.”

“Didn’t take you for a whiskey drinker, but I’m glad you are.”

“Whiskey . . .” She weighed the word on her tongue.

“I’ll get some for you when we get back to The Keep.” I took another swig, then passed it back to her. “I will say, if we drink too much more of that, porting is going to be a very unpleasant experience, and I won’t be able to guarantee a safe landing. It tends to throw off one’s balance and depth perception.”

This time, she took a slow, steady drink, eyeing me with that same, almost playful look in her eye. As if she was perfectly okay with us not being able to port.

Did she want to . . . stay for the night?

Judging by the now-dark sky outside the window, it was probably getting late. And with everything that had just transpired—the conversation, the intense eye contact, the progress I’d been longing for—I wasn’t about to cut any of that short.