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“For taking care of you.”
My stance softens. Taking care of me? Like a waiter? A chef?
Then several things start to click.
The Frosts are in some kind of weird cosplay cult. No way this guy thinks he’s an elf for real.
He said his name was Cyran. What was the name of the Frosts’ guru again? I can’t remember.
“But what does that mean?” I ask, backing up closer to the fireplace.
Cyran nods solemnly. “Of course, you wouldn’t know that. It means I’m here to cater to whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
He does have a sexy, Henry Cavill glower about him.
As much as I don’t like the Frosts, maybe if I play nice with this cult disciple, I’ll get information. Maybe I’ll get accidentally-on-purpose sucked in, and then I’ll escape with my brood of Henry Cavill’s babies, and Netflix will make a documentary about me and then I’ll get a book deal.
What’s the worst thing that could happen?
Well, dummy, he could be a predator or have a cache of weapons. He could have a hundred sex partners. He could be into some seriously terrible shit. Like wearing matching clothes or something.
Cyran approaches, and my voice quavers. “Don’t come any closer.”
“I won’t hurt you, Ivy.”
“How do you know my name?!” I ask in a panicked shout.
Nice going, Ivy. Don’t try to keep him guessing or anything.
“It’s not what you think,” he says. His dark eyes convey kindness and genuine concern, but I’m not buying it.
I take another step back, and my elbow comes into contact with something cold and metal. It’s the fireplace poker. This is good. Without taking my eyes off Cyran, I curl my fingers around the iron rod.
It’s much heavier than I anticipated, and when I try to swing it at Cyran, the poker goes thudding to the dirt floor.
Shit!
Cyran steps closer. His face is made of striking, inhuman angles, a chiseled jaw, and a mouth set in a hard line. His eyes aren’t just dark, but a deep, solid black. As in, no irises that I can see. Those eyes are both chilling and mesmerizing. His skin is equally fascinating in the way it reflects the firelight. He seems impossibly lit from within. I would ask about his moisturizing regimen if I wasn’t about to piss myself.
“What were you going to do with that rod, tiny human?”
Cyran has the strangest accent. He wears a rustic, leather kilt and a tunic of fine silk. Nothing about this rings a bell. That bulge in his kilt, though, could ring mine a hundred different ways. Theoretically.
Rod? What the heck? Then it clicks. Oh, that rod.
“D-defend myself?”
“I said I won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t know if you’re lying. I don’t even know who you are or where I am. I think a woman has every right to arm herself against her kidnapper!”
He towers over me, his tunic hanging open, revealing too much of that glowing skin. He smells like the spicy, woodsy scent in this room. Cyran smells like Christmas in the forest. It’s enough to make me forget that I’ve been kidnapped. Almost.
The man with the pointy ears seems genuinely perplexed. “You seem unhappy to be here.”
Now my fright is slowly transforming into frustration and anger. “Where is here? And stop coming closer. You’re freaking me out!”
The man pauses and shows me his palms, the universal sign that he’s not going to hurt me, which is surely meant to get my defenses down.
