Addictive Nightshade

by Poppet

Determined to pull it off and just wear the loose hoodie, I grip the bottom, tugging it up to my boobs when it refuses to budge over them. For fuck's sake! Maybe he has a pair of scissors or a razor in here?

  Looking in the cupboard, then the shower, I can't locate any such item.

  Wheezing with the restriction, overheating because I've been vacuum sealed, I sit down on the toilet lid with my jeans still stuck below my hips. I feel tied up and frustrated with the bondage. Desperate, I grip the neckline of my shirt, yanking for all I'm worth, trying to get the resilient thing to tear.

  My heart is pounding and the only result are two hot cheeks radiating my spent energy.

  What the fuck happened last night? Who shrunk my clothes to torture me more. Isn't this ordeal enough without adding insult to injury?

  “Em?” calls carefully to me. “You okay in there?”

  Shit! Triple shit shit shit!

  Panting from effort and mild asphyxiation, I wheeze, “Not really.”

  “Do you need me to get you anything?” speaks the vibrato of a man plucking heart strings with his vocal harmonies.

  Closing my eyes I wallow in it until I relax. I need a voice like that. It's incredible.

  “Mac, do you have scissors?”

  “Why?” Now he sounds all fierce, like he's going to storm in here to battle my demons.

  “I can't breathe!” I yell, instantly lightheaded with the loss of oxygen from being forceful.

  “I'm coming in,” he announces, firm and decisive, immediately filling the doorway. “Hang on,” he smiles, reaching me in a blink, seeing my hands still stuck inside my neckline.

  He joins his hands to mine and a searing rip echoes around the stone chamber. Looking down, my boobs are spilling out of the push-up bra, it's cleavage that doesn't belong to me but some pin-up model instead.

  It's automatic to fold my arms over them defensively when he looks at my jeans, grabbing hold where the zip joins to yank the seam so hard it quivers the ripping up into my tender bits. Blushing now, I'm stuck in the Macala tornado when he lifts and flips me, supporting me easily while tearing the jeans asunder all the way around from button to back, then flips me back in his gigantic strength, returning me to sitting on the stone toilet lid.

  “Hold tight,” he orders, forcing me to unwrap modesty to hold onto the rock under my tush. He hauls down my jeans, pulling the legs off separately, tugging them in aggressive spurts over my ankles.

  My cheeks are burning with humiliation. I'm overexposed through no fault of my own.

  With his single minded focus now given flight he looks at me, his serious expression breaking into a pleased smile. “You are growing. Hang on and I'll get you a shirt, we'll go looking for a new wardrobe for you after breakfast.”

  Spinning with purpose he goes striding the way he came, leaving me alone with my senses reeling.

  Curious, I stand, stalking the bathroom mirror to compare heights to yesterday. It's true. I have to stoop down further to wash my hands.

  How the hell did this happen?

  Jesus, he stripped me faster than a rapist. It's unsettling. If he wasn't so gallant and had malicious intent, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

  The knock on the rock grabs my attention, “Em?”

  He's dangling his long arm into the bathroom, holding out a cord, a t-shirt, and sweatpants. I stare at it for a moment, loving the definition caused by the flexing.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, mortification setting in when I take them from the extended hand.

  Scrambling back to the safety deeper in, I tug the shirt over my head, snorting at how miniscule I am in it. Scrunching it up over my face I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his evocative smell. Heat blizzards through my loins and I laugh under my breath.

  Shameless.

  It makes my cheeks heat up all over again.

  I don't even need the pants as the shirt is so long, but pull them on anyway, sitting down to roll the legs up, then fold the elasticated waist down and secure it in place with the cord. They're cozy, fleecy on the inside and perfect for slouching around with a good book.

  Exhausted from the drama, I shake my head. This is unbelievable. Still disconcerted I walk into his bedroom, seeing it properly for the first time. At intervals in the ceiling are round hollows that must be vents, light comes from deliberately placed crystals wedges into the roof of the cave, acting like skylights which splinter light in every direction. Rather effective and pretty. It lends a whimsical vibe to an otherwise earthy environment.

  It's spacious, bland brown rock, polished on the floor, matching the mud brown of his bed linen and the suede headboard, the chair chocolate dark, and cupboards and drawers fashioned from stone that looks like it could be tiger's eye.

  “Breakfast is waiting,” he says, popping his head around the corner to his private eating nook.

  I'm reminded of him as I nod at the pleasant expression aimed my way. I had a good look at his body tensing and bunching while he was stripping me. He's gorgeous in his deep blue t-shirt that molds to his body, and he's also wearing sweatpants on those delectable long legs.

  Picking up my coffee I walk around the bed, watching him recline at the table as I advance, tapping it idly, rippling muscles up and down his arm without awareness that my stomach jigs around at the sight.

  Sitting opposite him I note he's wearing contact lenses again. He's smiling, gesturing to the waiting wooden board, “Cheese and flatbread okay?”

  I nod, self-conscious, taking a long gulp of coffee to hide my face away in the huge rim of the mug.

  “Emma,” he says in a soft sultry tone, putting a hand on my arm, forcing me to relinquish my barrier and put the mug down.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?” He's looking deeply into my eyes, seeing right through me again, delving into the farthest recesses of my soul.

  Every inch of my body tenses in reaction, my pulse pattering a wild throb in my chest, “Yup.”

  I roll my lips in, feeling shy under his scrutiny.

  Giving me his dashing smile he pats my arm, using the same hand to lift the knife, meticulously slicing the cheese into wedges.

  He indicates the jars, “Cloudberry, and lingonberry jam.”

  “What?” Derailed I look at the jar of yellow sweetness, lifting it and giving it an inspecting whiff.

  “That is cloudberry from Norway. We grow it here too because it's nice to keep home close to the heart.”

  “Cloudberry? What a stunning name for it.”

  Glancing at me between the slicing of pale cheese, he grins, “We aren't barbaric, Em. We're good guys with poetic minds.”

  “Yeah I know, you're the dude who sang to me remember.” I stick my tongue at him again.

  This time he looks like the coy one, ducking his head, hiding a chagrined smirk.

  “And lingonberry?” I check, lifting up the other jar. It smells and looks like cranberry compote.

  He nods, refilling our coffee from a flask, “It grows flat to the ground like a ground cover. It's evergreen and the berries are potent superfood. You need your strength elskling.”

  Smiling at the endearment I take the offered cracker smeared with cloudberry jam and covered with white cheese.

  Tentative, I take a bite, having an instant culinary orgasm at the infusion in my mouth. The cloudberry is ever so faintly tart, the cheese is gouda sweet, and there's definitely a hazelnut, citrus, and honey amalgamation in the flatbread.

  “Gosh, that's fab,” I mumble, chomping like a starving waif.

  Leaning back in his chair, spreading the selection of condiments on the crackers, he announces, “I expect you to finish all of this. You need the energy because your dormant genes have been activated by the læraðr juice, that... and today I'm taking you to the gym.”

  “What for?” I demand, eager for my next morsel, washing away dryness with another sip of dark roasted coffee beans.

  “I need to test your reflexes, and show you around. We can shower there
after we finish training.”

  “Training?” I gasp, looking at his broad shoulders while intimidation polyps my blood vessels. Surveying the bulk sheathed by his shirt and the indelible muscles in his arms, terror robs my legs of stability and I am instantly woozy.

  Putting a bunch of assembled crackers on my plate, he nods, pausing long enough to look reassuringly into my eyes, “I am your guide. You need to be able to defend yourself. I'm not taking you there to beat you up, I'm your teacher.”

  “Teacher of what?”

  His left eye glows with an excited flare and he averts his focus back to his plate, “Emma, judge me after I mess up, not before. I am going to test your karsk, to gauge your reflexes and might. Karsk is agility and strength.”

  “Will I keep growing?” I ask, wishing I wouldn't keep putting my foot in it.

  He looks up again, his surveillance pausing a moment too long on my chest, “Affirmative. You'll stabilize after a few days. That's why you need your strength right now.”

  Holding my stare with his fathomless eyes ringed with fake fire, he smiles, morphing his strong face into charming, “Are you ready to meet the clan yet, or do you think you still need a bit of adjustment privacy?”

  “Er, too soon,” I nod emphatically. “Worry steals my appetite.”

  Let's just put that out there right now.

  I look down, picking up my mug.

  “Trust me, nothing will suppress your appetite.” He purrs it, the way he licked my earlobe with my name back at the F.F. It heats my insides and does insane things with my ability to focus. Unable to look at him I grip my mug tighter, fogging up at the suggestion in his tone.

  God, the F.F. feels like a lifetime ago.

  How am I going to 'train' when every time he talks to me I turn into a side order of mushy peas?

  “Em,” he hums so low even the wood of the table vibrates, clinking the cutlery.

  Summoned with temptation I look directly into his eyes.

  “Please stop fretting, I promise I'll never let harm come to you, especially not by my hand.”

  I nod, attraction squeezing my throat, making conversation impossible.

  Impulsively he reaches up, holding my chin in his long fingers, belatedly seeming a little shocked at himself . “Your eyes are gorgeous today.”

  That unglues my voice and I feel shrill, “My eyes? Why? What happened to my eyes?”

  He leans closer, staring into me, saying intimately, “They're incredible, the gray has turned into a slice of firmament, sparkling like imprisoned cosmos. You're a frail sacrament, the storm within you has come out of hibernation and it's... beautiful.”

  “Jeez Mac, you're a soppy one.”

  He scowls at me, pulling back and releasing his hold, sitting straight, “Soppy? Has no man ever told you how gorgeous you are?”

  “I wish. The best Guy ever did was tell me I look 'nice'.”

  “You know what Guy's missing?” he snaps, anger tarnishing his tone.

  “A heart?” I laugh with bitter deprecation.

  “A concussion.”

  It's so brutally sincere, said with such ferocity cast into his face that I burst out laughing.

  “I'll be sure to give him one the next time I see him,” I smile, the tension alleviated.

  “Not if I beat you to it,” he winks, shoveling a cracker into his mouth without even needing to bite it in halves like I do.

  I watch his mouth, the full lips spread by the motion, the way his square chin wiggles and deepens the barely visible cleft. He looks noble and altogether too sexy. All angles and spikes which totally matches his statuesque body. I could stare at him for hours.

  “You're okay, Mac,” I nod, following suit and silencing my runaway tongue with coffee.

  “You're better than okay, Em.”

  Grinning stupidly at each other I hold up my mug, “A toast to eating as friends.”

  He returns the gesture, saying, “Skal,” then sips his java while staring sharply at me over the rim. He's hiding a secret today. He keeps looking at me with such intensity that I wonder if I should be worried.

  Exchanging his coffee for my hand, he lifts it and gives my knuckles a brief kiss, “Stop worrying. If I was a rogue I'd not be this patient, and if we are anything it is patient.”

  “You're a romantic sap,” I tease again, loving that he's strong enough to rip my clothes off but can hold my hand like it's a fragile eggshell.

  He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight together, “Please stop thinking about me taking your clothes off. Every time you do I'm back in that bathroom looking at legs so long they belong on a unicorn filly.”

  “Not my rack?” I tease boldly, impressed that he has a thing for legs like I do.

  His eyes open, the left disproportionately bright again, “Lady, if you value your virtue you'll change the subject.” He kisses my hand again, twisting it to look at the mark, running his thumb across it before release, saying firmly, “Eat! It stops you from talking about cleavage and legs.”

  My insides are melting. How did his thumb stroke make me instantly horny?

  Pointing an accusing finger at me, he says in a deep voice, “Don't think about the bathroom incident or I'll have to hand you over to Arghin for training, because all you do is distract me.”

  Laughing, I kick him under the table before retracting my legs to prop my heels onto my chair, “Ha! That's the price you pay for kidnapping women from their homes.”

  He opens his mouth to retort, then snaps it closed, smiling, shaking his head and selecting a cracker, shoving three into his mouth so his cheeks distend, obviously determined to stop himself from flirtatious repartee.

  Or just maybe I hit the only raw nerve he has.

  Lifting my feet closer to my ass I close my eyes too, wishing there was a magic potion to halt stampeding libido.

  “You know what I think?” intrudes his voice.

  “What?” I say, keeping my eyes closed.

  “We should celebrate tonight. This has been entirely too serious for you and it makes you tense. After Arghin and me help sort out your quarters I say we introduce you to Akevitt.”

  “What is ackafit?” he's managed to coax me from my isolation and I open my eyes, simultaneously dropping my legs and swinging them idly under my highchair.

  “Water of life, the drink of Scandinavia.”

  “What's it made from?”

  “Potato.” He laughs hard, shrugging, “What can I say? We're resourceful.”

  “I dunno, I don't think I fancy drinking potato smoothies.”

  “No elskling, it is a liqueur we classify as brennevin, which means burning wine. Akevitt is crystal clear and flavored with anise. It tastes like Yule in a glass, distilled through amber. When we feed you potatoes they're deep purple, naturally almost black.” Shrugging again, the movement causing his chest muscles to dip and pout under his shirt, he smirks, “We are harii, the warriors in black, you'd expect us to favor the dark potato.”

  “You're just excited because you hope I can't hold my liquor.”

  “Nonsense, you can't persecute a guy for wanting to share your own culture with you.” This time he kicks me under the table and I'm grateful he's not wearing shoes, “Plus it's nothing new for me to have to carry you around. You need a party Emma, a real one. I'll let you in on a secret, in the old words we called yule, jøl. To jøl means to have a good time, and as it was yesterday I think we all need to kick back and let our hair down.”

  “Yoll?” I check I say it right.

  He nods, “Yes babes, you need to jøl the T'ach'aa way. A jøller is a party animal.”

  Ha! Next he'll be offering to teach me the raven dance.

  This time I sense the tension oozing out of him when his eye flares. He looks at the mark on his hand, then into my eyes, tightening my lungs when he absently rubs the sigil on his palm, twisting my womb into an involuntary spasm, turning me on.

  It's diabolical that mark is.

  “You're too astut
e sometimes,” he says, his natural croon coming out strained.

  “Why?”

  “The raven dance is slang in our world for coupling.”

  “Oh!” My palm is tingling and I copy him, rubbing the black triangle on my hand. It's completely healed now and is fascinating in its intricacy.

  Tracing it, his groan breaks my focus. His veins are popping out and he looks like he's in pain.

  “Mac?”

  He holds up a hand, “I'm fine.” He readjusts his slouch, looking all business now, “Finish eating, we need to start this day.”

  The atmosphere is different and I have an awful hunch it's my doing.

  Now what did I do?

  Chapter 12

  Emma:

  After grabbing essentials from my supplies I've brushed my teeth, neatened my hair and tied it up, and am now wandering the catacombs with my guide.

  The tunnels are high and rough, everywhere illuminated by crystals, some he says is lit with their old technology of energy which he calls glasir.

  Smiling with indulgence he continues while we walk the long corridor, “We found it endlessly amusing when movies came out with swords of light because in Asgard all the swords have that ability.”

  “Oh yeah?” I don't think George Lucas will appreciate you claiming the spotlight for that ingenuity darling.

  “It's true,” he says authoritatively. “It's recorded as such in the Skáldskaparmál.”

  “Ah huh,” I nod, absorbing sights and sounds while he tries to convince me Asgard is teaming with light sabers.

  “At the beginning of Skáldskaparmál an account is given of Ægir visiting the gods in Asgard and shimmering swords are brought out and used as their sole source of light as they drink.”

  “Okay,” I shrug, seriously not caring. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  “Because the modern man peddles the holy for entertainment. Asgard is real, Valhalla is real, all of it is based in fact but because of the passage of time instead of teaching children truth they're taught propaganda and how to recite wars and bloodshed. Children are not taught hope, but despair. And when the truth is finally revealed it's called science fiction.”