“This,” he says, holding up the bottle of Macallan, “is a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey.” My jaw falls open. That’s more than my car. It’s more than my last commission. It’s a lot of damn money. “And you want to get me drunk first?” My laugh is weak as I try to play off my shock. “No.” He doesn’t smile or laugh. “I want to pour it as an offering before I worship you.” I gasp as he lifts the bottle and pours chilled liquid down my body.
