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This Flash Friday comes from a Paranormal/Fantasy book published a few years ago (and now looking for a new home).  Alasdair MacCorran is a sorceror from another dimension, and a bet has put Megara Tempest into his hands as a magical apprentice.  But when Mac falls for the woman he’s not allowed to have, the web of half-truths he’s built is about to come unraveled… 

 

          “You need to calm down.”

            Meg whirled at the sound of Mac’s voice, to find the man in question standing in the sitting room archway.  Her gaze slid over his dark silk shirt – a shade of green she supposed qualified as olive – and black leather pants and jacket, and dropped quickly to his motorcycle boots as she fought down a surge of heat.  He’d never looked so good, and she’d never felt so desperate, before.  He wanted her to be calm?  She uttered a disbelieving laugh.

            “Screw you,” she shot back.

            His chuckle shot through her tightly strung nerves, and the flare in his eyes told her she’d just made a tactical error.  “Was that an offer, leannan?”

            “No!”

            “That was a joke, Meg.  Lighten up.”  There was a definite edge of hurt to his tone.  God, she didn’t want to think about it.

            “I’m not the one who lied,” she reminded him quietly.

            She resumed pacing, too wound up to stay motionless.  She needed to move, or she’d go crazy.  She heard Mac’s sigh, before she suddenly found her path blocked by six-foot-three of silk-and-leather clad man.  She glared up at him, even as her heart tripped.  “Move.”

            “Meg…”

            She opened her mouth, intent on telling him off.  Her glare clashed with the tender exasperation in his eyes, and the effect was like a kick in the ribs.  She couldn’t breathe, under the force of his gaze.  Her heart hammered, and her brain grew fuzzy.  Her anger slid from her grasp steadily, in spite of her stubborn grip on it.  She wanted to blame him, to label it some spell he’d placed on her.  Only, she knew quite well Mac’s magic couldn’t influence – couldn’t even touch – the human heart or soul, just as she knew he’d never use it, even if he could.  She summoned up her most forbidding scowl, anyway.

            “Don’t look at me like that, dammit!”

            To his credit, Mac didn’t even attempt innocence.  Instead, his lips quirked wryly.  “Why not?”

            Irritation coiled in her, until she wanted to scream.  She saw the gleam in his eyes, and knew he saw her mounting frustration, and found it amusing.  She refused to be his entertainment, damn him.  With a dark glare, she planted her fists on her hips and got in his face, instead.

            “Because I want to be mad at you, Alasdair MacCorran!  I want to be so furious I can hate you.  You lied to me!”

            “Never,” he argued quietly, all trace of humor gone from his face.

            He wasn’t getting away with sincerity, either.  “You never told me I’d have to perform for anyone!”

            “True.  But nor did I ever say you wouldn’t.”

            Meg clenched her hands together because if she made fists, one of them was going to land squarely in that blandly unconcerned face of Mac’s.  With a growl of frustration, she stalked away, until the window brought her up short.

            “A lie of omission is still a lie, Mac.”  She stared bleakly out the window.  “Now what do I do?”

            “You put a smile on your face, hold your head up, and march into that conference as the bold, confident Meg I know,” he said quietly.  She heard his booted step on the hard wood, and felt his steadying presence envelope her, even before his arms did.  Against her will, her treacherous body sought comfort in his embrace, and she sank against him.

            He was wrong.  She wasn’t bold, and she wasn’t confident.  She’d bluffed her way through life, convincing everyone else she was strong and capable, that she’d chosen the life she lived.  But Meg knew the truth; she had no illusions about herself.  The real Meg was scared and shy, and weak.  The real Meg had been beaten at life so often she no longer believed she was capable.

            “I can’t do this,” she whispered painfully, more to herself than the man behind her.

            “You’ll do fine,” he murmured against her ear, warming Meg in spite of her fears.  “In two days, you mastered what I laid out for your performance.  You’re ready for this, m’gradh.  As ready as any other apprentice; more ready than you believe.”

            She sighed, and a chill settled over her.  It was the cold grip of panic.  His assurances weren’t having the effect she imagined he was looking for.  Instead, her tension grew ten-fold.  She had the unsettling sense her whole life – her very survival, perhaps – hinged on the actions of the next few days.  No matter what Mac said or believed, she wasn’t ready.  Not by a long shot.