by Amy Hale
My stiletto switchblades clicked against the icy floor as I approached him. For a city that never slept, everything else was drowned out when I met him on the edge. Without tearing his gaze from my lips, he handed me the apple. His cold hand lingered on mine until I punctured the fruit’s skin with my manicured nails. The juices dripped down my arm as I brought it to my mouth.
“Just one bite,” the Huntsman promised. His archaic Americana accent expelled the urgency in his voice with a lingering provocativeness that could not be matched.
I knew I shouldn’t do as he asked. The apple was laced with poison that would certainly be my undoing. Yet, to deny my cravings any longer would positively kill me.
The sweet apple burst in my mouth. As I swallowed the forbidden fruit, he closed the gap between us, taking what he desired. With the gun pressed up against my body, he stole a kiss from me—a kiss I had no intention of denying him.
With the gun’s nozzle resting against me, I dropped the lipstick-stained apple. It fell off the edge of the balcony just as a gunshot broke the stillness of the night.
