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Quote by Laura Oliva

“Georgia gulped as the entire doorway suddenly filled with a man she didn't recognize. She'd been expecting Jesper MacMillian. This was definitely not Jesper MacMillian. This man had a rich black complexion. His head was bald- whether by nature or design, she couldn't be sure. Tiny studs flashed in his ears. He wore a beautiful black suit, painstakingly tailored to fit his massive shoulders. Dark tattoos curled just above his pressed white collar, and down below the edges of his cuffs. His face was neither kind nor unkind. He studied her with vague disinterest, his eyes quiet and guarded beneath solid brows.”

Quote by Laura Oliva

Book:Season Of The Witch
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Season Of The Witch

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Laura Oliva

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“It wasn't every day a witch came to see him. Darius deCompostela gave up on the paperwork he'd been trying to fill out and leaned back in his chair. Semantics. Technically, Georgia Clare hadn't come to see him. She'd come to see MacMillian. Most people did, often with barely a sideways glance in his direction. Usually, that chafed. Not this time. For one thing, her reluctance to speak with him didn't seem to have anything to do with, well, him. For another thing, he didn't do witches.”

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“Something about the floating club reminded him of Wonderland. Not Disney's Wonderland, either, but Wonderland according to Lewis Carroll: dark, sumptuous. Treacherous. It was the sort of place where anything could happen...and probably did. He had a feeling if a deranged, bloodthirsty monarch suddenly swept in and started demanding people's heads, no one would bat an eye.”

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“Quella frase detta in maniera così esplicita, quasi sfacciata, fu come un fastidioso prurito in un punto della schiena dove non si riesce ad arrivare a grattarsi; Eleonora capì che era gelosia. Eppure lei sapeva bene che era un sentimento naturale, privo di malizia. Sapeva cosa voleva dire sentirsi legati a un drago; doveva essere preparata. Invece no. Li guardava, e aveva la netta sensazione che non dovesse star lì: era di troppo, un elemento di disturbo. Si chiese se mai Alessandro avesse provato una cosa simile durante il loro viaggio con Indaco. Non aveva mai dato peso a simili cose finché non si era trovata lei dall’altra parte: l’esclusa dalla dimensione che si apre tra un drago e il suo umano. Nonostante il disagio, non riusciva ad andarsene: era curiosa, o forse troppo sorpresa per riuscire a muovere un solo muscolo; guardava il volto del ragazzo rapito dalla dragonessa, il suo sguardo colmo d’adorazione, meraviglia e rispetto. Estasiato. Osservò le sue mani dipingersi di rosso, e provò ancora più imbarazzo nel sentirsi lì: lui apparteneva a quella creatura, adesso. Scosse la testa: non era il caso di fare certi pensieri. Cambiò rotta e cominciò a pensare che le cose sarebbero invece andate meglio: ora che anche lui aveva il suo drago, tutto sarebbe stato più semplice e si sarebbero capiti fino in fondo perché vivevano entrambi la stessa meravigliosa esperienza. “Se è tutto così bello, allora perché mi sento così malinconica e triste?” rifletté. “Non mi è venuto incontro, non mi ha chiesto nemmeno come sto. Se sapesse cosa stavo per fare... Alla fine non l’ho fatto, ed è stato quell’attimo di esitazione a rendermi vulnerabile. Ho rischiato di morire... Non gliene importa più?” Sentì un nodo alla gola.”

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“Sitting in a bar for hours on end wouldn’t help matters, but Tristan Archer figured he might as well try it out. It may take him far longer to get drunk than it would if he were human, yet he figured he’d give it a go. After the hellish few months he’d had, he would try anything at this point. He ran a hand through his short, auburn hair that tended to look brown in the bar’s lighting and sighed. He shouldn’t have accepted his friend Levi’s invitation to dinner and drinks at Dante’s Circle in the human realm. He should have rejected the offer and gone back to the thousand other things he had to do within the fae realm and inside the Conclave. Tristan wasn’t just any fae. He was a nine-hundred-year-old fae prince with responsibilities that lay heavily on his shoulders. He was also a Conclave member, where he helped govern every paranormal realm in existence with another fae member and two others from each race. That was how he’d become friends with Levi, a wizard and prince in his own right. So here he was, in Dante’s Circle, a bar owned and named after a royal blue dragon; the meeting place of seven women and their mates with a history he couldn’t immediately comprehend. Of course, it was because one of those women that he’d rather be in the fae realm instead of the dark bar with oak paneling and photos on the walls that spoke of generations of memories and connections. He’d been here a few times in the past, always on the outside of the circle of lightning-struck woman and their mates, but never fully excluded. They’d welcomed Tristan into their fold, even if they didn’t understand why it hurt him so to be that close to what he couldn’t have. Or maybe they understood all too well. After all, one of their own was the reason for his confusion, his torture. The object of his desire. “If you keep glowering at her over in the corner, you’ll end up scaring her more than she already is,” Seth said from his side. Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immediately regretting the action as soon as he did. The man next to him smelled of the sea. And hope. His heart ached and his dick filled. Seth Oceanus was a merman, a friend, and his mate. His true half. Or at least one of them. Not that he or Seth could do anything about it when the other part of their triad didn’t feel the same way.”

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“She leaned a shoulder against the tunnel wall and thought of Kellan. A Dragon King. A dragon and a King. A gorgeous man who kissed as if there were no tomorrow and made love skillfully, adeptly. He could have let her die. Instead, he took her on a journey that opened her eyes to an entirely new world both beautiful and frightening.”

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