Dish of the day?

The shape of his head, more visible as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, was reminiscent of an Elisabeth Frink – stone Tribute rather than bronze Aggressor.

Solid column of throat the same for either.  His sweat-varnished, black against soft white cotton.

I stepped inside. 

Behind me, a collective intake of breath, part-suppressed;  a single eruption of protest, immediately silenced.  From Julian, who I hadn’t yet learned to trust. 

His hands lifted slightly, a thin rattle of a chain. 

He whispered again, lips rimed with light, eyes lignite glittering.

My blood ran cold.

From behind me silence.  Avidly awaiting entertainment.

One of this week's entries for Prediction Fiction, prompt words varnish, erupt, cold.