The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #13)(84)



Lassiter poked his head out of the billiards room. “Hey! Dragon boy—Project Runway’s on if you wanna come watch. Maybe pick up some pointers on your threads.”

Rhage’s stare narrowed, but he refused to look at the angel. “Isn’t there a Saved by the Bell marathon you have to go watch?”

“Don’t hate on Zack. He’s like your little f*cking brother, beauty queen.” Lassiter wandered over, the gold he had on creating an aura around his blond-and-black head and his long body—or maybe the glow actually was an aura. “So, where are we off to? Your club, Shadow?”

“No.”

“An embalmer’s ball then? With all that black on, it’s like you’re getting into the funereal arts—”

Rhage moved so fast it was impossible to track. One moment, he was gritting his teeth beside Trez; the next, he was nose-to-nose with the angel, his hand locked on Lassiter’s throat.

Words were spoken so softly, Trez couldn’t track them, but a moment later the smart-ass drained out of the angel’s face and attitude.

Rhage dropped the vise grip and stepped off. “So that happened,” he muttered as he came back over and started strapping up. “Might as well get this shit on. I’m riding shotgun with Manny tonight.”

“Oh, yeah.” Trez took a deep breath. “Hey, thanks for doing—”

“But only because he promised me steak.”

Trez popped a brow. “I’m sorry?”

“Steak? You know, cow? Meat? Heaven on a plate? I know you’ve had some before.”

“I’m familiar with it, yes. But you’re coming to help with—”

“The steak consumption. That’s why I’m going.”

There was an awkward pause. During which Rhage simply stared at him, as if making the statement that he was not going to be a drama zone.

And Jesus, that was probably the most helpful thing the Brother could have done. It was like a lifeline out of the emotional suck zone, and Trez grabbed on.

“Steak, huh. You going to order takeout from Circle the World?”

Rhage recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “So, okay, clearly you are not aware of this, which is a stunning lapse in your formal education, but the best steakhouse in Caldie, 518, is right across the street from the skyscraper your restaurant is in. My plan? While you and your girl are up there getting your jollies on and going around in circles, I’ma be down at the ground floor eating, like, a filet mignon, a roast beef end cut, a Kobe beef burger, a New York strip.”

“Sounds good. Which one are you having? You decide yet?”

Rhage frowned. “All of them. With thirds on the mashed potatoes. See, you gotta get your mashed-to-meat proportion right. Makes all the difference. And then there are the rolls. I’ma get three baskets delivered out.”

Trez put up his forefinger. “You know what you need? A meal at Sal’s. You should come eat at my brother’s joint.”

“Is that Italian?”

“Yup. Talk about best in the city—”

“Shit, why haven’t I—”

“Holy … motherf*cker…”

At Lassiter’s barked curse, Trez and Rhage glanced over at the angel. The PITA didn’t notice them, however, his unusually colored eyes focused upward, as if the Second Coming had arrived at the top of the grand staircase.

Just then, a telltale scent reached Trez’s nose and rocketed through his blood, the impact wrenching his head and his body around …

Whereupon he lost all thought. All breath. And all of his soul.

Selena stood at the head of the bloodred-carpeted steps, her lovely hand resting on the gold-leafed balustrade, her body held stiffly, as if she weren’t sure about her shoes, or her dress, or maybe even her hair.

There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Unless she had a problem with being an H-bomb.

Her long dark hair was down around her shoulders, falling to the small of her back. Curled from tip to base, it was such a feminine glory, so overwhelming with its weight and its shine, that he fisted his hands and released them because he wanted to touch it, stroke it, smell it. But that wasn’t the half of it. Her face was the only thing that could possibly have put the stuff to shame, her skin radiant, her eyes sparkling, her full lips red as blood.

And then there was the f*cking dress.

Black. Simply cut. With a low-cut bodice and a skirt that ended north of mid-thigh.

Very north. Of mid-thigh.

Selena extended a foot, a delicately shod, high-heeled foot that was plugged into a teeny-tiny ankle and a perfectly curving calf that had him grinding his teeth.

He had to swallow hard as she started to descend slowly, each step she took bringing her closer to him being able to touch her, kiss her … take her.

Man, that dress was a total knockout, nothing but a sheath that followed the contours of her hips, her waist, and her breasts, with a gathering off to one side at her middle and a second at one of her shoulders. She wore no jewelry at all, but why would she? There was no diamond, no emerald, no ruby, no sapphire that could come near her devastating perfection.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated, glancing left and right, probably at Lassiter and Rhage—were they still in the foyer with him? Who knew. Who the f*ck cared?

Selena smoothed the … was that silk? Wool? Taffeta?

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