His eyes are completely black.
A low growl rumbles from his chest.
The sound is unmistakably possessive, vibrating through the room and settling somewhere deep in my bones.
His lips peel back.
Fangs slide into place.
Oh.
Shit.
The room suddenly feels very, very small.
My brain desperately reaches for something normal.
Anything normal.
I have two thoughts simultaneously.
Casey wanted cheesy bread.
I should’ve listened to my instincts and stayed away from this place.
Now Casey’s hanging three feet off the ground and turning more purple by the second.
I don’t think he’s getting that cheesy bread.
I think heisthe cheesy bread.
And somehow that makes me the pizza.
Okay, that metaphor got away from me.
The point is:
Casey is the appetizer.
And I’m pretty sure I’m the main fucking course.
Chapter Nine
WHEN THE CRUST CRUMBLES
I’m drumming my fingers on the table in front of me, my face the epitome of boredom, while Angelo is droning on and on about how his lackey hadn’t known about our arrangement and why he broke the cardinal rule of killing across territory lines.
I may appear bored, but in reality I’m studying every inch of his two pathetic bodyguards for weaknesses, tempted to simply kill and dispose of them, merely to prove a point.
Fucking fang political bullshit. It’s always the same.
