Page 58 of Red Fury
Shadow
The bass from inside Black Blood thrums through the sidewalk beneath my stilettos as I approach the club’s imposing entrance. There’s a long-ass queue stretching halfway around the damned block.
Crap!
I pause at the end of the queue, taking in the scene. At this rate, I’ll be here all night. In fact, I highly doubt I’d make it in there at all.
No way I’m waiting.
My little black dress clings to me as I stride toward the front of the line, ignoring the dirty looks and muttered complaints from the people I’m passing. The closer I get to the entrance, the more imposing the security becomes. Four bouncers stand guard at the door.
Damn, but they’re huge. I didn’t think humans got this big. They’re all suited up and sufficiently mean-looking to make me take pause.
Three women are pleading with the head bouncer, their voices shrill.
“Please, we drove all the way from Milwaukee,” one of them begs, her fake lashes fluttering. “We’ll do anything—”
“No,” the bouncer cuts her off. He has a Russian accent, but his English is impeccable. “Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow you will get lucky. Try to come a little earlier.”
The women start to protest, but two other bouncers step forward, their message clear. The trio slink away, defeat written across their perfectly made-up faces.
Double crap!
I sigh. I’m sure I’m about to meet the same fate, but I have to try.
As I step forward, another commotion erupts to my left. A guy in his twenties is being forcibly ejected from the club, his feet barely touching the ground as one of the bouncers carries him like a sack of potatoes.
“I was just looking for the bathroom!” the guy protests as he’s deposited unceremoniously on the sidewalk. “I wasn’t trying to sneak in! Please! Be reasonable.”
“Only patrons may use our facilities,” the bouncer growls before turning back toward the entrance.
Great. This is going well.
I didn’t come this far to be turned away by some overgrown humans in suits. I need to get inside that club. I need to find out what Fury is up to.
Straightening my shoulders, I approach the nearest bouncer, who is a mountain of a man with short-cropped hair and cold eyes that scan the crowd.
I’m not worried at all.
“Excuse me,” I say, injecting as much confidence into my voice as possible. I force a smile. “I’d like to be admitted, please.”
He turns his attention to me, and I immediately regret my decision to approach him. Perhaps I should have picked one of the others instead.
This close, I can see the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the way his gaze takes in every detail of my appearance. He doesn’t look impressed at all, which doesn’t bode well for me. But what hits me hardest is the assault on my enhanced senses.
Holy hell, how much cologne is this male wearing?
I have to work not to wrinkle my nose.
He leans in close. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow.
Then he takes a breath. I know he’s about to tell me to get the hell out of there, but instead, his entire demeanor shifts. The hardness in his eyes melts away, replaced by something that makes my skin crawl. His gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering on my legs and then my breasts in a way that makes me want to shift into my dragon form and roast him alive.
But then he smiles; the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Of course, beautiful,” he says, his accent much less pronounced now. “Welcome to Black Blood.”
He steps aside, gesturing toward the entrance with a flourish.
