Page 51 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
Despite the pretty pajamas and fluffy footwear, Asher was scary as hell. Color stained his cheeks, his face was hard as granite, his chest rose and fell in sharp, staccato bursts. The hand that held the knife shook. His fingers were curled so hard around the hilt his knuckles showed white. He was Italian, with that Mediterranean passion and volatility, and it showed.
In contrast, Christian seemed relatively composed. Until she looked into his eyes.
What she saw there made her mouth go dry.
He was furious, too, but it was cold and feral and utterly deadly, a savage blackness unfurling even as she started at him, a violence so thick and profound it actually had heft. It was nothing like Asher’s hot, blustering outrage, and though he was the one holding the very wicked-looking knife, Ember felt a thrill of fear slice through her, straight to the bone.
Her friend could take down the best of the best…humans.
Now, he was in mortal danger.
She whispered, “Ash. Put the knife on the dresser. Please.”
“I’m not doing anything until you give me a very good reason why I shouldn’t relieve this prick of an important body part.” Asher’s angry gaze flickered to the general vicinity of Christian’s crotch.
“Please,” she reiterated, keeping her voice as calm as she could. “Christian hasn’t done anything to hurt me, physically…” She swallowed and began anew, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack. “Or emotionally. We’re just having a-a fight. It’s nothing fatal, there’s no need for any amputations.”
After a long, murderous glare in Christian’s direction, he finally complied. Then he folded his arms across his silk-clad chest, tossed his head and said to her, “That was probably the worst lie you’ve ever told me, honey. And I’m pretty sure you’ve told me a lot.” He huffed a breath through his nostrils and shot another glare at Christian. “You’re lucky she’s not PMSing, or you’d be missing your baby-maker, Romeo.”
Christian smiled at him, and Ember would have sworn under oath she’d never seen anything so frightening in her entire life.
In a voice low and infinitely dark, his gaze never once wavering from Asher’s face, Christian said, “No one has ever threatened me like that and lived to tell about it, but considering you’re acting as a guard dog on behalf of someone I care about, I’m going to let that go. A word of advice, however: never do it again. Or you’ll be missing much more than your baby-maker, friend. Now piss off. Ember and I need to talk.”
Before the jumping muscle in Asher’s jaw translated into another round of hurled threats, Ember broke in. “Please, Ash. Please, it’s okay.”
Asher looked back and forth between her and Christian, his gaze clearly disbelieving, anger still evident in every feature on his face. Finally he said, “Since no one will tell me exactly what’s going on here, this is what I’m going to do.” He pointed to the door. “I’m going to sit on the sofa in the living room for ten minutes; that’s enough time for you to say whatever it is you have to say, and for my girl to listen. During that time, I will be listening for any noise or indication whatsoever that she is afraid, angry, or even the slightest bit miffed. If I hear anything out of the ordinary, I’ll call the police, and then I’ll be back in this room with the entire set of kitchen knives, whether she likes it or not. Capisce?”
One corner of Christian’s mouth twitched. He stared at Asher for just longer than was comfortable, then said, “Capisce, Pacino.”
Asher looked at Ember, then looked at the knife on the dresser he’d just put down. He picked it up again, gave the two of them a tight smile. He said, “You kids won’t be needing this,” turned, and sailed from the room.
Christian shut the door behind him. It closed with what seemed a deadly soft scrape of wood on wood.
She couldn’t look at him. She looked at her feet instead, still clad in her wet shoes, hanging over the edge of the bed.
“Well. That was a first. I’ve never been threatened with bodily injury by a drag queen before.”
He hadn’t moved from the door. His voice was less frightening than when he’d spoken to Asher, but there was still a hard edge to it, though she sensed he was trying to control himself for her sake.
“He’s not a drag queen, he’s gay,” she said, feeling miserable and confused and exhausted. “And he used to be in the Marines. Gay Marines are the toughest people on earth.”
“He’s wearing fluffy slippers, September. And women’s pajamas.”
Faintly, Ember protested, “Those are Gaultier.”
Ignoring that, Christian said, “You’re still wet.” He sounded mad about it.
Following his tactic, she sidestepped his comment. “Say what you have to say, Christian. Then leave. Please. I can’t digest all this in the span of one night. Especially with you here—like that.”
She made a vague gesture with her hand to indicate his lack of a shirt, which up until now she had been doing a very good job of not focusing on. He hovered enticingly in her peripheral vision, however—bare chest and golden skin and sculpted muscles—so she turned her eyes to the opposite wall, letting them rest on an oil painting in a hideous gilt frame her father had bought for her on a whim at the same flea market where he’d bought her divan. It depicted a litter of sleeping kittens curled together on a knitted blanket in a basket, which at the moment seemed incredibly sinister.
“Oh? Do you find the sight of my body distracting?”
His voice sent a shiver through her. It had changed from dangerous to soft, a liquid sensuality like warmed honey sliding over her skin. She closed her eyes against it and said, “Just say what you came here to say.”
There was silence, then a sigh. Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around her.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered when she tried to push him away. “Ten minutes and then if you still want me to, I’ll walk out that door and I swear you’ll never see me again.”
