Chapter 45
RAZOR
I’m as uncomfortable as fuck in my black suit, my brother beside me in an identical one. We are filling the roles of bodyguards to fucking Creed, of all people, who has dressed like a fucking movie star, scrubbing up to be God’s gift to all women.
I must admit the Angels chose well because he is receiving many admiring glances from the attractive women who pass.
We are waiting for his escort; apparently, the Angels have arranged it, and we don’t have long to wait before a white limo pulls up on the red carpet and a breath-taking vision steps out.
She is elegant, in the highest golden heels, her gold sparkly dress reflecting the light of the camera flashes. Her blonde hair is piled high on top of her head, dripping with diamonds, and she is wearing body paint with glitter, almost blinding any interested observer.
She steps forward, her expression blank, a serene smile in place as she approaches Creed.
He can’t tear his eyes off her, and quite honestly, he is excused because this woman must be a supermodel or something along those lines.
Her gaze is soft, seductive even as she whispers in his ear, and I have never seen Creed tongue-tied before, but even his usual arrogance has deserted him right now. He is spellbound and Blade chuckles beside me. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
I wish I could find amusement in the situation, but I’m on edge because somewhere inside this place, if not now, but later, Sunday will walk in with the man on my kill sheet, and it will take all my self-control not to murder him in cold blood on the spot.
Creed grins as they pass us, her arm in his as they work the red carpet, and it’s obvious she’s a favorite with the paps because they call out her name in one continuous howl.
“Sophie, over here. Turn around, baby, smile for the camera. Looking good, Sophie, one for Vogue.”
The requests are endless as she poses for the camera, an obvious professional at this.
The whispers follow us when we move, as they struggle to place Creed. Envy hanging in the air for the poster couple working the crowd like movie stars.
“Creed is wasted as a soldier.” Blade mumbles, and I must agree with him.
Creed could well star in films and not even speak; he is that commanding.
Now I understand why the Angels chose him.
Blade and I play the perfect bodyguards, and I think on the plan to liberate Sunday.
I freaking hope it works because it will take superhuman inner strength on my part to allow this woman to call the shots.
Ryder’s last words to us were, “Stick to the plan. No heroics, no straying from the schedule, and we stand a chance of walking out of there with no red tape to strangle us.”
Ryder and Snake are now with Angel, whoever that is, and as we follow the glittering couple inside, my mood hardens and my heart fills with vengeance as I scan the area for the first sight of my girl.
* * *
I have decided that galas are boring as fuck, as Creed and Sophie work the room. Blade scans one side of it while I take the other, and we don’t miss the curiosity from the stunned gazes as we escort the two superstars inside.
“Who is he?”
One woman remarks as we pass, and her friend whispers, “I heard he’s royalty from Europe.”
I resist rolling my eyes, hoping like hell Creed isn’t hearing this because he’s big-headed enough and will speak of this night for eternity.
I wonder who Sophie is. I’m not one for celebrities, but she is obviously one.
Talking of celebrities, I notice Tyson looking dashing in a tuxedo as he holds the hand of his old lady, Summer.
She is the biggest country singer in the Western Hemisphere and is attracting a lot of attention herself.
Tyson’s arm is protectively around her as he pretends to engage, but his gaze is also sweeping the room.
Four Reapers mingle with the crowd, dressed to impress, attracting attention this time for different reasons.
Blade and I are huge beasts of men, as we apparently guard our celebrities, attention also heavily on us.
It makes me uncomfortable because I prefer flying low under the radar, and Blade is the same. This is hell for us. I hate this shit and my anger sharpens as I hunt for my girl among the crowds of interested eyes trained our way.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Blade nudges me, and as I turn, I almost fall because Sunday walks into the room, and my world spins.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She is beautiful. The shimmering silver gown rivals any here; her gorgeous face is almost tragic as her vulnerability strikes me hard in the heart, and the fact she is holding the arm of a walking dead man takes all of my control not to wrestle them apart.
It’s as if the world stops for the longest time as I stare at her, my heart thumping, the blood scorching me from inside, my breathing heavy and my pulse racing.
I have never experienced a moment like this.
Love, hate, and desire all mix as one, and pure, unadulterated hatred for the man smirking at anyone who glances his way.
I want to tear him apart with my bare hands.
Sophie turns and whispers something to Creed when she notices the couple, and he nods, his expression serious, his eyes flashing with the scent of the kill.
I know that look. We all have it. Reapers may piss around a lot, but when it comes to business, we are deadly serious.
Creed nods to us, and Blade stiffens beside me, mumbling, “You okay, Razor?”
“I will be.”
My tone is dark, deadly, my resolve firm and as we turn toward the couple, my intention is set.
Creed and Sophie move toward the couple with purpose, but to anybody watching, they wouldn’t guess. She is holding Creed’s arm, and he gazes at her adoringly, and I’m guessing not all of that is pretense. Creed always did appreciate beauty, and Sophie is his match in every way possible.
However, there is only one woman on my mind right now, and as we approach and our eyes connect, it takes all of my self-control not to strike.