As beautiful as a fallen angel . . .
He’d heard those words a thousand times over the past four centuries.
Sometimes they were a sigh on a woman’s lips. And sometimes a mocking taunt from his brothers.
They always managed to make him want to hit something.
Really, really hard.
Stepping into the vast library, Uriel halted in the middle of the fancy-ass carpet and watched as Victor lifted himself from behind the heavy walnut desk and crossed toward a matching sideboard.
He wasn’t the hulking brute that most people expected of a clan chief. Actually, dressed in a silk shirt and black slacks he looked every inch the English aristocrat with his elegantly carved features and glossy black hair pulled into a neat braid. But a closer inspection revealed the hard muscles beneath the designer clothing and the promise of death that lurked in the pale silver eyes rimmed with black.
Victor was a predator.
Pure and simple.
“Uriel, join me,” the ancient vampire commanded, turning from the sideboard to press a small glass of amber spirits in his hand. “Salud.”
The aged cognac slid down Uriel’s throat as smooth as honey. Liquid fire.
“Martell,” Uriel breathed with a lift of his brow, easily recognizing the expensive liquor. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Victor leaned against the sideboard, his arms folded over his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“You only break out the good stuff when you want something. Usually something that includes blood, death, and/or mayhem.”