The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,107

almost at the top.”

“Can we go down and come up again? I wonder what the descent is like!”

Actually, maybe they should head back to the lobby. He was fairly sure he’d left his manhood there when this rocket ride had ignited.

“Trez!” Tap, tap, tap on his forearm. “Look at this.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s incredible. Yeah. Abso.”

They were never getting to the four hundred and forty-fourth floor. Much less level fifteen thousand gabillion where the cocksucking restaurant was.

McDonald’s, he thought. Why couldn’t she have wanted Mickey D’s. Or Pizza Hut. Taco Hell—

Beep!

At the sound, he braced himself for a Die Hard moment where some mastermind in a bespoke English suit blew up the rooftop.

Nope. Beep! Forty-five. Beep! Forty-six.

And more good news came as the bum rush to the heavens slowed.

“Trez?”

“Mmm?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just really psyched for dinner. Oh, my God, I can’t wait to get there.”

She tucked her arm through his and leaned her head against his triceps. “You really know how to treat a female.”

Damn right he did. For example, he was very clear that it would be considered highly unromantic to go fetal and suck your thumb because you were nut-less when it came to heights.

Bing! And the doors opened.

Thank you, baby Jesus, to use a Butch phrase.

Now, he told himself, get your shit together, you sack-less wonder, and focus on your female.

Flashing his queen a Cary Grant plus fangs, he escorted Selena off the deathtrap and into a black marble lobby that for a split second took him back to his nightmare at the s’Hisbe: so much glossy black stone on the floors, walls, and ceiling, with lights inset up high—and nothing else.

“Trez?”

Shaking himself, he smiled down at her. “You ready for this?”

“Oh, yes.”

A discreet black-on-black sign with an arrow indicated the way to the restaurant, but his keen senses of hearing and smell had already given him that information, thanks. As they started off, a human couple steamed toward them, the female’s high heels like the F-word being used with every step she took.

“…no reservation?” she hissed. “How could you not get us a reservation?”

The man next to her was staring straight ahead. Like you would if you were stuck next to a three-year-old on a bus.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get us a reservation. And we had to walk out like that. In front of all the other…”

As she continued to marching-band it to that theme song, the man’s eyes locked on Selena—and the poor bastard recoiled in awe as if a living angel had appeared in front of him.

After Trez pointed out to his inner bonded male that an appropriate entrée didn’t include Filet o’Fucktard, he realized that he, too, had failed to call ahead and lock down a time for a two-top. Shit. He’d totally forgotten to ask Fritz to make the damn call. And mind control worked on humans, including snotty maître d’s, but what it couldn’t fix was rank unavailability of empty seats.

Ahh …

“You know, I’ve heard the food isn’t all that,” he said numbly.

“That’s okay. I’m really here for the view.”

The entrance to Circle the World was not marked with any signage, like if you needed to ask, you didn’t need to be there. All there was was a pair of smoky glass doors as wide and tall as a one-story house.

Getting a jump on the black handles, he pulled one half open and let Selena go ahead.

Total restraint.

That was the first impression of the place: Glossy black everywhere, from the tables and the geometric chairs to the square supports that held the ceiling up overhead. No flowers. No candles. Nothing fussy. And the dark night beyond all those windows? Black as well, so that it looked as if there was no divide between the sky and interior.

The only touch of whimsy? The curling LED lights that hung from that lofty ceiling on black wires, their twinkling illumination reflecting off of all the high-gloss.

Oh, and there was a soprano singing over in the corner, her dulcet voice piped in throughout the place.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Selena whispered. “It’s like there are stars everywhere.”

He looked around. “Yeah.”

Okay, where was the gent in the penguin suit who was in charge of turning people with good money away? There was no maître d’ stand. Just thirty feet of black carpet that led to the first lineup of minimalist tables.

“They’re looking at us.”

On the whispered words, he frowned and focused on the diners. Well, what do you know. Every one of the humans at