Aimee’s POV
A private jet. The hottest boy band in the world. And Cage Knox across from me — beautiful, terrifying, and very much not human. I used to dream of this moment. Now I just hope I survive it.
CHAPTER IV
Aimee
I ride to the airport in a long black limo, crammed between producers barking orders into their phones, but at least Cage isn’t riding with me, which is a relief.
One of the assistants calls my parents right in front of me, and informs them that I took an internship with the Dark Angels. She says in a chirpy voice that I was over-the-moon about it, which I probably would be, under any other circumstances. When I desperately signal her to give me the phone, she covers the mouthpiece and whispers angrily that I look too distressed to talk to them. That I’d make Mom worry. The unspoken ‘ungrateful brat’ in her tone isn’t lost on me, and when the girls next to me grab my shoulders and shove me back against the seat, I know they share her opinion.
Distressed.
I must still have the wild look on my face from when I first found out.
I wonder what they’d do if they knew what I do.
Cage warned me about breathing a single word about his secret, which means that none of the army of people working for the Dark Angels—an entire industry in themselves—has any idea what they’re dealing with. I doubt that any of them has ever experienced an idol baring his fangs inches away from their faces, then basically kidnapping them.
But if their poisonous glares are any indication, they’d kill to be in my place right now.
Not that I blame them. Just yesterday, I would have killed to be in my place, too. But now, with the growing vivid knowledge that my crush is a vampire?
We slip into the airport through a secluded alleyway that’s clearly reserved just for us, pulling up beside a private jet with its passenger stairs already waiting. On the ground, staff members buzz with phones and gadgets, their business swelling into a frenzy as the limo carrying the members rolls to a stop.
The wind whips across my face the moment I step out, tossing my hair in every direction, until I duck into the cozily luxurious interior. My jaw drops. Gold trim gleams against beige leather, and every booth is its own haven, with deep seats, private screens, tablet tables, cupholders. A flight attendant seizes my arm — not gently — and steers me toward one of the booths. I sink into the seat, which folds around me like a cocoon. It’s so absurdly comfortable, so insistently designed for relaxation, that a sigh escapes before I can stop it.
But when the Dark Angels file in, one by one, my breath catches.
My pulse skyrockets when Cage lowers himself elegantly into the booth right across from me. There’s enough space between us for both of us to stretch out our legs, and yet I can feel his energy on my skin. It’s electrifying, raising goose bumps all over me.
Every cell of my body screams with the awareness of what he really is, but his beauty still sucks me in like an inescapable magnet. That perfect bone structure, his porcelain skin, the sinful shape of his lips and the shadowy darkness around his eyes that emphasizes their depth. What many would speculate is perfectly applied makeup or even surgically enhanced perfection is actually the natural allure of a mythical predator.