Page 111 of Angel

I whipped my wrist back out of his reach, giving him a narrowed glare.

‘Garage band?’ I murmured. ‘They’re a number-one, Billboard-chart-winning ensemble. If you’ve never heard of them, it’s because you’re the one fading out in the nosebleeds.’

Senna’s eyes flashed, my clapback only fueling the hunger in his expression.

‘I love a woman with teeth,’ Senna chuckled, his gaze scanning my face with rising heat. ‘What do you do when you’re not playing tour manager to these lads?’

‘I’m an art gallery curator and painter,’ I said, resting my elbows on the table and keeping my distance.

‘Give me your handle, I’m following your Instagram right now.’

‘Find it yourself,’ I countered.

He laughed at my moxie and tapped his phone screen, ignoring Sofia’s glaring eyes while the final guitar chord echoed through the venue to massive applause.

‘This you?’ he demanded as he located my artist profile and turned the display toward me.

It showed my face, so I conceded with a huff, while silently cursing Di and her tagging of Angel and me in the Rosedale Group’s public posts on IG.

‘It is, but that’s a purely professional account. I don’t do personal comms on it.’

‘I don’t do personal, gorgeous; I specialize in the spiritual,’ leered Senna in a raspy whisper, most likely fine-tuned to pull women.

I ignored him, my gaze only on the sexiest man alive for me, Angel.

The final note faded, and Angel prowled off the stage as the house lights came up.

Moments later, he was striding straight for Senna’s table, his muscled frame tense.

Publicists and photographers swarmed the area, camera lights blinding us as Angel stepped to me, putting a firm hand over my waist.

‘Senna,’ Angel said, his smile tight and practiced for the flashing cameras while his eyes burned with icy rage. ‘Good to meet you. Name’s Angel, co-lead for the Six Sinners. I see you’ve met my wife.’

‘My man,’ Senna replied with a smirk, as he surged to his feet. ‘Your band puts on a decent little racket.’

‘We get the job done,’ Angel rumbled, his jaw clenching. ‘Glad my woman enjoyed the view from down here. Thank you for giving her front-row seats to see me better.’

Senna’s lips twisted, eyes flashing at Angel’s scarcely veiled caution.

A flock of paparazzi crowded in, shouting for a group photo of the famous frontman, the classic rock icon, and the unknown woman between them.

We had no choice but to line up for the lens.

Angel smiled through gritted teeth while keeping his arm encircling my waist like a steel band.

Senna came in close, washing both of us with his excessive cologne, his jewelry chains and belt clanking.

Without warning, Senna slid his hand down my back, his palm dropping past my waistline to grab my ass.

Before I could flinch, Angel’s hand shot behind my back, wrapping his fingers around Senna’s wrist and squeezing with a crushing force.

I sensed Angel’s bicep flex against my spine and caught the muffled groan of the more mature rockstar to my right.

Senna’s cocky grin fractured, his knees buckling as a gasp of pain escaped his lips.

‘Keep your hands to yourself, old man,’ Angel growled under the noise of the shutter flashes through his smiling teeth.

Senna let out a gritty yelp.