Samael buttered the steak and set it to grill in the cast iron skillet. I eagerly clanged my fork and knife on the cherrywood table in his apartment at the heart of the Capital.
"Tri. Bute. Tri. Bute. Tri. Bute." I sang, serenading him with the song of my hunger.
He was in a vintage Tiamat t-shirt and ripped jeans, barefoot. "Watch this, Shannikins," he winked, bravado growing as he showed off the searing steak like a sportsman, smirked, then flipped that bad boy over so it grilled on both sides.
"Mmm… smells like sex. Better than sex, in fact," I sighed dreamily. I began to pick apart the appetizer Caesar salad – I was never much of a salad fan, and popped cherry tomato after cherry tomato into my mouth. "Sam, what about Mo? Why haven't the horsemen reared their head?"
Samael flushed, muttering. "So, uh, Shannon, how rare did you want this steak?"
"Is something wrong, Sam?" I asked.
