Page 52 of Wild Angel

But Vito steps in front of both of them like he’d been reading my mind, and he has a gun in each hand, one pointed at each Brennan’s chest.

“You decide if you die today,” he tells them and casually cocks back the safety on his Tauruses. “You, and only you.”

Nyx’s hand is around my wrist, her nails drawing blood. When I glance at her, her eyes widen and her lips start to tremble.

Not in fear, or embarrassment, or even panic.

Anger.

Hot. Intense. Fucking incandescent.

While Vito has his stand-off with the Brennans, I slowly slide a finger inside her and beckon.

Her eyelashes quiver as her pupils bleed into the iris. “I hate you,” she whispers.

“I know, Angel.” I drag my hand out from between her legs.

The Brennans are still standing, but they both raise their hands in surrender. Patrick looks my way and gives me a stiff nod.

I smile, lift my hand, and suck Nyx’s juices off my finger while he watches.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nyx

Apizza arrives. Savage holds open the box for me, but I don’t even bother acknowledging him. He sets it down and then he shoves a piece into his smirking mouth.

I’m so fucking angry, I’mvibrating. I know why he said those things about my sisters. I know why he wanted to intimidate Patrick.

But he went too fucking far.

He always goes too far.

I sit prim and proper, my thighs tight, my back straight, and I wait for this nightmare to be over. There’s a ghostly tingling between my legs—a physical afterimage of his touch.

I’ve never been so ashamed in my entire life.

Never felt so fucking turned-on either.

More and more I’m starting to wonder which of us is sicker than the other.

Regular Sunset Strip Killers we are.

Savage switches to Spanish, chatting animatedly to the four men who were here when we arrived. Vito sits quietly on his own couch, eating a slice of pizza and texting on his phone.

I sit forward, and Savage stops talking like someone turned off a faucet. He watches me silently as I reach for the vodka.

“Please Sir, may I have some more?” My words drip sarcasm, and I don’t look at him or wait for his response before grabbing the nearest bottle.

I don’t bother with a shot glass.

This night is one of those I don’t fucking want to remember.

Savage grabs the bottom of the bottle when I try and tip it to my lips.

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

I expect him to slap me. Instead, he tuts me. “You should watch that dirty little mouth of yours,” he murmurs. “I know exactly how to shut you up.”

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