Page 55 of Wild Angel

Now I’m laughing, and I can’t stop.

Vito looks terrified.

I don’t know why. It’s not like Savage will—

Savage gets up, turns to me, and grabs a fistful of my hair.

Fuck.

He hauls me to my feet and then watches me like he’s waiting for me to start crying or some shit.

“What?” I scowl at him. “Wondering if you should punch me? Go for it, you fucking monster.”

Instead, he releases my hair.

His eyes are black discs. Empty, emotionless.

I sniff, twitch my nose. “Coward.”

“Jesus,” Vito mutters. “You have a fucking death wish.”

“And you have a nice dick,” I tell him, leaning past Savage to do it. “Really. I liked it when you came down my—” I cut off in a grunt when Savage grabs the back of my neck and shoves me toward the steps.

“Wrap this up,” he tells Vito, cocking his head toward the men sitting like statues on the couch.

“Savage…” Vito calls out softly. “Seeing her friends just fucked with her head. Don’t…don’t hurt her.”

Indignation pours through me in a hot wave. I try to twist back to glare at Vito or Savage—fucked with my head?—but then something hard pokes into the small of my back.

It’s not Savage’s dick.

It’s his fucking gun.

Shit.

You know who also goes too far sometimes?

Me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Savage

Iwas hoping we’d get all the way out of the club without incident, but of course Nyx makes a fuss. I have the front entrance in my sights when she suddenly starts yelling “Help, he has a gun!” at the top of her fucking lungs.

Growling, I rip her to the side and crush her against the closest wall. We’re a few yards away from the bar—there are only some empty cocktail tables and a fire extinguisher nearby.

I have a strong urge to subdue her with it.

“I’m running out of patience with you,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Aw, Papi. I stopped giving a fuck ages ago.” Her blue eyes bore into mine, determined, livid.

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty fucking clear.” I glance around. No one’s really paying us much attention—I guess everyone assumes we’re making out. “Did you forget that there’s someone out there who’s targeting you?”

She looks like she’s about to say something flippant, but instead she asks, “Where’d you get Phoebe’s cross?”

“At the motel.” I shift my weight, nestle my Beretta between us. The safety’s on—but she can’t possibly know that I’ve installed a manual thumb safety on my APX. “If I hadn’t said—”

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