Page 11 of Wrath
He growled at himself.
“Oohkoteczekhas a growl.” Still on the floor, she rolled to her knees then rested her head on the mattress, as if it was too heavy to keep upright. She muffled half-heartedly into the bed: “Like a tiger. Rwoarr!”
When she quieted, and her breathing evened, Wyatt gently helped her back onto the bed and settled her on pillows where she promptly tunneled into, moaning about the delicious smell he’d left behind. When he put the blanket over her, she kicked it off until she was bare. He tried one more time, but after she dislodged the blanket again, he left it and went to stand on the other side of the room until he figured out what the hell he was going to do.
But instead, all he could do was watch her, mesmerized. He stood there for minutes, perhaps hours with the awareness of her presence tingling down his skin. As he stared, conflicting emotions encircled him. Eerily at peace but incredibly aroused at the same time. Every inch of skin felt hot and clammy to touch, not to mention the fucking shame boner that wouldn’t go away. This was wrong.
Light from the lamp made her skin sparkle with glitter. Curious woman. With her every breath, new parts of her body came to his attention. Delicate collarbone. Firm thighs and calves. Breasts swelling over her barely there top. She had the kind of body you worked for. Not muscular, but trim, taut and voluptuous at the same time. This woman wasn’t a slacker, by any means. She worked hard, and from the sound of her drunken talk earlier, she played hard. The thought sent an unruly thrill through him, shattering the calm, and with each passing second, his heart rate picked up, his breathing escalated. He was stuck—enraptured.
Traitorous fingers twitched to touch her. When he held his palms in front of his face, the sight of his Yin-Yang tattoo on his left inner wrist had the wild beating of his heart stumbling to a halt. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He rubbed his thumb over the ink, but it was still there, equal parts black and white for the first time in years. Completely in balance.
Bullshit. Fucking bullshit.
It was a coincidence, nothing more.
But the room began to spin as the truth punched him hard. Why else would he feel feverish? Sweat still prickled his scalp, and he itched all over. It was a biological response. There was only one reason for this… she was his mate.
No.
Sara had been.
The fiancée who’d betrayed him, not this drunken woman in his bed. But the tattoo was never perfectly balanced with Sara. It was close, but not perfect.
All the anger and self-loathing he’d felt over the past few months came flooding to the surface, threatening to choke him. It filled his veins with napalm. It trembled through his muscles. It tightened his face until he tasted blood on his tongue.
This Misha wasn’t his soulmate, the one who would bring inner harmony to his turmoil, because if she was, then he’d had no right to be angry at his brother. No right to run from his family. Every ounce of righteousness he’d thrown up as protection was unfounded.
No.
With an almighty roar of defiance, Wyatt stormed to the bed and tipped the mattress, rolling Misha effortlessly to the ground. She landed with a thud on the other side. Before she had a chance to rouse and respond, he threw open the door and left in only his boxer shorts, breaking into a barefoot run down the suburban street dusted with dawn. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the road that he noticed the broken door knob crumbling in his hand.
Five
When the alarmsounded for Misha to wake up, she found herself lying on the floor next to her bed with drool dampening the blanket she used as a pillow.
“Wow,” she mumbled through a cotton mouth. “Must have been drunker than I thought.”
Yep. She could still smell the alcohol on her breath. Gross. But with the ultimatum Dimitri gave, she didn’t blame herself. She’d snuck out after shift, avoiding answering him. Groaning, she wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep and that happy dream of that perfect specimen of a man, but she’d promised her father she’d see to the new chef, and she always kept her promises. She dragged herself up and went to the sliding door at the balcony. Pulling the glass door aside, she sucked in the fresh restorative morning air, let the coolness invigorate her, and completed her sun salutations.
Tilting her head toward the warmth of the sun, she greeted the morning and paid respect to Lakshmi—goddess of good fortune. No matter how bad her day was, or how bad her life was, she always knew that a moment in the sun was enough to make her remember how small she was in the grand scheme of things, and how little control she had over the world.
With each inhale she brought the future, and with each exhale, she banished the past. Soon the cloud from her brain ebbed, and she stretched all the kinks and toxins out of her body, well, almost. She still had a monster version of bad breath.
When she went into the bathroom, she noticed things. Suspicious things. Her clothes were strewn around from the night before—normal—but there were other things, man things. Men’s shavers. Men’s cologne. She took a whiff, eyes fluttering as the scent drove into her lungs. Sweet, woody and zesty. Goodness, it curled her toes. How did they make that stuff so delectable? The bedside lamp was broken, as was the door handle. A single pair of worn men’s jeans and a black T-shirt hung in the closet.
Someone had been staying at her place.
It’s not your place anymore. You moved to the city.
Right. Right. She had to get used to things changing if she was serious about separating herself from her family. The closer she was to them, the more likely they’d learn about her secret job.
Flashes of her arrival the previous night hit her behind the eyes. A man was in her bed with her—a chesty, half naked, total Adonis. Had that been real? For a moment, she considered, but then dismissed it. Probably pent up with unfulfilled sexual frustration. She hadn’t had a one-night stand in weeks!
But the man things…
And all of her spare clothes were gone. Must have been shifted to the main house.
“Alrighty, then.” Feeling more clear headed, Misha followed the smell of butter cooked mushrooms to the main house and entered through the rear porch. The old wooden door creaked and slammed after she entered the kitchen. Her grandparents sat at the round table playing cards. “Babcia. Dziadzio. Who’s winning?”
