Page 3 of Wrath
The two men roughing up the old man, strong-armed him with classic intimidation tactics. But that wasn’t where the intense wrath came from… it came from the Polish restaurant as a teenage boy exited. He was tall, lanky, and had longish blond hair. Dressed similarly to the old man in the apron.
Something about the boy reminded Wyatt of his younger brother Evan at that age. An incorrigible fierceness glowed in the teenager’s eyes as he defended the older man. His gaze screamed obscenities. With no visible weapons, he approached the men and waved his hands in their face. What the hell was he doing? Realization hit him. The kid was signing.
Shock reverberated in Wyatt’s chest.
Can’t speak. Like me.
His gloved fingers touched his scarred neck. The hard ridge stretched almost from ear to ear.
Sara.At the thought of her name, acid hit the back of his throat.
The brown-haired thug in a navy shirt backhanded the teenage boy, sending him head first into the thick paned glass behind him. The reflection wobbled from the impact, but didn’t break. The boy’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the ground, stunned.
A raspy snarl ripped from Wyatt. His fingers twitched for his knife but no, he wanted to feel the pain of those fuckers on his skin. He tugged his gloves off and then stalked toward the fallen kid.
Ignoring the men ranting with thick Russian accents—time for you later—he crouched and checked on the boy. Two fingers to the carotid told him he was alive. No blood at the back of the head, just a small bump forming. He wore a hearing aid in each ear. Basic model.
“Alek,” the old man cried. “Alek.Ci nie jest?”
“Shut up,starikan,” said the youngest Russian. “You need only worry about the money you owe us, old man. Boy’s lucky to be alive.”
“He is my son. You don’t touch him.”
“We touch who we want to touch.”
“Oi,” the second Russian snapped at Wyatt. This thug was older—maybe thirty or so—with a scar running down his face that caved and pulled his lip awkwardly like a one-sided Joker smile. He opened his coat to show Wyatt his concealed weapon, then jerked his head toward the road. “Leave. This is none of your business.”
Still crouching, Wyatt gave him a dismissive snort and then patted Alek’s face gently. Alek’s blue eyes opened and focused on Wyatt. Wyatt pointed with two fingers at the boy’s eyes and then back to his own.Watch me.
Alek’s brows drew together. His attention flicked to the thugs, then back to Wyatt.
Watch me,Wyatt mouthed, hoping Alek understood.
He nodded and Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder.Good boy.
Wyatt unfurled himself, straightened to his full six-foot-three height, cracked his neck, and then turned to the Russian thugs. One held Alek’s father against the window. Scar-face watched Wyatt with incredulous eyes, as if he couldn’t believe someone had the balls to ignore him. He didn’t even reach for his weapon.
Fool.
Staring at his opponent, Wyatt exhaled slowly. When all the air was gone, he entered his calm space. The space where wrath dominated. The space where death lived. He pounced. Took the gun from Scar-face. Emptied the magazine clip. Punched his throat with a satisfying crack, then jabbed his face. The man went down, blood spurting from his nose. Wyatt turned to the next thug who came at him with brass knuckles.
He could move out of the way, could step to the side and avoid the hit, but… pain burst in Wyatt’s cheek as the Russian connected. Wyatt’s head whipped to the side. Tasted blood. That warm, metallic tang—his bitter friend come to make him smile.
Wyatt spat out a wad and, for a moment, his gaze caught on the red splash over the pavement. A memory flashed before his eyes. Blood in the street, Sara’s blood, his blood—all mingling. She reached for him. She said she was sorry.
No.
Wyatt shook the memory loose, then his small smile turned into a toothy grin, and he let his feral beast out to play.
He must have blacked out. Must have lost time, or something, because the next thing he remembered was the Russian’s bloody face beaten to a pulp, and his fist soaring down for another hit.
“Enough!” The old man shouted behind him. “You will kill him.”
With incredible restraint, Wyatt bit the inside of his cheek and stepped back, scrubbing his face. His hands came back covered in tacky dark red. Second-hand blood.Shit. The wrath inside had taken over, poisoning his instincts.
He refused to look at the bio-controlled Yin-Yang tattoo on his wrist. He knew it would be entirely black, indicating wrath had intoxicated his bloodstream, making him do evil things.Yeah, sure, blame the wrath.
He forced himself to calm. Had to keep control, or else the next time he blacked out and went berserk, he might not come back. Worse—his gaze flicked to Alek—he could take out innocent bystanders.
