Page 44 of Wrath
“Da.”
“Okay, then.” Dimitri drew a pistol from his concealed holster. He made a show of checking the rounds, then pulled a suppressor from his pocket and screwed it onto the gun’s muzzle. “When this is done,” he said to his men, “you leave the body in here until after closing. No one outside this room will know of this betrayal,da?”
The men nodded.
Dimitri turned his aim on Wyatt.
“Just a minute.” Misha stepped from behind Wyatt, despite his attempt to keep her there.
She stood directly in front of Wyatt and put her hands on her hips. Wyatt’s heart almost burst from his chest.
“Exactly who is betraying who, darling?” Misha said.
Shit. This wasn’t the time to play Duchess. Wyatt caught Misha’s hand and the strangest thing happened when they made skin contact—all the wrath in the room winked out of existence. The sickening crawl in his gut just… disappeared. When Wyatt let go of her, the sin came oozing back in. She was the one. Without a doubt.
“You want me to spell it out for you?” Dimitri said with scorn. “He put my men in the hospital. There is still a price to pay.”
“But. But you said I owed you for that.” Misha’s voice tightened, losing her accent. “It’s why I work here. It’s why you burned down my family restaurant. How can you say there is still a price to pay! It’s been paid.”
“You argue with me again!” Dimitri shouted, anger trembling through him. The sense of wrath flared so intensely, Wyatt felt the echoing burn in his gut. Wyatt needed to get back in front of Misha, but he didn’t want to draw attention. Inch by inch, he edged himself from behind her back.
Instead of getting angry, Misha just shook her head. “You got some bad karma coming your way, Dimitri. I swear to God. One of these days…”
Her calm demeanor only outraged Dimitri further. “I will shoot him in front of you. Will you like that? We only need his blood. He doesn’t need to be alive. I will shoot that fuckingsvo-lach.”
A glutton for punishment, Misha said, “What, are you a vampire now? You drink blood, Dimitri?”
The two guards exchanged curious glances.
But with Wyatt, a cold realization was settling in. Dimitri wanted Wyatt’s blood. With all the white-robed Faithful milling about, Dimitri was as good as Syndicate. And if they wanted his blood, then… they knew Wyatt had developed powers. When Evan met Grace, Sara had been crazed about getting a sample of Evan’s blood. She’d said Evan’s DNA had unlocked… that the Syndicate needed it to repair their failed replicates—the clones using the same genetic modification as the Seven. Wyatt’s biological mother had been very crafty with her lab experiment. She’d made sure no one else could get their hands on the full research because she’d hid the correct sequence under a layer of DNA junk in their blood.
Apparently, after meeting your mate, that junk code dissipated, revealing the right sequence.
Misha was telling the truth—she had no ties to the Syndicate. She had no clue why Dimitri wanted his blood. She was innocent. Nothing like Sara.
He had to make a choice, and he had to make it stick. No more pussy-footing around. It was either go back to the scared little man he was, running from his problems, running from himself, or he had to trust this woman.
“Step aside, Misha.” Dimitri gritted his teeth and steadied his aim to prove a point. “Or do I need to remind you what will happen? I will make your family pay. I will make them scream in agony, and I will make you watch.”
“I feel sorry for you, Dimitri. You’re still that scared little boy trying to prove he’s not.” Misha reached for Wyatt at her side, trying once again to get in front of him.
Those words were Dimitri’s trigger. He put his hand on Misha’s shoulder. And that was Wyatt’s trigger.
Nobody fucking touched her.
Wyatt gripped Dimitri’s hand and squeezed, watching pupils contract in pain, listening as bones crushed in his powerful grip. And still he squeezed.
The thing was, every man liked to think he was invincible, but when pain hit—it paralyzed.
“You fucking bastard,” Dimitri screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, injured hand hanging limply. With his good hand, he aimed the pistol. He fired.
A sting at his chest made Wyatt look down at the burned hole in his shirt.
A breath.
Another.
The pain receded. Misha trembled behind him.
