Page 89 of Wrath
“Okay, okay!” He held out his palms, crouching as though testing a tiger. “I’m stopping. What do you need my blood for? You already have Griffin’s and Evan’s.”
“You mean Greed and Envy.”
“No. That’s the names they gave us, but we chose our own names. I’m Wyatt.” He touched his chest with his palm. “We named you Daisy, because you loved flowers.”
“My name is Despair.”
He narrowed his eyes. Interesting. Not Falcon, but Despair. She wasn’t trying to hide it. Good. He was getting in her head. Keep going.
“He can’t give you what you want,” Sloan added. “He can’t bleed. But I can give you my blood.”
“You lie. He’s bleeding in the mouth.”
Christ the woman had sharp eyes to see inside his red mouth.
“Daisy,” he said. “Let’s talk about this.”
The second her name came out of his mouth, it felt right. Daisy. Not Despair. But she had other thoughts.
Her face twisted with the most emotion he’d ever seen out of her and a desperation flickered over her features. “Despair. My name is Despair, and we don’t want anyone else’s blood but yours.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have time for explanations. Give me your blood, bite your tongue if you need to. Do it, or she dies.Five—”
“That’s Mary, don’t you remember her?” Wyatt said. “She cared for you in that lab.”
“Four—” Despair’s haunted eyes landed on Mary. “Three.”
“Don’t,” Wyatt shouted. “I’ll give it to you.” Tugging his gloves off, he bit his tongue. He clenched through the eye-watering pain and let the metallic taste of his blood flow enough so he could spit into his palm. Holding his red hand out, he stepped up to the stage. “Your turn. Spit and shake. I want your word you’ll let her go.”
She looked down at him. Not even a flicker of emotion remained behind her eyes when she said, “I’m not spitting. I need an uncontaminated sample.”
“It’s the only way you get what you want. Deal or no deal.”
Wyatt thought she wouldn’t go for it, but she caved. She secured her end of the bullwhip to a stripper pole. Confident her noose would hold, she spat onto her palm, stretched toward him and shook his hand. While they were still locked, she kicked out, pushed Mary off the stool and into the air, legs flailing and kicking. Mary choked and grasped, long black braid swinging behind her. Wyatt launched forward, vaulted the stage and lifted Mary by the hips, growing the slack on the noose.
“I got you,” he said to Mary, then bellowed: “Knife!”
“Where?” Sloan frantically searched the fallen Faithful and mobsters. “I don’t see one.”
“There—” Wyatt pointed to where he’d felled one of them near a leather couch full of holes. “In his back.”
Mary’s jaw set in determination, and her face reddened with strain as she tried to say something, but her lips moved. Nothing came out.
Sloan rushed to retrieve the knife, tugged it from a man’s back, twisted, aimed, and fired at the leather whip holding Mary. With precision accuracy, it sliced through the cord, snapping the tension. Mary dropped into Wyatt’s arms. Frantically, Wyatt worked to release the whip around her neck. Her lips moved, but still no sound came out.
“Stop trying to speak,” Wyatt said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Defiantly, Mary wouldn’t listen, so Wyatt looked for Misha and called. With her brother by her side, they rushed over.
“What’s she saying?” Wyatt asked, then said softly to Mary. “She can read lips. Don’t speak, just mouth the words.”
Misha watched, then said, “Find Daisy. Family first.”
Fuck.
Wyatt snapped to attention and signaled for Sloan to take one direction while he searched the other. They went through the destroyed club, into the dressing rooms, around the bars, the storerooms, and down the stairwells, but Despair was long gone. All that was left of her was the saliva drying on his palm.
