Page 15 of Wrath
Fingers speared into her hair and pulled, exposing her neck to him. She gasped, feeling every bit the prey. For a second, she feared he would run away. Turmoil roiled in his every movement, every twitch of muscle, every stilted breath.
Misha never wanted anything more than another kiss from this man. It was almost primal. Almost irrational.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she rasped. “It’s not like we’re getting married or anything. Just one—”
His mouth slammed onto hers, demanding entrance with his tongue. When she welcomed him, he dominated with an unquenchable thirst. Teeth clashed. Sparks of pain shattered her scalp, harsh pressure at her mouth. She whimpered, almost at her limits of pleasure and pain. Rough. Insistent. Desperate.
She liked it all.
It made her feel alive, wanted.
They were skirting the edge of pleasure, intoxicated with the taste of each other. Then just as quickly as they came together, he pulled them apart. He must have seen something in her face, perhaps in the way her lips had swollen. He looked in dismay as his finger came back from her mouth with a tiny red stain. Blood.
He paced away.
“It’s fine,” she called. “I’m fine. Just… maybe ease off a little next time.”
The sound of car tires crunching snapped both their heads around.
A stone of dread landed in the pit of Misha’s stomach as she recognized the vehicle and its occupants. Dimitri and his closest guards.
“Shit.” She scrubbed her face. “Can you go back inside? I’ll deal with this.”
She didn’t want to deal with it. She wanted to tell the chef he was the cause of her new problem, maybe make him pay for the mess he’d created… but it was hers in the first place. Dimitri was only interested because of her connection with him from high school. She had a responsibility to either fork up for the hospital fees, or pay with her body. A shudder ripped through her and the chef noticed.
Confusion flittered across his features.
“Look, seriously,” Misha added. “I know what you did to the last men to collect payment from us, but it only caused more trouble. I’ll deal with this. Please. It’s better to give him what he wants.” The desperation must have leaked through her tone, because he hesitated. “Please,” she begged again and gave him a gentle nudge toward the kitchen door. “I’ve got this.”
But she didn’t want to, because there was only one reason Dimitri would be there this time of the morning. Probably a good thing they were interrupted, because very soon, Misha’s life wasn’t going to be her own.
Seven
Wyatt stoodinside the Pierogi Palace. With the kitchen door cracked open, he could see where Misha argued with a short dark-haired man wearing a suit.
Trust me, she’d said before she’d forced him back inside. He was thankful because the words were the wake-up call he needed to put things into perspective. He’d never trust another woman while he had breath left in his lungs. He would do well to remember that.
Kissing her was a mistake. He should never have allowed it to get that far. He’d only thought if he was a little rough, he’d scare her away. But when she’d said,It’s not like we’re getting married—and teased!—her words challenged him. They’d provoked some kind of arcane rebellion, an instinct to prove her wrong. To show her that it would be more with him. Much more.
Fucked. He was seriously fucked in the head. He knew that now, and there was nothing a bullshit tattoo or mystical fated mate could change about that.
He reminded himself to tread carefully. He knew nothing about her. Who would be attracted to someone as violent as him?Sara. A liar who used him, blindsided him, and who made him believe there was more to him than his birthright.
He should have known better.
Shouting outside made him peek through the crack in the door, watching, assessing. The sense of wrath fluctuated, making his gut twinge. It wasn’t Misha’s, no… he further opened his awareness and checked. She was still frustratingly free from the sin. It was the short man who stood next to her. Pure, uncut and lethal. Wyatt had never felt wrath so potently before. The sin practically pumped life in the man’s system. Ingrained in his blood so deep that Wyatt could only deduce the anger was long suffering… and aimed at Misha.
It piqued Wyatt’s curiosity. He stayed put, wiping his wet hands on the towel he’d slung over his shoulder.
Wyatt studied the man harder. All over him, gold glittered in the morning sun. He wore more bling than a goddamn jewelry store. Tailored suit. Slicked hair. Short. Standing with an air of self-importance, as if he thought the world should kiss his glossy boots. Who did he think he was, the fucking president?
Sounds behind Wyatt had him turning. The Minksi family made a commotion as they arrived in the dining room beyond the kitchen. Must have come through the front entrance.Still afraid of me.
He scanned the disarray in the room. The kitchen was a white powdered mess, and the fish entrails were still out.
Roksana glided in, saw the mess, did a one-eighty, pirouetting perfectly before heading back out. Probably to blab about the mess to her father. She was a ballerina with a personality similar to his youngest sister, Sloan. An irreverent chatterbox. A wave of melancholy washed over him. He didn’t know whether Sloan was still an obscene talker, or if she had finally caved to the whims of sloth. He missed her cheeky smile and impractical jokes—even when they were directed at him.
Alek poked his head into the kitchen and gave Wyatt a quick wave before ducking back out. Relief washed over him. Thank fuck it was Sunday, and the boy was in to provide a buffer between Vooyek and the demanding Polish women. Despite Alek’s disability, he was easy to get along with—he even signed “Yes, Chef”when Wyatt gave him instructions. When the two of them were in the kitchen, it was peaceful… quiet, almost. No sounds except the chop of a knife, the stir of a pot, and the hiss of the frying pan.
