Page 45 of Wrath
“What the fuck?” The stunned guards gaped at Wyatt, and his completely unwounded chest.
The fallen compressed bullet still rolled on the thin carpeted floor. All eyes watched until it hit the lap dance chair.
Wyatt rubbed his chest. No wound.Bullet proof.A slow grin spread over his face.
Fear flickered in the eyes of all three opponents. Dimitri was the first to snap out of it. He made to shoot, but Wyatt stepped forward, took hold of the gun, and squeezed. Metal crushed in his fist. He dropped the useless weapon to the floor and kicked it to the side.
Cradling his wounded hand, Dimitri scrambled back.
Wyatt waved for Misha to get out. He’d take care of these idiots.
“No.Stop her!” Dimitri shouted, but Misha slipped past Wyatt and slammed open the door, running into the VIP area.
One of the guards lunged after her, but Wyatt hauled his ass back. He held him airborne, watching the man’s legs kick underneath him. Scar-face fired. The bullet stung his bicep but bounced off. He threw the kicking guard into Scar-face. Both went down in a tumble of limbs.
There was no suppressor on Scar-face’s gun, and the explosion had ricocheted through the nightclub. Screams of panic soon rose above the beat of the music. The track skipped with the thudding stampede of patrons running. Dimitri’s eyes went wide with fear.
“No!” Dimitri shouted, panicked. “No shooting.”
“Why, Dimitri?” Wyatt snarled. “You afraid they’ll see you without control? That they’ll see someone is better than you? Stronger than you?”
Elation speared through Wyatt.
Dimitri snarled at him.
Don’t care.
Wyatt dragged the cowering mess onto the mezzanine. He hoisted Dimitri up until he balanced against the railing, overlooking the club floor below.
The man’s wrath seared until all Wyatt could think was to end him—cut off the pain, delete the sin.He was made to eliminate sin and, God, he wanted to do it. He wanted to spill entrails and watch them create art on the floor below. Two-weeks-ago-Wyatt might have done just that.
The Wyatt of today? He looked to the side and clashed eyes with Misha, a step or two down the staircase. He didn’t know what he expected, but mortification wasn’t it. She was as pale as a ghost, and when he stepped toward her, dragging Dimitri with him, she stepped away.
He didn’t want her afraid of him. He didn’t want her repulsed. Wyatt dropped Dimitri, and he slumped to the floor.
“You better kill me,” Dimitri spat out. “Because I will destroy you for this. I will make you—”
Wyatt shoved a boot in Dimitri’s face, shutting him up.
For too long he stared at the man, passed out at his feet. It was Misha’s soft voice that snapped him out of his daze. “Wyatt, we have to hurry!” And she headed down the stairs.
Twenty-Two
Like insects comingout of the woodwork, Dimitri’s security and white-robed soldiers appeared from the shadows. Misha raced down the spiral stairs, but Wyatt had somehow landed at the bottom before her. When his boots thudded onto the stage, she realized he must have jumped.
He’d landed without a scratch on him.What on earth was he?Before she had time to ponder, he dragged her through the club, shoving furniture and innocent bystanders between the lunging white-robed warriors and security. Women screamed. Men shouted. Guns went off and she ducked.
Wyatt gathered her in his arms and cradled her against him. Carrying her, he used his shoulder as a battering ram, pushing through anything and anyone in his way. Moments later, they burst into the cold night air, but they didn’t stop. They jolted and jostled as he ran, bumping along as his boots pounded the pavement.
He ran so fast.
Afraid for her life, she cowered into his chest, clutching onto his shirt.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
They stopped. He eased her to her feet, and she opened her eyes, dazed to be nowhere near the club but a dark alley. Breathing hard, he reached into his pocket and threw something at a homeless man sitting by a black motorcycle. The man caught it. Cash. It was cash.
Why did Wyatt throw him cash?
