Page 72 of Wrath
He stood before the door, finger tapping on his thigh, thinking back to the green look she’d had on her face. “Are you sick?”
Can’t be my cooking.
A muffled sound and a toilet flushing. “I’m not sick.”
He stood back and waited, but she didn’t come out. More sounds in there—sounded like… vomiting. Why was she trying to hide it from him? He could help.
“I’m coming in.”
“No!” she cried. Her voice was muffled. Tired.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Get Lilo.”
Her harsh tone made him jerk back. It was an instant reaction he couldn’t control. She still didn’t feel safe with him. He turned the knob. “Lilo is at work,” he started to say, but when the door slammed back in his face, he jumped back.
“I have my period,” she shouted. “You can’t come in. I need tampons. I need Lilo.”
Oh. He froze. Tampons.
Um.
Okay.
“So. Um. Lilo?”
“Or… if she’s working, get Grace. Actually, yes, Grace! Get Grace.”
“I’ll be back. And Misha—” he paused. “Don’t worry. I’ll find Alek.”
A muffled response was all he heard, and then he left to find the doctor. The unease in his gut expanded. She had lied to him.
Thirty-Three
Walkingalong the corridor to his office, Dimitri glared at his previously injured hand—now gleaming with gold-plated armor and skeletal metal fingers. A week ago, Wyatt Lazarus had pulverized the bones, destroying his hand for good. All that had been left was a floppy skin covered mess they had to amputate to above the elbow. If it wasn’t for the Syndicate and their special doctors, he’d still be healing. Humiliation had almost drowned him, but when they offered to supply him with the robotic prosthetic, he didn’t ask what the price was; he asked them to plate it in gold. Show all those fuckers he wasn’t to be underestimated, that if you beat him down, he came back more powerful, and more valuable.
His father once compared him to a little cockroach. Always there when he least expected it. Always taking a beating, always scurrying back. He didn’t call Dimitri “little” when he was murdered. Dimitri could still see the look of surprise in his father’s fading eyes as the knife stabbed into his gut.
He smiled wickedly.
He knew the arm would come with a price, but he was willing to pay it. As he got to his office door, Dimitri flexed his hand, still marveling at how his brain connected with the tech as though it was a real hand. He could feel the strength radiate to his shoulder, barely a twinge of pain left after the healing protein they’d injected him with. It was almost as though he had the power of the vigilantes… not almost, better.The power.
“Stare at yourself long enough and you’ll turn into stone.”
Dimitri whirled around, new fist flying toward his assailant. A small pale hand caught it mid-air. Dimitri’s gaze traveled from the hand to the arm to the face.
“Apologies,” he forced out and relaxed.
Falcon was dressed in her combat gear—white half-face bird mask, lips and nose exposed, white leather from neck to toe. Silver-white hair streamed around her shoulders. Blue eyes seemed violet in The Kremlin basement. Blood spattered under her chin, as if she’d come straight from another business meeting.
Other men would believe she left it there to instill fear, but he knew better. She just didn’t care. She accused him of turning to stone, but she was already there.
She held onto his fist and his gaze, never wavering. The seconds ticked by, and yet she would not release. She held his new powerful and enhanced hand with nothing but her fist, as if to show him with one simple gesture where the real power lied. She didn’t even break a sweat.
