Page 12 of Whatever Wakes
The woman bleeding on my office carpet is not Ari Sylas.
She has a bag over her head, but the dark, curly hair spilling out from underneath is unmistakable. A telltale marker that sends a jolt through me.
It lookstoofamiliar—concerningly so—and I pray like hell that my mind is playing tricks on me. That it’s just a coincidence, just someone with a passing resemblance. Ithasto be.
Because if it’s her…
No. It isn’t. It can’t be.
It’s just the way she’s taken up residence in my mind, how every stray thought seems to find its way back to her. That’s all. That’s the only reason I’m seeing her in places she couldn’t possibly be.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as my gaze drags down every painfully familiar inch of her body, my stomach twisting tighter with each second that passes.
My vision blurs, and blood hammers behind my eyes, a relentless pounding that drowns out everything else.
Three of my men hover around her like vultures, and Dominic yanks the burlap sack from her head with the same careless force he used when he dumped her on the floor—barely ten seconds after barging through my door with her slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
The room tilts.
Her face is a mess—bruised, streaked with dirt and sweat, tiny cuts marring the skin along her cheekbone. Her hair is a disaster, tangled and wild, and she huffs in frustration, blowing a stray curl from her face before leveling a hooded glare at me.
Itisher. And I don’t know what the fuck kind of mix-up this is, but the realization hits like a sledgehammer.
My pulse spikes, rage igniting in my veins so fast it’s a wonder I don’t explode right here and now.
My entire body burns with it—I can feel the tremors rattling through me, barely contained, barely controlled.
I force myself to stay still. To shove it all down. Because what happens next is going to require a steady grip.
She shifts, her shoulders stiff, wrists still bound behind her back. The shock is there—etched into the lines of her face—but it’s secondary to something sharper, something fiercer. She’s scared, yeah, but mostly? She’spissed.
And when her gaze locks onto mine, it’s like a lightning strike straight to my gut.
She’s a feral kitten, all claws and teeth, wound tight like she’s waiting for the perfect moment to sink them into me. I half-expect her to spit venom, to hiss and snap—but she doesn’t.
And I thank every god that she doesn’t.
Because if she did, if she made it evenremotelyclear that we were anything to each other, I’d have no choice but to kill every man in this room. And I would. Without hesitation. For her.
I crouch in front of her, grip her chin between my fingers. She jerks back immediately, resisting on instinct, but when I catch her again, she stills. Not out of fear—never that—but out of pure, exhausted defiance. She submits, begrudgingly, her breath coming in quick little puffs, her skin warm beneath my touch.
It’s the worst possible moment for my cock to twitch against my zipper, but it does anyway. We both know why.
I tilt her face, inspecting the damage. Her cheek is a mess of angry reds and purpling bruises, the highest point split open just enough to make my blood pressure spike.
She doesn’t say a word.
She juststares, her brown eyes dark and unblinking, cutting straight through me like a blade.
I don’t just want her submission.
I wanteveryshattered, breathless piece of her.
A muscle jumps in my jaw, the vein in my forehead throbbing with the force of barely restrained fury.
I release her and stand, but my eyes never leave her.
"Who the fuck did this to her?"My voice is calm. Too calm.
