Wrath

by Lana Pecherczyk

  But instead, all he could do was watch her, mesmerized. He stood there for minutes, perhaps hours with the awareness of her presence tingling down his skin. As he stared, conflicting emotions encircled him. Eerily at peace but incredibly aroused at the same time. Every inch of skin felt hot and clammy to touch, not to mention the fucking shame boner that wouldn’t go away. This was wrong.

  Light from the lamp made her skin sparkle with glitter. Curious woman. With her every breath, new parts of her body came to his attention. Delicate collarbone. Firm thighs and calves. Breasts swelling over her barely there top. She had the kind of body you worked for. Not muscular, but trim, taut and voluptuous at the same time. This woman wasn’t a slacker, by any means. She worked hard, and from the sound of her drunken talk earlier, she played hard. The thought sent an unruly thrill through him, shattering the calm, and with each passing second, his heart rate picked up, his breathing escalated. He was stuck—enraptured.

  Traitorous fingers twitched to touch her. When he held his palms in front of his face, the sight of his Yin-Yang tattoo on his left inner wrist had the wild beating of his heart stumbling to a halt. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He rubbed his thumb over the ink, but it was still there, equal parts black and white for the first time in years. Completely in balance.

  Bullshit. Fucking bullshit.

  It was a coincidence, nothing more.

  But the room began to spin as the truth punched him hard. Why else would he feel feverish? Sweat still prickled his scalp, and he itched all over. It was a biological response. There was only one reason for this… she was his mate.

  No.

  Sara had been.

  The fiancée who’d betrayed him, not this drunken woman in his bed. But the tattoo was never perfectly balanced with Sara. It was close, but not perfect.

  All the anger and self-loathing he’d felt over the past few months came flooding to the surface, threatening to choke him. It filled his veins with napalm. It trembled through his muscles. It tightened his face until he tasted blood on his tongue.

  This Misha wasn’t his soulmate, the one who would bring inner harmony to his turmoil, because if she was, then he’d had no right to be angry at his brother. No right to run from his family. Every ounce of righteousness he’d thrown up as protection was unfounded.

  No.

  With an almighty roar of defiance, Wyatt stormed to the bed and tipped the mattress, rolling Misha effortlessly to the ground. She landed with a thud on the other side. Before she had a chance to rouse and respond, he threw open the door and left in only his boxer shorts, breaking into a barefoot run down the suburban street dusted with dawn. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the road that he noticed the broken door knob crumbling in his hand.

  Five

  When the alarm sounded for Misha to wake up, she found herself lying on the floor next to her bed with drool dampening the blanket she used as a pillow.

  “Wow,” she mumbled through a cotton mouth. “Must have been drunker than I thought.”

  Yep. She could still smell the alcohol on her breath. Gross. But with the ultimatum Dimitri gave, she didn’t blame herself. She’d snuck out after shift, avoiding answering him. Groaning, she wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep and that happy dream of that perfect specimen of a man, but she’d promised her father she’d see to the new chef, and she always kept her promises. She dragged herself up and went to the sliding door at the balcony. Pulling the glass door aside, she sucked in the fresh restorative morning air, let the coolness invigorate her, and completed her sun salutations.

  Tilting her head toward the warmth of the sun, she greeted the morning and paid respect to Lakshmi—goddess of good fortune. No matter how bad her day was, or how bad her life was, she always knew that a moment in the sun was enough to make her remember how small she was in the grand scheme of things, and how little control she had over the world.

  With each inhale she brought the future, and with each exhale, she banished the past. Soon the cloud from her brain ebbed, and she stretched all the kinks and toxins out of her body, well, almost. She still had a monster version of bad breath.

  When she went into the bathroom, she noticed things. Suspicious things. Her clothes were strewn around from the night before—normal—but there were other things, man things. Men’s shavers. Men’s cologne. She took a whiff, eyes fluttering as the scent drove into her lungs. Sweet, woody and zesty. Goodness, it curled her toes. How did they make that stuff so delectable? The bedside lamp was broken, as was the door handle. A single pair of worn men’s jeans and a black T-shirt hung in the closet.

  Someone had been staying at her place.

  It’s not your place anymore. You moved to the city.

  Right. Right. She had to get used to things changing if she was serious about separating herself from her family. The closer she was to them, the more likely they’d learn about her secret job.

  Flashes of her arrival the previous night hit her behind the eyes. A man was in her bed with her—a chesty, half naked, total Adonis. Had that been real? For a moment, she considered, but then dismissed it. Probably pent up with unfulfilled sexual frustration. She hadn’t had a one-night stand in weeks!

  But the man things…

  And all of her spare clothes were gone. Must have been shifted to the main house.

  “Alrighty, then.” Feeling more clear headed, Misha followed the smell of butter cooked mushrooms to the main house and entered through the rear porch. The old wooden door creaked and slammed after she entered the kitchen. Her grandparents sat at the round table playing cards. “Babcia. Dziadzio. Who’s winning?”

  “Who always wins.” Her grandfather tipped his bifocals down to peer at her over the top. “Your babcia.”

  Completely ego free, Babcia licked her finger, and drew another card from the center pile. “Good answer.”

  “You want some mushrooms?” Ciocia asked from the old vintage stove. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Sure, sounds good.” Misha glanced around. “Tata here? Or Roka? I need to borrow clothes before heading in to see this infamous chef.”

  A squeal came from the hallway, followed by thudding footsteps down the wooden hallway. “About time you came.”

  Roksana entered the kitchen with Alek immediately after her. Both siblings began to speak profusely—Roka with her voice, Alek with his hands.

  “Whoa! Just let me get dressed and have something to eat first.”

  Roksana dragged her into the living room. “You sit there while I get you some clothes. Then we’ll talk. Alek”—Roksana signed as she spoke to their brother—“you go and get the food.”

  What was going on? Suspicion coated her insides as she sat down in her father’s old chair. But she had to admit, it was nice receiving attention. She leaned back, eyes running around the room. Two sofas faced a small television on an Elm coffee table in the corner. Tassels dangled from the fabric light-shade hanging from the center of the ceiling. So many memories in that room. Glancing at the doorway that led to the bedrooms, Misha could picture the ghost of herself, standing there when she had been a young girl. Toddler on one hip, a bottle in her hand, Roksana crying for her mama from her room. Her father had been sitting in the same chair Misha now sat in, his gnarled hands slipping on a vodka glass as he sobbed to himself. “I was good to her. Not like other man. Why she leave me…”

  “Misha!”

  “Yeah?” She jolted out of the past. Roksana had been saying something. Alek walked up from behind with a plate of food.

  “Here are your clothes.” Her sister shoved jeans and a tank in her hands. “And, like I was saying about the chef, you need to be prepared before you head in.”

  Thirty minutes later, Misha had come to the conclusion that: One, this chef was an extremely grumpy man who spent all their money on luxury food items, and played loud angry music (her father’s complaints); Two, he never spoke—had something wrong with his voice—but was a badas
s who could cook the shit out of Bigos and Gołąbki (Alek’s input); Three, he had something to hide. His energy was dark, and he never told them his name so they all referred to him as chef (Ciocia Violetta); Oh, and four, he was a babe (Roksana’s input of course).

  Armed and prepared with information, she was on her way to the restaurant in her father’s borrowed car shortly after. He would follow with Ciocia which would give her a few minutes to speak with the new chef alone.

  Steam still billowed from the sewer grates as she pulled the car into the lot of the food center. A thumping bass vibrated through the walls as she approached the back entrance. When she opened the heavy steel door and pushed inside the kitchen, the hard-rock riffs almost blew her eardrums away. Wow. Tata wasn’t kidding when he said the chef liked to listen to loud music.

  Frosted light filtered through the high windows to garnish the stainless steel appliances with ambience. It softened the hard edges of the tiny room. Fresh groceries and supplies were half-sorted on the bench that divided the room. On one side were the ovens, on the other, the cool room and larder. Down the end of the room were the sinks and dishwashers. But no chef.

  Her father had told her the chef’s motorcycle was broken, and he usually walked the few blocks to the restaurant, so she wondered how he’d managed to get to and from the markets with the groceries. And where had he been if not at her little room over the garage? When did he get time to change into his uniform? Maybe he stayed with a girlfriend, or maybe he caught a cab. Catching a cab to the farmer’s market was dedication. Most other chefs had just turned up to do their job, and that was it. Some of them rarely did that! Dedication or not, the music was a little on the angry side, so she could see why it bothered her aunt and father. Roksana and Alek, on the other hand, didn’t have a problem with it.

  Pulling out her phone, she selected an upbeat song and synced via bluetooth to the internal system. She was feeling rather nostalgic today, always did when entering this place fraught with so many memories—good and bad.

  Within seconds, the soft notes of a song from her childhood began to play.

  Misha inhaled deeply and let the dill and vinegar scent infuse with her memories, taking her back to her childhood, playing in her grandparents’ vegetable garden and greenhouse. She closed her eyes. The music dimmed until she virtually stood in her memory. White tiger moths and ladybirds flitted past the chamomile flowers. Her mother kneeled in the cucumber patch, snapping off the early shoots for pickling, handing her the too-large cucumbers to eat on the spot. She could almost taste the fresh flavor and feel the juice running down her chin.

  A loud bang made her jump, and she opened her eyes. Two deep blue eyes glowered from beneath dark furrowed brows. A straight nose led down to lips twisted in an almost cruel snarl. Dark scruff that, perhaps, would have been shaved if he’d returned home that morning. His sharp jaw accentuated incredible cheekbones. Across the bench, wearing a black muscle shirt and a backwards ball cap was the man from her dreams.

  “Wow. You’re real,” she exclaimed. He’d truly been in her bed last night, and she’d truly ran her fingers down his sexy front… wait… had he also truly upended her from the bed?

  Ooh. Game on. Her lips curved as a devious response entered her mind. This was going to be fun. Her elevated mood only served to lower his. He collected his phone from the bench, pointed it toward the bluetooth speaker and re-synced, knocking her song from the playlist.

  AC/DC came on with Danger. He turned his back on her and returned to unpacking his groceries as if she didn’t exist.

  “Open hostility.” Her grin widened, practically buzzing with excitement. “You know”—she moved to stand in front of him—“I can speak in song too.”

  She pointed her phone at the speaker and synced. Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off blasted on. She punch-danced around the bench, a dare in her eyes, loving every minute of it. Take that grumpy pants!

  “Haters gonna hate.” She winked, then cruised back around the bench and helped herself to an apple. She tucked it into her mouth and collected the remainder of the fruit into her arms, shaking her rump all the way to the cold room, pretending she didn’t care what he did next, but inside, anticipation made her body sing like the song. Please play with me, sexy koteczek.

  When another hardcore AC/DC beat came on, she almost dropped her apple in delight. He was playing! She finished packing away the items in her hands, and then went to lean her hip on the doorjamb, chewing her apple, eying him with the awareness of a battle opponent. He could be a warrior with that physique. Hard muscles bulged in his arms and rolled in his back as he shifted a heavy fish out of his basket. Nah, he was probably a softy at heart, like Yuri.

  The chef knew she watched, but acted as though he didn’t.

  And when the throaty lead singer sang the title of his song, she laughed: If you want blood, you’ve got it.

  “Well played, good sir, well played.” Maybe he wasn’t so uptight, after all. Or… maybe he was. For some reason, that made her even more excited. Excited and hot. She fanned her face and considered continuing the game, but decided watching him was more interesting. They were running out of time before the rest of the family turned up. She waited patiently until the song ended and then turned the music off completely.

  He was in the middle of filleting the fish with an extremely sharp knife. Blood ran down his long, capable fingers. Obviously she’d picked the best time to shut the music down. He met her eyes with a steely gaze.

  “I’m Misha,” she said, all playfulness gone. “Your boss’s daughter.”

  In response, he pulled entrails out of the fish and slopped them into a waiting container.

  She almost gagged. Gross.

  “Tata asked that I go over a few ground rules with you regarding the menu.”

  More entrails slopped.

  “You’re causing quite the stir in the kitchen, and some customers aren’t happy with your menu changes.”

  He stopped completely, made a cocky eyebrow arch and disparaging shake of his head. She could almost hear his thoughts, Nobody dares to be unhappy with my menu… I do what I want. In her thoughts he also sounded like a young Sean Connery.

  But customers were complaining, and they were leaving. Their traditional, home-style Polish comfort food was becoming too upmarket… too posh, and the patrons were preferring to cook at home. She sighed and bit her lip, wondering how to approach this. She’d underestimated how difficult it would be to speak with someone who couldn’t speak back. At least with Alek, he could hand-sign.

  “Can you use sign-language?” she asked. “I feel like there’s only one side to this conversation.”

  He went back to his task.

  “Guess that’s a no?”

  She’d just have to show him by, well, showing him. Misha spotted the unopened packets of instant potato under the bench. To get there, she’d have to squeeze by him in the space barely wide enough for one person. Uncertain, her gaze landed on him again, but he completely ignored her. Should she squeeze past him, or take the long way around?

  Biting the bullet, she headed toward the gap between him and the stove. Somehow, he predicted her intention and used his body to block her, slamming his fish-gut hand on the bench to cage her in. Suddenly she had a face full of pec muscles twitching in irritation. When she looked up, all she could see was the raw, angry scar running across his neck from ear to ear. Savage. One thing was for sure, he certainly wasn’t your normal chef. With that powerful physique and dangerous glint in his eyes, he was something else entirely.

  Her mind urged her to caution. What if he was like Dimitri?

  He lifted his hands to push her away from the instant potatoes, but caught sight of the blood on his fingers, as though he’d forgotten. He huffed and went to the wet area to wash. Misha took the opportunity to collect the big bag of instant potato and made room for herself on the far end of the bench to roll out dough.

  “So,” she said, collecting the flour. “I’m just go
ing to make the kopitka the way the family likes it made, then you can take a few pointers and—what? Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something in my teeth?”

  He’d come to stand next to her, incredulous hands on hips.

  She rubbed her teeth with a finger.

  Nope. All clean.

  So why was he, oh dear… he’s coming at me like a Mac truck. Misha tensed.

  The chef grabbed the instant potato, perhaps intending to throw them out, but Misha still latched onto the plastic packet. Suddenly they were in a tug of war. He gave a flick of his wrist—that was all it took—and his powerful grip ripped the packet in two, spraying white powder-like flakes all over the countertop, down his front, down her front, onto the floor… everywhere.

  Surprise plastered his handsome face.

  She blinked as flakes landed on her lashes and then laughed. “And here I was thinking we were done with the snow months ago.”

  A frustrated sound ripped from him and he thumped the stainless bench, hard. A fist-sized dent caved the metal surface. Whoa. For a minute, she froze. That dent was unnaturally big. Strong. He was strong. She should be scared, but… somehow she wasn’t. He wasn’t Dimitri. The chef had felt embarrassed over touching her with bloody hands whereas Dimitri reveled in it.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “What have you been eating for breakfast?” That was one decent dent. She rubbed her hand over it. Her father won’t be happy.

  A choked sound came from the chef and when she looked up to catch his eyes, something vulnerable and raw stared back at her. He breathed hard, nostrils flaring, chest lifting. It looked as though he was doing everything in his power not to lose his shit.

  Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he shoved the impossibly heavy kitchen bench out of the way and made a break for the exit.