Wrath

by Lana Pecherczyk

  A warm trickle ran from the stinging prick under his chin.

  Ignore it. Don’t show weakness.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Money? Our debt has been paid.”

  Her pink lips curved in a rare smile. “No. I don’t want your money.”

  Falcon leaned toward the snake terrarium and tapped the glass with her white pointed nail, then she trailed a groove in the glass, sending a spine-grating shriek into the air. Her nail cut as though it was made of diamond.

  “We have a gift,” she said, still fascinated by the animal in the tank.

  “Gifts always come with a price.”

  She turned to him, still smiling, and it was terrifying. “I can give you hope. I can help you win respect.”

  “Why would you do this?”

  She shrugged. “I can give you soldiers. I can give you money. I can give you power.”

  “Why?” he asked again. He was no fool.

  “Your club is looking very nice, Dimitri. I see our first arrangement has paid off. Did we ask for much in return?”

  He shook his head.

  Falcon opened the door to his office, and a stream of men came in—each wearing a floor length white robe and plastic masks over their faces—slits for eyes and mouths. Two men held a black case between them. They took it to the floor and dumped it with a loud thud. When they opened the lid, cash, gold and all the riches Dimitri ever dreamed of were inside.

  “We ask for nothing in return… except chaos.”

  Ten

  The minute Misha stepped into her small apartment, after a long day’s work at the Palace, she headed for the shower. She’d left a message with Lilo and a few other friends with an invitation to go out that night. She needed to dance. She needed to party. She needed to forget about the demands Dimitri made…. and the two burning blue eyes of brooding silence that watched her all day from across the kitchen. Wyatt’s presence still felt tangible to her, so when the knock came at her door, only minutes after she’d stepped in the shower, her mind naturally went to him. Maybe he’d changed his mind about a little rumpy-pumpy, after all.

  She turned off the faucet, pulled the floral curtain back and shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Wrapping a towel around her head, she quickly dried her body in record time. The knock became demanding, and she had to rush putting on her jeans and blouse. “I’m coming!” Sheesh. The chef must want her bad.

  Misha grinned at her reflection, pinched her cheeks and then jogged to the door.

  As her hand wrapped around the old porcelain knob, a spear of wrongness crashed through her. She’d never told Wyatt where she lived. But her warning didn’t travel through her nervous system fast enough. Too late, she opened the door.

  “Lapochka.” Yuri’s big frame dominated the hallway. He pushed her back with a hand to her shoulder. “We talk inside.”

  “Yuri?” Misha stepped back, adrenaline already surging through her veins. He wasn’t changing his mind, was he? It all seemed so wrong, all—Misha’s mind halted when two other men followed Yuri inside.

  Two of Dimitri’s enforcers. Petyr and Nikoli entered and shut the door behind them. Each stood to a side of the door, hands clasped in front, waiting like soldiers.

  “What’s going on?” Her voice trembled, and she didn’t realize she’d been back peddling until her butt hit her small dining table, rocking it on its legs. “How did you know where I live?”

  Emotion flickered in Yuri’s eyes and time slowed. It was the same emotion Misha had seen swamping Wyatt’s after he’d realized he’d made her bleed. Regret.

  “No.” Misha put out her hand. “Whatever you were sent here to do, just no.”

  “I’m sorry, lapochka. But you made a fool of Dimitri. He wants you to know he is serious about the ultimatum.”

  “Okay. Okay, I get it. Pay up in two days. I get it.”

  But that look wouldn’t go away. That look deepened, and as he came toward her, cracking his knuckles, she had the feeling this macabre dance would be the only one she’d see for days.

  In her father’s borrowed car, Misha drove from the Pierogi Palace to her family home in Weston Park. She’d only intended to borrow the car for the Sunday night out, but… plans changed. It had been two days since Dimitri’s men delivered his ultimatum—pay up in forty-eight hours, or else.

  Those men had actually beaten her! Yuri. Nikoli. Men from the club. Kicked her in the ribs, punched her in the arms. She thought they were her friends. Guess she was sorely mistaken. Ha! Her own joke made her giggle like a mad woman, then winced at her sore ribs.

  God, what a start to the week… and the end of her life.

  She should be sad about it, but she’d always known life was precious, short and fleeting. Her mother had died in childbirth. Something so natural, yet, so sudden. It was the biggest lesson she’d learned about the tragic brevity of the world.

  While her bruises were still visible, Misha had to cancel her Monday and Tuesday yoga classes. She’d avoided her family, avoided the five million missed calls and text messages from Lilo, avoided the restaurant, and avoided him. That damned chef with his damned gruff attitude and his cute as hell surly lips. He was all she thought of for the two days. Goddamn it, she wanted to see him crack a smile. Would it kill him to break a damned smile?

  No, it wouldn’t. But it would bring a small piece of happiness to the shit storm she’d been living over the past few days. When Dimitri had driven into the parking lot that Sunday morning, he had threatened to make Roksana work at the club if Misha didn’t increase her services offered. She’d told him she’d find the cash to pay the debt, just out of spite. Then that damned bastard changed his agreement from a few weeks to a few days.

  Two days to fork over forty-thousand dollars! She could still hear Yuri’s voice, thickly accented, as he gave the final warning while she lay on her apartment floor, still shielding her face.“People know you declined Dimitri’s offer for extra services. They know you agreed to make payment in cash. No changing now or he looks weak. Forty-eight hours, Misha. You pay or—”

  “Or what?” she braved.

  A heavy sigh. A breathy resigned, lapochka, then: “Or we make you pay.”

  The resounding click of the door as they’d left still echoed. It was the hollow sound of her fate, a fate she now accepted, after trying everything to fight against. Benedict Cumberbatch! The best way to protect her family now was to wipe the debt with her life. Surely that’s what he meant. They couldn’t force her to prostitute herself. If she refused, what could they do? Kill her.

  “Benedict Cumberbatch!” She shouted into her empty car until the tension drained out of her body. It was such a silly curse word that it never failed to make her feel better. She carried on shouting until she burst out laughing, and then finally, drained of emotion and teary-eyed, she turned the corner of the street to her childhood family home.

  In less than an hour, her time was up.

  Less than an hour to do one last thing to make her smile… and maybe, just maybe, she’d make someone else smile too.

  Pulling into the family driveway, she was surprised to see a figure in her way. She slammed on the brakes, stopping in time for the car’s bumper to narrowly miss hitting Wyatt and his prized vintage motorcycle. He barely blinked at her sudden entrance, while she… she barely drew breath. Dressed in that pair of worn jeans and a black T-shirt she’d seen hanging in her—his—closet, he looked so damned sexy that her mouth watered. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been out there, tinkering with his bike, but sweat dampened his shirt so it clung lovingly to his sinewy muscles.

  Two unfathomable blue eyes locked onto her. Heat arrowed down her spine, pooling between her legs making her squirm with need. Goodness, she was going to jump his bones. Right then. He had no idea what was going to hit him.

  Benedict-fucking-Cumberbatch, here I come.

  Climbing out of the car, she put on a straight face and stalked up to him, forcing herself to
take it slow, to savor the experience. Plenty of time for passion later.

  Wyatt went back to turning the wrench, ratchet, or whatever that tool was in his big masculine hands. My goodness. She fanned her face. This is what locking yourself in your home for two days did. She was ravenous for him. Dark hair dropped into his eyes as he dipped his head to check his handy work. She needed some popcorn so she could park her ass and just stare.

  “You quit,” she stated, voice husky and already thick with her desire. “You quit without finishing what you started.”

  He responded with an I-don’t-owe-you-anything arch of his eyebrow and stood up, never taking his eyes from his machine. He tested the part he’d just installed, pulling tightly to ensure it was secure. The muscles in his arms went taut, rolling and tensing as if to tease her, to show her all that she was going to lose. All that strength, all that man and sex, gone after today.

  Wyatt had stormed out that Sunday afternoon and, curious, Misha had questioned Evan. He’d only said that his brother needed time. He’d also said she looked good together with Wyatt, and he wished them all the best. For a minute, she’d stood there dumbfounded, and then she’d caught onto his meaning. He meant good together, as in a relationship. Like him and Grace, or Lilo and Griffin.

  “There’s something he needs that only you have. Don’t give up on him, Misha,” Evan had said.

  Naturally, she’d run back to her apartment in the city like a scared little girl and planned to go out clubbing all night. She didn’t do relationships, and the predicament she was in was the perfect reason why. But this wasn’t a relationship. This was one last night of pleasure before she was pushing up daisies. She could relieve her aching body. He could do the same. Then they could go their separate ways.

  “You’re going to ignore me?” Misha stepped closer. His silence only encouraged her. “C’mon, koteczek. Time to play one last game before you go.”

  She hoisted his duffel bag over her shoulder and headed to the steps leading up to the apartment over the garage. Without waiting to see if he followed, she took them two at a time until she burst through the front door.

  She had his bag. He couldn’t leave without it, so there.

  Jumping onto the bed, she scooted the bag behind her, and waited. She supposed she could spend her last few minutes trying desperately to find another solution to the Dimtiri problem. She’d even considered imploring Wyatt for help. He had crazy mad strength and skills. He’d put those two in the hospital, after all. Alek had said he didn’t even break a sweat. But no man was a match for Dimitri’s resources.

  Anastasia had phoned her after she heard about Misha’s beating. She’d warned her that coming back to the club wouldn’t be the same. Dimitri had new blood—freaky white robed and masked soldiers—who were in and out of the club, leaving pure white, returning splattered in blood. Something was going on. Dimitri was flexing his metaphoric Bratva muscles. No one was safe.

  When the sound of heavy boots pounded the steps, Misha almost squealed in excitement. She wanted this release so badly, she needed it. Her nipples were already hardening beneath her tiny crop-top. She didn’t want to spend her last hours crying over her situation. She was going out with a bang… or two.

  When he crested the doorway with anger filled eyes, she hesitated. Maybe this is a bad idea.

  He pounced, fingers encircling her ankles, dragging her toward him on the bed. She bumped down the coverlet, reveling in the sensation of the smooth fabric on her already sensitized body. She nimbly twisted out of his hold and scrambled back to the end of the bed, turning toward him at the last moment with a challenge in her eyes.

  He lunged, but she kicked him back with a foot to his chest. It was like kicking a brick wall. But he yielded. He retreated to stand at the foot of the bed and gaze down at her, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching, pupils dilating.

  Yes, Wyatt. Get excited.

  His fists flexed at his side, as though he were testing his strength. Maybe he worried he’d hurt her.

  “I assure you, I can take whatever you dish out.” It wouldn’t be any worse than what she’d suffered already.

  Those sapphire eyes narrowed darkly, hotly, landing heavily on her lips. Oh, he definitely considered. To give him a nudge in the right direction, she licked her lips seductively.

  “Come and get me,” she teased.

  Eleven

  Misha sat against the headboard, eyes round and bright, blond ringlets wild and free. She wore knee-length gray yoga pants and a tight crop top that barely contained her generous breasts. So fucking beautiful, Wyatt couldn't move his eyes away.

  He was hard the moment she’d stolen his bag and run off. Now he was agonized. Zippers and erections weren’t a good combination.

  Grinning, her eyes roamed down his body to where he strained. Hot desire washed over her features, and, hell, it made his cock twitch with want. But the damned thing was, while his body wanted—needed—to take her with a crippling desperation, his heart screamed for him to leave. Get on his bike, hit the road, and never come back. Fuck this bullshit. Fuck being led by his cock into more heartache.

  Time to play one last game before you go.

  Her teasing words resounded in his memory, reasoning with him. This woman was different. She only wanted one night. One time. But with each instinct telling him to take her, to fuck her until they both ached, there was another voice saying she would hurt him, just like Sara.

  Misha purred like a cat and made a kissy face at him. “What are you waiting for?”

  He launched across the bed. It collapsed under his strength and she squealed.

  Shit. He broke the bed. Face hovering inches over hers, he looked into her expectant eyes. Even if this was a one-off, he wouldn’t be responsible for damaging her… perhaps worse. He could actually kill her with his disregard. He was trained better than that. Until he got a hold on his ability, he had to be careful.

  He never got a chance to try because Misha’s swift fingers unbuttoned his fly, springing him free. Before he formed a coherent thought, her cold hand wrapped around his shaft, shooting waves of pleasure through him. Unbidden, he groaned, and she responded with her own.

  “That’s right,” she murmured. “This is for me. I want it. Give it to me.”

  Fuck, the way she moaned in appreciation, the way she moved her hands, gliding along his length. His vision blurred, his balls tingled. Everything went—

  No.

  He pushed away and sat back on his haunches. Her cheeks were stained pink, and she glared at him with defiance, but he’d made up his mind. He got off the bed and zipped himself up, clearing his throat.

  “Bullshit,” she said. “We’re not done.”

  She mustn’t understand the danger she toyed with.

  “Wyatt. Get here, now.”

  He could crush her.

  Gathering his patience, he stood at the glass sliding doors and distracted himself with the neighborhood scenery. The sun was still up. He still had time to get on his bike and leave, maybe make the next town before dark.

  A rustling sound behind him.

  “Wyatt,” she growled. “Look at me.”

  The husky timbre of her voice had him turning involuntarily.

  Naked.

  Completely naked, lying on the bed he’d slept in for the past few weeks, stroking the sheets enticingly. Soft, silky skin. Round breasts, pink nipples. His mouth went dry. She flirted with death, and it stoked every fire in his body. He was there in an instant, yanking her by the shoulders, crushing their lips together, kissing with retribution, teeth knocking. You want a taste of death? You want to kiss away your life?

  Fingers into his hair, pulling until tiny sparks of pain shot through his scalp. He was afraid to hurt her, but she was stronger than he realized. Demanding. Surprises around every corner… and he… and he liked them. When he thrust his tongue into her mouth and hit the slick sensation of her own thrusting back, a groan ripped from his raw throat. Her taste made him heady.r />
  With a gasp, she shoved him hard, and squirmed away, eyes lighting like fireworks.

  Already undone, he reached for her, wanting, and she shot him a cheeky grin, evading his grasp, giggling. “Come and get it, Chef.”

  A game. Always a fucking game.

  He lunged.

  She kicked out—foot hitting his chest—keeping him at a distance while she impaled him with lust-drenched eyes.

  “Fuck, you make me so hot, Wyatt. Take your clothes off,” she demanded. “I want to see that incredible body. Make me hotter.”

  She was insane. Obstinate. Naughty. Fun.

  Part of him wanted to wrench her foot away, the other part—the hard part—shouted for him to do as he was told. He’d never met a woman who could match his stubbornness full on. But wasn’t that what he always wanted? A woman who called bullshit on his unmoving and strident tendencies? Shame not to see this through.

  One night.

  He reached over his shoulders, gripped his shirt and pulled it off. She slowly removed her foot to make way for the shirt. That woman had the core strength of an athlete. The knowledge of the positions he could move her into jerked his cock with sweet anticipation.

  “Now your jeans.” A throaty challenge.

  He pushed them down and stepped out.

  Misha’s eyes grew laden as she took him in. How they glowed with promise as they dipped to his arousal. He liked the way she licked her lips, liked the way she desired him.

  This is just one time, he reminded himself. One time.

  And then he would be out of there.

  If she wanted to flirt with danger, fine. He’d be the bastard she wanted. He’d fuck her hard.

  Before he knew what was happening, she jumped onto him, straddling his waist. They careened back into the wall, crashing, shaking the foundations. She laughed.

  The crazy woman was having fun.

  Gripping her thighs for support, mouths clashed and tongues dueled. He didn’t know what they were trying to get from each other, but it was raw, passionate, and desperate. If they didn’t have each other, right then, the world would fall apart.