Wrath

by Lana Pecherczyk

  He hated it.

  This woman was doing things to his mind. Fucked up things he couldn’t control. They knocked around the room, pushing and pulling at each other until he couldn’t stand it and threw her on the bed in a rage. She landed on her back, breasts bouncing.

  Fuck, he wanted to talk—to say something. His inability was driving him mad, but he didn’t trust his throat. Hadn’t had the balls to speak since the event. What if he was broken? What if he wasn’t…

  Screw it. He had nothing worth saying, anyway.

  Instead, he reached down, flipped her until she lay on her front, and then lifted her by the hips until her core positioned directly before his cock.

  But he didn’t thrust. He stared at her, one hand caressing her perfect ass, the other fisting his length, squeezing tight, straining against the urge to pound into her so hard, he would hurt them both. When she leaned her shoulders down, offering up her rear, he lost all resolve. He shoved in.

  Blinding ecstasy wrapped around his cock, and he had to fight the bliss. This wasn’t why he was doing this. He was going to fuck her, damn it. Fuck her to prove a point. Not—

  He groaned helplessly when she writhed, urging him into movement. Drawing out, he slammed back in, and became lost in her feminine gasps of delight and the way his body wanted to fold around her as though if he didn’t, he’d lose himself.

  This abandon wasn’t him. This irrational need wasn’t him.

  “Yes, Wyatt,” she cried, torturing him. “Fuck me.”

  Fuck you. The words echoed.

  He thrust.

  Fuck you.

  Anger welled.

  Fuck you. He thrust again.

  I hate you. And again.

  I hate... And again.

  Soon he fell into a punishing rhythm, gripping her hips with locked fingers, shutting his eyes to avoid the blissful sight of her perfect body sweating beneath him. Blond hair bouncing. Head arching back with passion. But she was burned into his retinas, and he couldn’t lock out her sounds, her complete and utter surrender, no matter how cruel and hard he pounded. When his climax roared through him with a painful, blinding numbness, he collapsed around her sweaty body.

  Still, she held strong on her knees and hands, holding the weight of him.

  And he felt sated.

  And he shouldn’t.

  He pushed her away in a fitful shove until she landed face first on the sheets.

  Regret punched him hard when he noticed the angry red blotches his fingers had left on her hips, and the forceful disregard of his treatment. Yeah, he was a fucking asshole. What’s new?

  “Oh. Em. Gee,” she shouted into her pillow and gave a muffled scream. He almost thought it was from pain, that he’d taken it too far—but she rolled onto her back, grinning from ear to ear, laughing and panting. Sweat left a glossy sheen over her skin, and her hand fluttered to her throat as her eyes rolled in her afterglow and she moaned, pressing her thighs together. “Fuck. Wyatt, that was hot.”

  What just happened?

  He stumbled back.

  He wasn’t even sure if she finished. Yes, she did. She must have. There was a point where she screamed his name into the mattress, and then she went all soft and pliant. Surely that was—oh God. He scrubbed his face. Not once in his life had he’d been so consumed with passion that he couldn’t remember if he’d made his woman come. He hadn’t even used protection. For once, he was grateful that he and his siblings were sterile.

  Wait. His woman? He’d just called her his woman.

  Get out. Now.

  Where were his jeans? Frantically, he searched the room.

  Holy shit, the room.

  “Wow,” Misha said, leaning casually on her elbow, head in hand, casting an amused glance around. “You know the sex was good when you need to redecorate.”

  They’d all but destroyed it. There was a crack in the wall. The light fitting had crashed and lay on the floor. The bed was destroyed. The headboard splintered in half. Fuck.

  Wyatt fished around in his duffel bag and took out a wad of rolled cash. He’d made a withdrawal from the bank earlier that day. His family knew where he was, so there was no point trying to remain incognito. When he worked at Heaven, he’d been too busy creating luxurious dishes the world had never seen to spend his hard earned cash, so had plenty in the bank. The first thing he did was purchase that motorcycle part he’d been waiting on, the rest he’d shoved in his wallet for later use.

  Misha’s gaze narrowed on the cash roll with distaste. “What is that?”

  Apparently something so disgusting she felt the need to gawp at it.

  He counted it out. Two thousand dollars.

  “Jeez, Wyatt. That’s offensive. I didn’t do this for money.” She shot him a sly look. “I did this for your goddamn Adonis body. Jeez. Wait… unless you happen to have another Forty-three thousand or so dollars in there. No? Well, it was worth a try.”

  Forty-three thousand dollars. That was an oddly precise amount.

  He frowned and pointed at all the damage. The money was for that, idiot, he mouthed.

  She slapped his money away. “Don’t call me an idiot, idiot.”

  Shock radiated through him. He caught her by the wrist and held her captive. She’d said “idiot” as though she knew what he mouthed, as though…

  Do you understand me? he mouthed.

  “Yes, a little. I took Alek to lip reading classes when he was younger. Those hearing aids don’t do shit, and he was too shy to go on his own, so I went with him. It was fun. I can’t hold a conversation or anything, but I catch the gist of it.”

  She twisted her wrist out of his hand. When she moved, Wyatt caught sight of a bruise coloring her jaw.

  His stomach plummeted. He didn’t… The red blotches he’d left on her hips flashed before his eyes. Had he actually hurt her? He touched her gently, and she dropped her gaze, bashful. With a finger under her chin, he lifted until their eyes locked.

  Was that me? he mouthed and pointed at the purple bruise.

  “Go slow, I’m out of practice.”

  He asked again.

  “No, it wasn’t you.” She pushed him away, and just like that, the mood darkened. “The others weren’t you either. Oh wait”—she squirmed, feeling out her body—“My hips are a little sore, but it’s a good sore, if you know what I mean. And that other place.” She winked at him. “Do you really want to know how that feels?”

  But he wasn’t listening to her joke. His mind was caught on the word others.

  Others with their hands on her.

  Rage consumed him. Fuck any man who touched her. He trembled with the need to wring someone’s neck. The thought of another man with his dick in her, hurting her.

  Just like you? a dark voice mocked.

  Forcing the emotion down, he made himself assess her other bruises with a cool head. She never said they were from another man in the bedroom. Even if they were, who gave a fuck. One time, remember? Others could mean anything. And now that he wasn’t blinded with his irrational need to bed her, he saw clearly. Her smooth, gorgeous body was marred all over. He didn’t know which bruise to focus on first. He searched her body, lifting her arms. There—he tested her ribs and she hissed. She was hurt.

  He had to know. He pointed at the ribs and her worst injuries, then pointed at himself. But even as he went through the motions, he knew it wasn’t his fault. The discoloration was old, yellowing, and when she shook her head, it was confirmed.

  If not me, then who? Why?

  He waited patiently while she read his lips. When her gaze clashed with his again, she hesitated.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, drawing away and squeezing into her pants. “Nothing can be done now.”

  She dressed with little regard for him until she turned suddenly, tugging on her joggers. “Well, that was fun, Wyatt. Good luck with your journey. Safe travels and all that.”

  While he stood there stunned, from somewhere in the room, the sound of Snoop
Dog’s Drop it Like it’s Hot came on. Misha hunted around until she found her cell hidden between the headboard and the wall. “Oh, there it is.” She picked it out, dusted it off and answered. “Hello?”

  Dismissed, just like that.

  Wyatt wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He tugged on his jeans and shirt, shaking his head to himself. He couldn’t believe it. Dismissed. What the fuck did he care? He didn’t. So why was he arguing with himself?

  “Calm down, Roka. What’s happened?” Misha gave Wyatt an eye roll, then swiftly, her expression turned grave. “Slow down. I can’t underst—What? A Fire?”

  Fire?

  The room closed in around Wyatt. No. It can’t be. That’s exactly what Evan warned him about.

  “Have you called the Fire Department?” Misha sat on the edge of the bed. Her leg bobbed frantically. “Okay, okay. Where’s Tata? And Alek? Shit. I’ll be right there.”

  She cut the call as Wyatt tugged on his last boot.

  “Look,” she said, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. “I have to go. I’m sorry to just leave like this, but you understand, right?”

  Wait a god-dammed minute. Wyatt stopped her as she tried to leave.

  What was that all about? he mouthed.

  She frowned at his lips and shook her head. “I didn’t catch that. You spoke too fast.” Her face screwed up and for a minute, Wyatt thought she’d cry. She covered her face with her hand, so he couldn’t see. “I can’t believe he did that. Dimitri, you fucking asshole. It was supposed to be me.”

  He pulled her hands away and dipped so she could see his face. It will be okay. I’m coming with you.

  “It was supposed to be me first, Wyatt. Not them. I can’t be the one left picking up the pieces again.”

  He’d never seen such pain in her eyes. This bright, bubbly woman was terrified and trembling.

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze for comfort, then dragged her out the door. When they got to the bottom of the steps, he straddled his bike and handed her his only helmet.

  “You don’t need to do this,” she said. “I get it. You’re on your way out. I’m sure they’re fine. They’ll be fine.”

  But from the way she bit her lip, he didn’t think so. He wouldn’t leave her like this.

  Put the damned helmet on, woman. Whether she read his lips or not, she slid the helmet over her head and climbed on behind him.

  That new part better work. He stomped on the kickstarter and the engine roared to life. Thank Christ. He revved the engine loudly and drove out. As they hurtled down the road, all he could think was this was his fault. He should have listened to Evan instead of running. If he had listened, he’d be at the restaurant. Whoever set the fire—this Dimitri bastard—he’d better hope to God he hadn’t hurt anyone, and if he did, he’d rue the fucking day he’d ever messed with the Minski family.

  Twelve

  Misha clung to Wyatt as they shot through suburban streets on his motorcycle. Through every turn, dip and hill, he controlled the machine expertly. If she wasn’t so panicked, she might find it fun, but all she could think was that Dimitri should have come after her, not her family.

  She should have known better. If Dimitri wanted to make a quick point, he resorted to violence, but if someone really did him wrong, the psychological game he played was far worse than a direct assault. She’d seen him turn a footballer into a sniveling pile of mess in high school. The quarterback had relentlessly bullied Dimitri, going as far as shoving Dimitri’s head down a toilet because he knew he was afraid of water. Misha had felt sorry for Dimitri and consoled him, told him that karma would get that footballer back one day.

  He hadn’t known what karma was, but Misha had been learning about it from Ciocia since she was a young girl: No need to get angry about it, Misha. Angry people only end up with the life deserving of an angry person. Karma will sort them out. But when Misha tried to explain the laws of karma to Dimitri, he took away the wrong lesson.

  Misha learned firsthand how Dimitri dished out his own twisted karma. He’d discovered the footballer was afraid of snakes and filled his locker with them… only thing was, they were poisonous. The footballer was bitten and spent weeks in hospital, missing out on playing in the finals, and missing out on the scholarship he needed to get into college. You’d think that was enough to satisfy Dimitri’s thirst for revenge, but it wasn’t. Years later, that footballer ended up committing himself to a psychiatric asylum because he’d kept seeing imaginary snakes. Dimitri confessed to Misha that he still taunted the man—that he would plant the snakes and then take them away.

  Dimitri was a psychopath; Misha had known it for a while, but he’d always left her alone after she did what he wanted. She thought he would get over the mysterious grudge he’d developed for Misha, or at the very least, he would get bored.

  How wrong she’d been.

  They could smell the smoke from a street away and by the time they pulled into the parking lot of the cultural food center, black smoke was everywhere. Sirens wailed in the distance, but it was too late. The Pierogi Palace was going up in torrid flames.

  Wyatt skidded to a halt. Business owners and patrons had spilled into the lot, all panicking. Some were on their cells, others tried to spray down their restaurants with water from hoses in an effort to stop the flames spreading. When Misha pulled her helmet off, the roar and crackling of the fire was deafening. She choked on the fumes.

  Roksana, Ciocia and her father all stood too close to the burning building. Other staff members were far across the lot. Something was wrong. Her father tried to go back inside, shouting incomprehensible Polish, but they held him back. Where was her brother? Alek worked in the kitchen after school. What time was it? She searched the lot frantically.

  Not there.

  Fucking not there!

  She ran to her family, covering her mouth with her hand. “Where’s Alek?”

  Roksana turned to her, tears in her eyes. “He didn’t hear the alarm! He’s in there. God, Misha. He’s going to die, isn’t he?” She flew into Misha’s arms and sobbed.

  Wyatt touched her shoulder. His eyes were hard as stone as he mouthed something… something like, ask her where Alek was seen last.

  “Roka.” Misha pulled her sister away. “Where was Alek when you last saw him?”

  “Um. I don’t know. I think the kitchen,” she sobbed. “He’d just arrived from school. Usually he dumps his bag in the office, then starts on the evening prep. God, I hope he’s hauled up in the cool room or something. Please God.”

  Wyatt’s looming presence was next to her one minute, then gone—moving—a dark shadow swallowed by the burning building.

  Wyatt!

  But maybe he was okay. He was different, Misha knew that. He wasn’t normal. The things he could do with his strength. He wouldn’t go in there without knowing he’d be safe, would he?

  Bright blue and red flashing lights bounced off the black billowing smoke, and sirens cut short, truncating ominously. The Fire Brigade had arrived. Within seconds, they disembarked and firemen spilled out of the truck. One came over.

  “You need to get back, ma’am. Sir. Please—” he ushered them toward the rest of the watching crowd.

  “My brother’s in there!” Roksana cried.

  “Someone is in there?” the fireman replied.

  “Yes, but Wyatt’s gone back in to get him.”

  “Two people?” The fireman shouted at a few of his crew, barked orders, and that was all Misha had time to see before they were all forced back.

  An explosion burst the front windows of the restaurant, shattering glass into the lot with a ground shaking boom.

  Roksana screamed. They all ducked and covered their heads as flying pieces of debris and glass soared over head.

  When she thought it was safe, Misha turned to the restaurant and caught the silhouette of a figure climbing out of the window. She held her breath. Could it be?

  It was!

  Covered in a tab
lecloth and slung over Wyatt’s shoulder, Alek’s gangly teenager body dangled in his clutches. She almost couldn’t look, but had to see Wyatt’s eyes. He returned her gaze with devastation.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  Misha burst into tears.

  Please don’t let him be dead. Not her dear, sweet Alek.

  Firemen surrounded Wyatt as he placed Alek gently on the asphalt. Her brother was covered in soot, possibly burned—how badly, she couldn’t tell. Along with the rest of her family, Misha broke free from the crowd and raced to him.

  “Alek,” she shouted, even though he couldn’t hear her.

  “Ma’am, you need to step back. Make room for the paramedics.” A fireman’s big hands blocked her. Over his shoulder Misha could see the paramedics unpacking their kits from the ambulance while the firemen battled the blaze. It was Wyatt who calmly and swiftly took control of the situation.

  He checked Alek’s vitals. He must have sensed something, something good, because he sat back and his shoulders relaxed. He turned, scanning for Misha. When their eyes clashed, he gave a curt nod.

  He’s okay.

  “That’s my brother!” she shouted, resisting the fireman still pushing at her. “That’s my brother. He’s deaf. He needs to see me.”

  In the end, she broke through and landed heavily on her knees next to Alek as he opened his puffy eyes.

  “You okay?” She signed with her hands as she spoke the words.

  Poor kid. There was so much going on in his sight. He’d be freaking.

  Brow furrowing, her brother nodded hesitantly. His wide-eyed gaze shot around the lot, and Misha could see wetness pooling in them. She tapped him on the shoulder and signed some soothing words as she spoke them.

  Misha looked up at her father, who also had tears in his eyes. “He’s okay, Tata. He’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s up to us to decide,” said a male paramedic crouching down. “Sir, are you injured? Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  Misha translated the paramedic’s words to sign language, in case Alek was too frazzled to read lips. “I’m right here, Alek. Right here.”