That was so not normal. The bench had needed five men to install, and he swatted it out of the way like a pesky insect.
“Wait.” She ran after him. “Chef.”
Six
When Misha broke through the back door and into the waste area, it was empty. She walked around to the front lot and found him leaning against the restaurant wall, hands on his knees, breathing in deep gasps. He caught sight of her and straightened, running a hand over his head, pulling his cap off to reveal jet black hair.
“It’s okay,” she said, walking slowly. Instinct told her to treat him like a wounded wild animal. Caution. “Whatever that was, I’m not going to tell anyone. You can trust me.”
Maybe that was why he worked there anonymously. It was clear he came from a fancy restaurant. The way he’d filleted that fish with dexterity was not a skill learned in a prison café. He’d moved about the kitchen with complete confidence, as though he’d been in charge of one once. This man had secrets.
He tracked her movement as she approached. It was hard not to be intimidated by him. Biceps bulged, jaw flexed, eyes pierced. The man was two-hundred and something pounds of cut, lethal muscle. Alek had told her what he did to Dimitri’s men. Alek had also acted out the violent act with vigor, like a hero-struck teenager, punching the air and pretending it was his opponent.
“What’s your name?” she asked, but the chef stayed tight lipped. “Don’t want to tell me?”
He shook his head.
“Are you running from the police?”
Another shake.
“But you are running from someone.” She stepped closer. Almost there. A yard away. A glance down at the old wound on his neck and he flinched. There was something about the way he got nervous when she looked at it, something more than usual.
“You running from the person who did that?” she blurted, pointing.
His gaze zipped to her so fast that she knew she was on the right track. Wow. The dude had baggage. Who was she to judge someone on their past? Actions were what counted.
Standing there, staring at each other, she didn’t know what to do but try to lighten the mood. “Hey. Turn that frown upside down.”
That earned her an eye roll. She smiled and shuffled closer. Within touching distance, now.
“No use crying over spilled potato flakes, right?” She tried for another laugh.
He deadpanned, but his eyes began to dance.
“Are there any clichés that will make you laugh?” she asked. “How about I use my posh accent? That always diffuses a tough situation. Yes, dah-ling. What say we forget about all this nonsense and head inside for a cup of tea?”
A horrified expression came over his face.
“Am I really that bad?”
This time, his lip twitched.
Damn him, he was doing this on purpose, trying not to smile. Drawn to him like a devil to a flame, she stepped closer, into his personal space. She needed to see that smile, wanted to obliterate the pain in his eyes, and to give him something else to look forward to. Before she could help herself, a sigh escaped her lips, and she touched his scruffy jaw. It was only meant to be a swipe, to remove the caught potato flakes, but the instant she made contact, the heat of his skin seared her nerves, catching fire down her arm.
All at once she was consumed with him, his scent—woody and citrus—his heat, his rugged exterior. He must have felt the same charge between them because he leaned into her hand, now cupping his face, and released a jagged breath. She knew then and there that this dark, mysterious man was going to be her next big mistake, her next one-night stand. A moment with him between the sheets would probably be the most passion she’d seen in her entire life. One night’s memories would keep her fire fueled for years to come. The very idea had her heart hammering in her chest.
His lashes lowered, gaze stuck on her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
She leaned in. He leaned in. Heat bounced between them. Dopamine hit her bloodstream. Yes. Kiss me now.
Suddenly, her back slammed against the wall. It all happened so fast. One minute, she was in front of him and he was against the wall. The next, he caged her in, darkness and frustration simmering in his eyes, accusing her. With his hips pinning her to the wall, his enormous hand wrapped around her throat, and eyes flaring with defiance as if to say, Is this what you want?
She should be afraid. She should be peeing her pants. But she wasn’t. Regret flooded his blue eyes as they darted down to where he touched her. He let go. Eyes filled with something softer, almost yearning, flickered back to her face and he lifted his fingers, hesitated, then drew back.
He wanted her. He was trying not to want her, and that was… what was that? Some kind of warning? Stay away, because I’ll only hurt you…
But he didn’t. He’d pulled back with regret.
With the braveness of a deer staring into the eyes of a wolf, she pushed forward until her lips touched his, and he let her. He tasted better than he smelled. Human-made aphrodisiac ran down her tongue, tingling through her body and hitting her between the legs.
Fingers speared into her hair and pulled, exposing her neck to him. She gasped, feeling every bit the prey. For a second, she feared he would run away. Turmoil roiled in his every movement, every twitch of muscle, every stilted breath.
Misha never wanted anything more than another kiss from this man. It was almost primal. Almost irrational.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she rasped. “It’s not like we’re getting married or anything. Just one—”
His mouth slammed onto hers, demanding entrance with his tongue. When she welcomed him, he dominated with an unquenchable thirst. Teeth clashed. Sparks of pain shattered her scalp, harsh pressure at her mouth. She whimpered, almost at her limits of pleasure and pain. Rough. Insistent. Desperate.
She liked it all.
It made her feel alive, wanted.
They were skirting the edge of pleasure, intoxicated with the taste of each other. Then just as quickly as they came together, he pulled them apart. He must have seen something in her face, perhaps in the way her lips had swollen. He looked in dismay as his finger came back from her mouth with a tiny red stain. Blood.
He paced away.
“It’s fine,” she called. “I’m fine. Just… maybe ease off a little next time.”
The sound of car tires crunching snapped both their heads around.
A stone of dread landed in the pit of Misha’s stomach as she recognized the vehicle and its occupants. Dimitri and his closest guards.
“Shit.” She scrubbed her face. “Can you go back inside? I’ll deal with this.”
She didn’t want to deal with it. She wanted to tell the chef he was the cause of her new problem, maybe make him pay for the mess he’d created… but it was hers in the first place. Dimitri was only interested because of her connection with him from high school. She had a responsibility to either fork up for the hospital fees, or pay with her body. A shudder ripped through her and the chef noticed.
Confusion flittered across his features.
“Look, seriously,” Misha added. “I know what you did to the last men to collect payment from us, but it only caused more trouble. I’ll deal with this. Please. It’s better to give him what he wants.” The desperation must have leaked through her tone, because he hesitated. “Please,” she begged again and gave him a gentle nudge toward the kitchen door. “I’ve got this.”
But she didn’t want to, because there was only one reason Dimitri would be there this time of the morning. Probably a good thing they were interrupted, because very soon, Misha’s life wasn’t going to be her own.
Seven
Wyatt stood inside the Pierogi Palace. With the kitchen door cracked open, he could see where Misha argued with a short dark-haired man wearing a suit.
Trust me, she’d said before she’d forced him back inside. He was thankful because the words were the wake-up call he needed to put things into perspective. He’d nev
er trust another woman while he had breath left in his lungs. He would do well to remember that.
Kissing her was a mistake. He should never have allowed it to get that far. He’d only thought if he was a little rough, he’d scare her away. But when she’d said, It’s not like we’re getting married—and teased!—her words challenged him. They’d provoked some kind of arcane rebellion, an instinct to prove her wrong. To show her that it would be more with him. Much more.
Fucked. He was seriously fucked in the head. He knew that now, and there was nothing a bullshit tattoo or mystical fated mate could change about that.
He reminded himself to tread carefully. He knew nothing about her. Who would be attracted to someone as violent as him? Sara. A liar who used him, blindsided him, and who made him believe there was more to him than his birthright.
He should have known better.
Shouting outside made him peek through the crack in the door, watching, assessing. The sense of wrath fluctuated, making his gut twinge. It wasn’t Misha’s, no… he further opened his awareness and checked. She was still frustratingly free from the sin. It was the short man who stood next to her. Pure, uncut and lethal. Wyatt had never felt wrath so potently before. The sin practically pumped life in the man’s system. Ingrained in his blood so deep that Wyatt could only deduce the anger was long suffering… and aimed at Misha.
It piqued Wyatt’s curiosity. He stayed put, wiping his wet hands on the towel he’d slung over his shoulder.
Wyatt studied the man harder. All over him, gold glittered in the morning sun. He wore more bling than a goddamn jewelry store. Tailored suit. Slicked hair. Short. Standing with an air of self-importance, as if he thought the world should kiss his glossy boots. Who did he think he was, the fucking president?
Sounds behind Wyatt had him turning. The Minksi family made a commotion as they arrived in the dining room beyond the kitchen. Must have come through the front entrance. Still afraid of me.
He scanned the disarray in the room. The kitchen was a white powdered mess, and the fish entrails were still out.
Roksana glided in, saw the mess, did a one-eighty, pirouetting perfectly before heading back out. Probably to blab about the mess to her father. She was a ballerina with a personality similar to his youngest sister, Sloan. An irreverent chatterbox. A wave of melancholy washed over him. He didn’t know whether Sloan was still an obscene talker, or if she had finally caved to the whims of sloth. He missed her cheeky smile and impractical jokes—even when they were directed at him.
Alek poked his head into the kitchen and gave Wyatt a quick wave before ducking back out. Relief washed over him. Thank fuck it was Sunday, and the boy was in to provide a buffer between Vooyek and the demanding Polish women. Despite Alek’s disability, he was easy to get along with—he even signed “Yes, Chef” when Wyatt gave him instructions. When the two of them were in the kitchen, it was peaceful… quiet, almost. No sounds except the chop of a knife, the stir of a pot, and the hiss of the frying pan.
Vooyek cooked on occasion, but his arthritis worsened as he aged, and he preferred to stick to the dining room with his sister and daughter, making nice with the patrons.
“What happened in here?” Roksana dared to enter the messy room again. She skirted the bench to where Wyatt stood. For some reason, she wasn’t as afraid of him like her father and aunt were. Too young perhaps. Too naïve. Too prideful. That kind of self-worth only came from the irrefutable knowledge you were good at something. Better than most. She must be a good ballerina. In fact, Wyatt remembered her father arguing with her to get to rehearsal once or twice. At her age, she probably danced professionally.
Wyatt collected a broom, intending to clean, but Roksana stopped at the cracked open exit and stood frozen, staring through.
“What is he doing here?” she hissed, face paling as she checked her wrist watch. “It’s not even nine on a Sunday. He usually sends his goons to collect payment.”
Instincts honed over a lifetime perked up. This was the man who ran the show? The reason behind sending those Bratva henchmen? The reason Alek suffered a mild concussion. Anger speared him so suddenly, that he had to lean on the broom for support. He shouldn’t care so much about this family, but it was becoming impossible to ignore their plight.
He should have accepted Vooyek’s offer for free board instead of insisting he pay his way. If he had, he would have the money to cover the part he’d ordered for Betty, and be gone already.
Wyatt’s gaze traveled to the exit. Why would Misha think she could deal with the Bratva on her own?
Trust me.
Maybe she was one of them.
He went to stand next to Roksana and watched through the crack. The speaking on Misha’s part had ceased, and she was nodding sullenly, like a naughty child being schooled.
Roksana clicked her tongue. “That man, I swear.”
Wyatt nudged her shoulder to get her attention, then pointed out the door. What about him?
“They went to school together,” Roksana explained. “He was a weirdo she was nice to—because she felt sorry for him, mind you—which only served to make him obsessed with her. But it was never sexual, which was even weirder, you know? It’s like the serial killer type obsessed. Doesn’t make sense.” Roksana’s eyes flared dramatically at Wyatt. “And after we had the attacks on the restaurant, he shows up all psychopath in shining armor with his protection proposal, and it’s not healthy, you know? And, like, he’s got a short man complex. His eyes are black. They’re like—oof!”
The door opened, shoving Roksana to the side, narrowly missing Wyatt. He stepped back to allow room for Misha to slot inside.
“What are you doing standing near the door?” Misha barked at Roksana. “Get inside. I don’t want him to see you.”
“What? He’s seen me before. It’s not like—”
“Get inside!” Misha pushed her sister further in and checked over her shoulder, but it was too late. The man caught sight of Roksana, gave her a pointed look, and then smiled his shark smile at Misha.
Even Wyatt caught the veiled threat, and the disgusting gold spark in his mouth.
Misha slammed the door. She closed her eyes and leaned against the solid surface, as though relieved to have something tangible between her and the man she left. A deep breath and she mumbled, “Inhale the future, exhale the past.” When she opened her eyes, a smile grew but didn’t reach her eyes. “Be a dah-ling, Roksana. Go start setting up the tables and earn your allowance. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Chop-chop.”
“Jeez, fine.” Roksana sulked and turned to leave, giving Wyatt an eye roll as she passed. “When Duchess Misha is out, you know she’s pissed. Good luck.”
Instead of turning on Wyatt, Misha took the broom from him and headed to the white mess on the floor, sweeping a pile, muttering in a posh English accent about the quality of the help these days.
What was wrong with this woman? Christ, he needed to get out of there, but he hated loose ends. He stalked up to her, frowned, and then vehemently pointed outside. What the hell was that?
She ignored him and continued to sweep, so he took the broom from her. It crushed into splinters in his hands. Two broom halves clattered to the ground, and the sound was deafening.
Aghast, he stared at his hand. Fine saw dust lay on his fingertips as though he’d ground the wood with his powerful grip. While he came to terms with this new, sudden power, the weight of Misha’s stare burned into him. Panic welled and his vision turned dark at the edges. First the ceramic lamp had crushed beneath his touch—then he’d ripped the wooden doorknob clear off. The fist sized dent in the bench… Now this?
He’d threatened to crush her throat outside. The reality of it floored him, and she knew. She knew his strength, and yet she wasn’t making a comment. Suspicion narrowed his eyes. Probably filing away the information to sell to the highest bidder. He tensed and then forced himself to relax.
“You know, meditation would probably help with that, dar
ling,” she said mildly and went to collect the dustpan and brush. “And, I get what you’re trying to ask me, but I’m not responding on purpose. You don’t need to know what went on out there. No offense, but it’s none of your business, just like all that”—she waved at his hands—“is none of my business… unless…” A goofy smile curved up her face. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was in the room with them, then seductively leaned into him. “Tell you what, I hate calling you Chef. Tell me your real name, and maybe I’ll tell you what happened out there. Deal?”
Infernal girl turned everything into a game. After everything he put her through outside, after seeing the violence he was capable of, she still teased him.
Once again, that arcane instinct rushed to the surface, wanting to prove her wrong. It was clear she didn’t think he’d tell her his name, she already went back to sweeping. Already ignoring him.
He took the broken broom handle and whacked it near her hand, barely escaping her fingers. Her gaze shot to his, sparkling with life. He used his pointer finger to write a W in the spilled potato flakes on the counter top. She watched avidly, making cooing sounds of encouragement as the letter took shape, and as his finger moved to start the Y, he froze.
Why did he care what happened to her outside?
That man was a short-assed dick, but like she’d said, none of his business.
He swiped the W away. With all the self-control he could muster, he carefully retrieved the dustpan gently from her grip. It still felt like a forceful snatch, but at least he didn’t break it. Continuing the sweeping, he only lasted a few seconds with the pressure of her watchful gaze on him, and then the dustpan broke.
His only conclusion was that it was her fault. Her presence did things to him, made his blood boil in frustration, in… lust.
Misha attempted to remove a towel from his chopping board, so he stabbed his knife, pinning the fabric to the surface. She’d squealed and jumped, but still no angry retort. The woman had the patience of a Zen master.
Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3) Page 5
