Striding down the hall to his office, Dimitri couldn’t contain the buzz of anticipation rising in his blood. Falcon had been right. Misha had served as bait for the man who’d put Dimitri’s men in the hospital. How she’d known was beyond him. He’d placed men to watch her family, and she hadn’t returned home for the entire week. He’d been hesitant the man would turn up at all. Dimitri pushed open his office door and was surprised to find Falcon sitting behind his desk, in his chair, casually cleaning her nails with the sharp end of a dagger, white boots resting on his glossy desk.
How dare she sit at his desk.
Her flat gaze hit his expectantly and her brows lifted. “Well?”
“It is as you predicted,” he said through clenched teeth. “Security just notified me he is sequestered in one of the private rooms with the girl.”
“Good.” She stood up and tugged on the bottom of her leather jacket. “Then you should have no trouble with the second part of our agreement.”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That he would come here.”
Falcon shrugged. “The same way I knew when you were at your lowest. Men are predictable when they despair. They go after hope as if it were gold. She is what he hopes for, what he craves. He stays with her family, even though she is not there. He wants her.”
“And me? What do I want?” He tensed, waiting to see how much she really knew about his fears and motivations.
“Power. Revenge.”
“I want the girl alive.”
“I don’t care what you do to the girl.” Falcon skirted the desk and headed for the door, stopping as her hand wrapped around the knob. “It is him we want.”
“But I want the man dead.” Nobody got away with embarrassing him. He wanted people to know that whether it was the next day, or a few weeks away, he would retaliate for any slight against him.
Falcon stiffened, eyes turning hard. Dimitri thought she’d deny his request, but in the end, she lifted her shoulders. “I don’t care what happens to him. Just bring me a sample of his blood.”
She walked down the hall and disappeared into the club, no doubt heading for the exit. She’d acquiesced to his demands too easily, and for what? A single drop of the man’s blood?
He should stop asking questions. What business was it of his? He got what he wanted from her: soldiers, drugs, weapons. It was only a matter of time before every man, woman and child in Cardinal City feared his name.
Twenty-One
Wyatt gave the two men blocking their escape a once-over. Bratva. He could tell from the recognizable tattoos coursing up and down the sides of their necks. Wyatt could take them. A quick knockout each, little fuss, and then he would get out of there with Misha. He’d have to get downstairs, contend with the Syndicate Faithful, and perhaps a few more security personnel. Easy.
Misha poked her head out from behind the protection of his body. “Um. Is this because he touched me? Because we’re all good now. Just a misunderstanding, right, Wyatt?”
“Nyet,” the first guard replied. A scar ran down one side of his face to pucker his lip.
I know you. Wyatt shot him daggers. He was the Russian who’d tried to extort money from Vooyek—the one who’d instigated this entire thing. Without him and the friend he’d put in the hospital, Wyatt would never have stayed or met Misha.
“So, what’s going on?” Misha asked. “I have work to do, you can’t—”
The door opened, and Dimitri strode in. Five-foot three of suave, slick, sinner. His wrath watered Wyatt’s eyes. The scathing glance he sent Wyatt’s way would probably shrivel a lesser man’s balls. Fuck him and the gold loafers he walked in on. Wyatt’s brother Tony would have a field day with this dude’s misplaced fashion sense. A quick pang of longing for their banter after every mission speared through Wyatt.
Dimitri turned to Scar-face. “Is this the man?”
“Da.”
“Okay, then.” Dimitri drew a pistol from his concealed holster. He made a show of checking the rounds, then pulled a suppressor from his pocket and screwed it onto the gun’s muzzle. “When this is done,” he said to his men, “you leave the body in here until after closing. No one outside this room will know of this betrayal, da?”
The men nodded.
Dimitri turned his aim on Wyatt.
“Just a minute.” Misha stepped from behind Wyatt, despite his attempt to keep her there.
She stood directly in front of Wyatt and put her hands on her hips. Wyatt’s heart almost burst from his chest.
“Exactly who is betraying who, darling?” Misha said.
Shit. This wasn’t the time to play Duchess. Wyatt caught Misha’s hand and the strangest thing happened when they made skin contact—all the wrath in the room winked out of existence. The sickening crawl in his gut just… disappeared. When Wyatt let go of her, the sin came oozing back in. She was the one. Without a doubt.
“You want me to spell it out for you?” Dimitri said with scorn. “He put my men in the hospital. There is still a price to pay.”
“But. But you said I owed you for that.” Misha’s voice tightened, losing her accent. “It’s why I work here. It’s why you burned down my family restaurant. How can you say there is still a price to pay! It’s been paid.”
“You argue with me again!” Dimitri shouted, anger trembling through him. The sense of wrath flared so intensely, Wyatt felt the echoing burn in his gut. Wyatt needed to get back in front of Misha, but he didn’t want to draw attention. Inch by inch, he edged himself from behind her back.
Instead of getting angry, Misha just shook her head. “You got some bad karma coming your way, Dimitri. I swear to God. One of these days…”
Her calm demeanor only outraged Dimitri further. “I will shoot him in front of you. Will you like that? We only need his blood. He doesn’t need to be alive. I will shoot that fucking svo-lach.”
A glutton for punishment, Misha said, “What, are you a vampire now? You drink blood, Dimitri?”
The two guards exchanged curious glances.
But with Wyatt, a cold realization was settling in. Dimitri wanted Wyatt’s blood. With all the white-robed Faithful milling about, Dimitri was as good as Syndicate. And if they wanted his blood, then… they knew Wyatt had developed powers. When Evan met Grace, Sara had been crazed about getting a sample of Evan’s blood. She’d said Evan’s DNA had unlocked… that the Syndicate needed it to repair their failed replicates—the clones using the same genetic modification as the Seven. Wyatt’s biological mother had been very crafty with her lab experiment. She’d made sure no one else could get their hands on the full research because she’d hid the correct sequence under a layer of DNA junk in their blood.
Apparently, after meeting your mate, that junk code dissipated, revealing the right sequence.
Misha was telling the truth—she had no ties to the Syndicate. She had no clue why Dimitri wanted his blood. She was innocent. Nothing like Sara.
He had to make a choice, and he had to make it stick. No more pussy-footing around. It was either go back to the scared little man he was, running from his problems, running from himself, or he had to trust this woman.
“Step aside, Misha.” Dimitri gritted his teeth and steadied his aim to prove a point. “Or do I need to remind you what will happen? I will make your family pay. I will make them scream in agony, and I will make you watch.”
“I feel sorry for you, Dimitri. You’re still that scared little boy trying to prove he’s not.” Misha reached for Wyatt at her side, trying once again to get in front of him.
Those words were Dimitri’s trigger. He put his hand on Misha’s shoulder. And that was Wyatt’s trigger.
Nobody fucking touched her.
Wyatt gripped Dimitri’s hand and squeezed, watching pupils contract in pain, listening as bones crushed in his powerful grip. And still he squeezed.
The thing was, every man liked to think he was invincible, but when pain hit—it paralyz
ed.
“You fucking bastard,” Dimitri screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, injured hand hanging limply. With his good hand, he aimed the pistol. He fired.
A sting at his chest made Wyatt look down at the burned hole in his shirt.
A breath.
Another.
The pain receded. Misha trembled behind him.
“What the fuck?” The stunned guards gaped at Wyatt, and his completely unwounded chest.
The fallen compressed bullet still rolled on the thin carpeted floor. All eyes watched until it hit the lap dance chair.
Wyatt rubbed his chest. No wound. Bullet proof. A slow grin spread over his face.
Fear flickered in the eyes of all three opponents. Dimitri was the first to snap out of it. He made to shoot, but Wyatt stepped forward, took hold of the gun, and squeezed. Metal crushed in his fist. He dropped the useless weapon to the floor and kicked it to the side.
Cradling his wounded hand, Dimitri scrambled back.
Wyatt waved for Misha to get out. He’d take care of these idiots.
“No. Stop her!” Dimitri shouted, but Misha slipped past Wyatt and slammed open the door, running into the VIP area.
One of the guards lunged after her, but Wyatt hauled his ass back. He held him airborne, watching the man’s legs kick underneath him. Scar-face fired. The bullet stung his bicep but bounced off. He threw the kicking guard into Scar-face. Both went down in a tumble of limbs.
There was no suppressor on Scar-face’s gun, and the explosion had ricocheted through the nightclub. Screams of panic soon rose above the beat of the music. The track skipped with the thudding stampede of patrons running. Dimitri’s eyes went wide with fear.
“No!” Dimitri shouted, panicked. “No shooting.”
“Why, Dimitri?” Wyatt snarled. “You afraid they’ll see you without control? That they’ll see someone is better than you? Stronger than you?”
Elation speared through Wyatt.
Dimitri snarled at him.
Don’t care.
Wyatt dragged the cowering mess onto the mezzanine. He hoisted Dimitri up until he balanced against the railing, overlooking the club floor below.
The man’s wrath seared until all Wyatt could think was to end him—cut off the pain, delete the sin. He was made to eliminate sin and, God, he wanted to do it. He wanted to spill entrails and watch them create art on the floor below. Two-weeks-ago-Wyatt might have done just that.
The Wyatt of today? He looked to the side and clashed eyes with Misha, a step or two down the staircase. He didn’t know what he expected, but mortification wasn’t it. She was as pale as a ghost, and when he stepped toward her, dragging Dimitri with him, she stepped away.
He didn’t want her afraid of him. He didn’t want her repulsed. Wyatt dropped Dimitri, and he slumped to the floor.
“You better kill me,” Dimitri spat out. “Because I will destroy you for this. I will make you—”
Wyatt shoved a boot in Dimitri’s face, shutting him up.
For too long he stared at the man, passed out at his feet. It was Misha’s soft voice that snapped him out of his daze. “Wyatt, we have to hurry!” And she headed down the stairs.
Twenty-Two
Like insects coming out of the woodwork, Dimitri’s security and white-robed soldiers appeared from the shadows. Misha raced down the spiral stairs, but Wyatt had somehow landed at the bottom before her. When his boots thudded onto the stage, she realized he must have jumped.
He’d landed without a scratch on him. What on earth was he? Before she had time to ponder, he dragged her through the club, shoving furniture and innocent bystanders between the lunging white-robed warriors and security. Women screamed. Men shouted. Guns went off and she ducked.
Wyatt gathered her in his arms and cradled her against him. Carrying her, he used his shoulder as a battering ram, pushing through anything and anyone in his way. Moments later, they burst into the cold night air, but they didn’t stop. They jolted and jostled as he ran, bumping along as his boots pounded the pavement.
He ran so fast.
Afraid for her life, she cowered into his chest, clutching onto his shirt.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
They stopped. He eased her to her feet, and she opened her eyes, dazed to be nowhere near the club but a dark alley. Breathing hard, he reached into his pocket and threw something at a homeless man sitting by a black motorcycle. The man caught it. Cash. It was cash.
Why did Wyatt throw him cash?
The hobo produced a black motorcycle helmet. Wyatt caught it with ease and handed it to Misha. When she did nothing but blink at it. He tugged it over her head.
After a furtive glance down the dark street, he picked up Misha and straddled her onto his vintage motorcycle. He climbed on behind her and motioned for her to rest her feet on the crash bars in front.
“Shouldn’t I be at the back?” She was trembling so much, her voice barely worked.
He tapped his chest and made a gun symbol.
Oh right. He was bullet proof—fucking hell, he was bulletproof!—and their pursuers might shoot them from behind. Oh, God. Hurrying, she did what he said. Wyatt started the engine. The beast roared to life. A quick turn of the throttle and they were off, hurtling through the alley like a bat out of hell.
On and on they drove, ducking and weaving through city side streets and alleys. She wasn’t sure how long they went, but after a while, her heartbeat slowed, and she became acutely aware that while her back leaned against the very warm and secure feeling of a strong man, her ass cheeks froze against the seat of the bike. She wore nothing under Wyatt’s sports coat but her thong, stickers, and a pearl necklace. God, if her father saw her—
Her heart squeezed painfully. Her family!
She tapped Wyatt frantically. “Stop. Stop!”
He steered the bike down a street lined with retail stores. Apart from a few homeless people, it was deserted. The second they came to a halt, she was off, tugging her helmet free.
“We have to go home. He’ll kill them!”
Wyatt took his cell from his pocket and fired off a text message. Almost immediately, it buzzed back, and Misha had never seen him look so relieved in the time she’d known him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, but he held up his finger and typed again.
Misha paced the pavement. Just focus on your breathing. In. Out.
Wyatt motioned her over as his phone began to vibrate. Someone was calling. He held the phone to her and shook it with intention.
“You want me to answer it?”
His jaw clenched, but he nodded.
“Okay.” She hit the answer button. “Hello?”
“Misha!” Lilo’s panicked voice came through. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” But her voice trembled with confusion. Why was Lilo calling her? Why would Wyatt call her for help?
“Thank goodness,” Lilo gushed. “Wyatt said you’d been shot at? First the fire, now this? Why didn’t you tell me about the danger you were in?” The phone muffled as though she covered the handset, and Misha could hear insistent voices in the background. When she came back on, Lilo sounded calm and in control. “Okay. Sorry. You’ve been through a lot. I’ll keep calm. Griff said to tell you he’s arranging for your family to take a surprise vacation. Somewhere not too far away. Evan’s on his way now to pick them up and take them there. Parker and Liza are going to investigate the club.”
Misha’s legs collapsed underneath her, and she had to lean on the motorbike for support. Her head felt too heavy for her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us, it’s all on Wyatt. If he didn’t text, we wouldn’t know.”
She gulped. “Yeah, I get it. I should have confided in you. I don’t normally keep secrets from you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been keeping a doozy from you.”
Misha’s gaze shot to where Wyatt watched her intensely, ar
ms folded. An overwhelming sense of helplessness came over her. What the hell was going on?
“Lilo?” she asked, voice small.
“Yeah, girl?”
“What is he?”
“Um.” Lilo’s voice softened. “I think I’d better let him explain that.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“Not unless he says it’s okay. I’m sorry. I know this goes against the girl-code, but it’s not my secret to tell.”
“Is he CIA? James Bond?”
“Misha…”
“Alien?” she hissed.
“You’re going to be okay. You can trust him. But gosh, girl, I wish you had told me about Dimitri. I could have helped you. You don’t have to carry the burden of this on your own. But I guess, I’m one to talk. I never told you about my father, and the kidnapping until after the fact. But—no more secrets okay?”
Misha’s face crumpled and she nodded, but couldn’t answer through the lump in her throat. The call ended and Wyatt gently took the phone from her tight grip. He typed up something and showed it to her.
We need to get somewhere safe.
Goodness, she was on the run. She couldn’t go home. They knew where she lived. They knew where her family lived. But perhaps…
“My studio might be safe. I don’t think they know about that place. I don’t think.”
I can take you to my place, or a hotel, he typed.
He had a place?
For some reason, that unsettled her. He hid so many things from her, yet he knew every dark secret about her.
She pulled the coat tight. “I have spare clothes at the studio. Is it… is it okay if we go there?”
After a moment, he nodded, and helped her back on the motorcycle. A few minutes later, they were parking at the front of her studio. She’d hidden a spare key under a potted plant, which Wyatt disapproved of greatly, but it allowed them entrance. After she disabled the alarm, Misha walked through the lobby and into her studio.
“Um,” she whispered, dashing a glance around the darkened room. Gloss hardwood lined the floors and mirrors on the walls meant if she turned the lights on, they’d be exposed. “We’ll have to head down the back to the office in the dark. It’s kind of around the bend, so we should be safe there.”
Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3) Page 13
