Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3)
Page 15
He hesitated.
“Come on. Try it.” She watched him, waiting with tenterhooks.
Over the lip of his cup, their eyes met, and he took a sip. He waited for the inevitable bitterness of burned, overcooked beans, but… the liquid hit his lips and failed to scald. He tipped the cup and let the smooth flavor roll over his tongue. Surprisingly, it sailed over his taste buds. He almost elicited an uncontrollable groan himself.
“How good is it?” Misha exclaimed. “Am I right, or am I right?”
She might be right. The coffee was good.
Misha turned back to the smirking hippies. “Put it on my tab. Oh, and could I please have just a cup of freshly boiled water?”
“For you, sunshine, anything.”
Oh, puh-lease. From the way the beanie guy locked eyes with Misha, it was clear he wanted into Misha’s pants. An unsettling thought tensed every muscle. What if he’d already been there? She dated a lot. She was beautiful. Jealousy swarmed in Wyatt’s bloodstream, and he eyed both guys again, trying to ascertain if they—
Fuck! Hot coffee spilled over his hands. In his anger, he’d squeezed the cup without knowing. He was seemingly invincible, but he still felt every sensation on his skin. For a moment, he wished his new ability made his senses dull to sensation, so scalding burns wouldn’t affect him, but then he realized that would make him desensitized to everything.
Stiff chance of that. Not with Misha in his life. Lifting his gaze, he caught her coy smile, and instantly a rush of hot desire speared through him. Yeah, he wanted to feel everything.
“This training session couldn’t happen soon enough.” She eyed the spilled mess. “C’mon, then. Let’s go. We’re almost there.”
Funny how her meditation session had now completely morphed into a training session.
Almost there turned out to be another ten-minute walk and despite wanting to humor her, Wyatt couldn’t halt his impatience creeping in. The weather was turning as gloomy as his mood, but Misha continued to find pleasure in the smallest things. She stopped and pointed out a chalk painting on the ground, lamenting on how its impermanence should be celebrated and not overlooked. With the looming weather, its artistic magnificence would soon be forever wiped away. Wasn’t that a shame?
When they made it to the park in the heart of the Quadrant, Misha took Wyatt down a hidden path, through some trees, and into an area not traveled by many. They were away from the morning joggers, away from the group fitness classes, and hidden in the thick of trees. As they came to the base of a water tower on metal legs, he wondered what the purpose of their expedition was.
Misha placed her empty cup on the ground. “I’ll pick that up on the way back. Here, put your used one there too. We only need this hot water.”
She proceeded to climb the ladder with her yoga roll strapped to her back, and the remaining cup balanced on one hand. Not liking her climbing one-handed, Wyatt tried to take the cup from her, but she refused.
“Don’t stress. It’s not the first time I’ve been up here with something in my hand.”
He frowned and climbed after her, watchful in case she slipped and fell. When they crested the tank, he discovered it was flat topped and with a diameter of about three yards. Empty bottles of beer, a newspaper, and some random trash were scattered around.
“Damn kids.” Misha peered over the tower and dropped some bottles. It took a few seconds until they thudded to the thick grass at the bottom. They were a long way up—ten yards, perhaps. Enough to seriously injure her if she fell.
“I’ll take those to the trash later.” Once the top was cleared, she held her hands wide with a satisfied huff. “We’re here. What do you think?”
Rotating three-sixty degrees, Wyatt had a full view of the treetops, park and even further out to the lake at the center of it all. The city buildings surrounding them were far enough you couldn’t see into any windows, and the sound of traffic was negligible. When a lilac tinged gust of wind blew into his face, he couldn’t help but inhale deeply. Incredible.
Misha sighed. “It’s great, isn’t it? I mean, to find something like this in the center of the city is almost unheard of. I come here any time I need to remind myself the world is bigger than my small problems.”
Twenty-Four
“Have you done yoga before?” Misha asked Wyatt as he unrolled his mat next to her.
He shot her an incredulous look which made her laugh. With that cocky attitude, he’d probably trained with the masters in India.
“Okay.” She straightened and faced east. “How about, when was the last time you practiced it?”
Wyatt shrugged evasively, sat on his mat and unlaced his boots.
Boot removal was probably a good idea. The rest of his attire wasn’t really conducive to yoga, but the jeans and polo shirt would have to do.
While Misha waited for him, she faced the rising sun, feeling its heat through the clouds. After falling asleep the previous night, her mind and heart had been in all sorts of knots. Her first thought upon waking had been to get out into nature and clear her head. Knowing Wyatt had forgone sleep in order to protect her had instilled a sense of duty. He’d contributed, now it was her turn.
She’d never be as brave as him, both physically and emotionally, but she could teach him this. Right now, it was the only thing she was sure of, so she pushed all of her focus into the moment to avoid the heartbreak she sensed in the future. She let her gaze travel around the green scenery and spent time cataloging each sight. What a great day for a picture memory. She wanted to remember it all. From the tips of the treetops, to the distant ducks quacking, the gentle scent of earth, to the rolling gray clouds.
A masculine throat cleared. Misha turned from the sun to look at Wyatt, and then another kind of heat burned through her. Not only had he removed his clunky boots, but his shirt, and her eyes were rejoicing. He had the kind of body that went beyond Instagram pretty. It was strong, lithe, and deadly. The scar at his throat wasn’t the only evidence of old pain. Scattered over his torso were many ghosts. Puckered bullet wounds, deep slashes and shallow scars. Her heart bled for him.
This was a man who put his body on the line to protect people like her. He put his life on the line every day. The notion almost floored her. His job was dangerous. Lethal. Every time he went to work, he might never come back.
And that thought sat too close to home. If she ever decided to be with someone, she wanted to be with them forever. Live together, die together. It was selfish, but it was all her heart could take.
When her eyes lifted to his watchful gaze, the smug male challenge in his expression dissipated. They shared a moment of naked vulnerability, and then Misha snapped her sight to the east.
“Okay,” she said in her soft yoga teacher voice. “It’s time to begin. Let’s bring our feet to the edge of the mat, and dangle our arms to the side, palms to the front. Close your eyes and breathe. Be present. Be aware. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Inhale the future, exhale the past.”
She slid a glance sideways to see if Wyatt complied. Standing almost a full head taller, he was the epitome of the mountain pose she was about to instruct. Perhaps she should be facing him for her sun salutations. He certainly had presence. And heat. Look at all that gorgeous heat.
Focus. Back to the pose.
With the patience of a Zen master, Misha led Wyatt through a series of poses, flowing from one form into the other. The lethal man kept up, never once wobbling or breaking hold. Downward Dog, Plank Pose, Upward Facing Dog… it seemed effortless for him. Misha couldn’t stop stealing glances at his tight, contorted body, glossy with a sheen of light sweat. Part jealousy, part awe, part feminine appreciation clogged her mind and gave her little respite from her jingling nerves and pumping pulse. After a few sets of salutations, she stopped and collected the cup of hot water.
“Okay. You seem to have that down, so I want to try something else. Hold this.”
Lip quirking, he gently took the cup.
He should be at least slightly pissed. She’d avoided talking about his letter, but he was relaxed, as though he knew something she didn’t. Any other man who’d released that number of bottled-up secrets would be more confrontational, maybe even take off. But he was still there. When she noticed a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, she cleared her throat.
“Okay. So, hold the cup. Close your eyes and remember your breathing. I’ll try to get you riled up. Wrath is your sin, right?”
He nodded.
“So, I’ll try to get you angry, and you need to keep yourself calm. If you fail, you’ll squash the cup and the hot water will spill onto your hands. Hopefully, you dislike the hot water enough that you learn to center yourself and avoid using excess strength. Sound good?”
Wyatt’s dark eyebrow arched, he popped the lid from the cup, and took a sip. Then he dunked a finger in the liquid.
“Not hot anymore, huh?”
He shook his head.
“Guess I shouldn’t have stopped to gawk at the chalk artwork.” Disappointment slumped her shoulders. “God, I’m all over the place sometimes. And I was looking forward to harassing you. Bummer. We’ll have to think of something else.”
Wyatt positioned himself on the mat, standing with the cup in his hands. He shut his eyes and stilled.
What was he doing?
After a minute, he opened one eye and looked at her. He made a wind up sign with his hand.
Telling me to hurry up?
“You want me to harass you anyway?” She couldn’t stop the grin forming on her face and the bounce in her step as she went to stand inches from his front. He nodded and she clapped her hands. “Excellent. This will be fun. For me, anyway. For you, I’m going to take you to the cleaners!”
A snort popped out of Wyatt, and then he closed his eyes and waited.
“Okay, okay, let’s see. Trash talk.” Misha’s mind whirled through so many one-liners. Where to start? “Okay. Your yoga was really bad. I mean, like, really bad. It almost looked like you were playing a game of Twister.”
His lip twitched, but he held his eyes closed and remained still.
Yeah that sucked. Worst trash talker, ever.
All right, then. Let’s make this harder.
Misha walked around Wyatt. Her voice turned hard and venomous. “Your bechamel sauce is disgusting. I didn’t want to say anything to you before, but the last time you made it at the restaurant, it was all lumpy and floury. I think it may have curdled. You need to go back to culinary school.”
At this, his lip twitch turned into a smirk.
“Damn it, Wyatt.” Misha threw up her hands. “It’s not supposed to be funny.”
He opened both eyes and mouthed to her, So make me angry.
It was Misha’s blood raising, not his. “Okay, you want me to make you angry? Why don’t you talk? Have you tried, or are you too afraid?”
A frown puckered his brow, and she knew she was getting close. Sure, he’d suffered a major trauma that would ruin anyone else, but he wasn’t anyone else. A sick feeling churned in her gut. If she wanted to push him, she might have to say some mean things. Things she might regret.
Memories of Wyatt fighting at the club flashed through her mind. His anger had got the best of him. He’d crushed those security guards and nearly sent Dimitri over the balcony to his death.
No. She had to do this. He needed to learn to calm his soul, and if she were to believe his letter, that she was the one person deemed his opposite, then she had to believe she could help him.
Lowering her tone, she stalked around him. “You said in your letter that you were created in a lab. That you all have these crazy regeneration skills, so why can’t you talk?”
His frown deepened.
“I think you can speak,” she accused. “I hear you clear your throat, and there’s a solid sound there. I hear Alek clear his throat, and it’s different. So if your throat can make a sound, then the only explanation for you not speaking is that you’re too afraid to try. Or…” she inspected his reactions and noticed the tension hardening his muscles. “Or, you’re lying to me. This whole tortured soul act is a lie. So what is it, Wyatt? You’re either a liar, or a scaredy-cat.”
His gaze snapped open and pinned her. The cup wobbled in his hands.
“Breathing, Wyatt,” she reminded softly, and he darted a glance down to his trembling hands.
Exasperated, he shook his head and shut his eyes. His breathing evened out.
Misha couldn’t help the elation hitting her blood stream. She had to make him angrier. See if he came back from more. The perfect thought hit her, and a stone dropped in her stomach, but it would work, and it would kill two birds with one stone.
“I’m not going to be with you, Wyatt. I know you think we’ve got a connection, but we don’t.”
He shifted uncomfortably.
Misha stopped pacing and stood in front of him, face to face. Menace poured from him in waves.
“Forget that I’ve told you I’m only a one time girl, we can’t be together because I don’t like you that way. You’re dangerous, volatile and you run away from your problems. I don’t want someone in my life who isn’t going to stick around when the going gets tough. I don’t want someone who walks away from their family.”
It cut, because it was the truth.
“I want someone who can promise me they’ll always be there.”
A growl of frustration ripped from his throat and he frowned deeply. An aura of danger thickened the air. His muscles twitched and hardened, as though getting ready to pounce. Misha took a step back. For the first time, she wondered what would happen when he lost his cool. A glance over her shoulder revealed she had little breathing room. If he came at her, she’d fall.
Strangely, Wyatt didn’t lose his temper. The ticking in his jaw subsided, and the tension dropped from his shoulders. His breathing evened out, and he calmly opened his eyes. What stared back at her was a man with a mission. He lowered the cup gently, placed it on the floor, and then rose to stand before her. Imposing, half-naked, sweaty man was all she could see.
The light danced in his eyes as he clearly struggled with some decision. When he cleared his throat, Misha knew what it was. He was going to attempt to speak.
For her.
Her heart clenched. No, no, no. Don’t do it. Not for me. Not when she was the one who would run from him.
He lowered until his lips rested against the shell of her ear. For three glorious seconds, hot breath tickled her skin, shooting sparks through her system.
“You’re the one who’s afraid.” His voice was raw, raspy and deep, and it sent shivers of desire cascading through her.
“Wyatt, you spoke.”
His expression still held a determined quality, a hard set to the mouth, and a razor sharp focus. Aware of every breath, every movement, Misha watched as his hands gently braced her hips.
“You’re afraid of being with me. Admit it,” he rasped, tugging her closer.
Christ, his voice was sexy. Deep vibrations shimmied through her body, making her weak at the knees. While all her instincts wanted to scream, say something, speak again—her mouth said something else. “The cup didn’t work. Probably because you’re not afraid for it to spill. But… you wouldn’t want to hurt me, would you?”
Catching the direction of her thoughts, he released his hold on her.
“No!” She forced his hands back to her hips. “Keep them there. We’re doing this, and you’re going to resist your temper. You’re going to control your strength.”
His eyes darkened. “You didn’t answer me.”
“And I’m not going to. My feelings don’t factor into this situation. We’re talking about you. Why did you hide your voice for all these months? What are you afraid of?�
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He didn’t reply, so she kept pushing.
“You’re used to getting what you want. You’re used to winning, to being the best. And the fact that someone you trusted took advantage of that, you couldn’t stand it. It was better to stay silent. All the better to keep yourself from defending your actions, from leaving your family, from… from apologizing for the hurt you caused. Why speak when you could ignore the fallout instead. Yes, Wyatt, I’m calling you a coward.”
His fingers flexed on her hips, and he glowered. He’d retreated back into silence, so maybe she was right. Maybe his lack of voice was all linked to his insecurity, or maybe… he knew he wasn’t a coward. She didn’t really believe it either, but she was close to riling him. She thought back to the last time he almost lost his temper. She’d called him a liar.
“You know what? I don’t know what to believe. One minute you’re running, the next you’re fighting. Maybe you’re not a coward, but you are a liar. All this is an act, and you love it. You’re just like the woman who betrayed you. You love manipulating and—”
Wrath flared in his expression. In that moment he wanted to hurt her. She could see it in his face. His grip tightened, and the pressure on her hips took on a sharp sting.
“Liar,” she whispered. “You’re the liar, just like your ex-fiancée.”
He squeezed. She winced.
Instantly, he relaxed, surprised. “You want me to hurt you.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
He rolled his shoulders smugly, suddenly at peace with his thoughts. “You think that if I do, then you have an easy way out of this.”
“There is no this, koteczek. I’m just helping you because you helped me.”
But instead of answering, he put a heavy palm over her heart. Nothing. He said nothing, but stared at her and felt her heart rate jack-hammering beneath his touch. It was a moment of unrestrained connection that amplified with each gust of wind against their skin. Thunder rolled gently in the distance. She smelled ozone in the air. Misha couldn’t tell where her heart ended, and the storm began.