Wrath (Alternate Cover)

It was pitch black when Wyatt woke in his borrowed bed. His lids snapped open as he lay there, all senses straining because something was off. The wind knocked the windows from the outside. He pushed his sixth sense out to feel for the sin of wrath, but his sin wasn’t like envy or greed—wrath mainly reared its ugly head when shit got real. He sensed nothing but the breeze, his heartbeat, and his ragged breath. 

Then he registered the temperature. Hot, but it wasn’t a hot night. It was he who felt sweaty. Feverish. His skin prickled and warmed as though he’d come down with the flu. Maybe that was why he woke… but he never got sick. None of his siblings did. They were born with resilient immune systems and regenerating cells that healed exponentially, making recovery time short. 

So why was he awake?

He held his breath, slowed his heart and listened. 

Seconds ticked by.

Then a woman’s moan hit his ears and everything went on red alert.

What the actual fuck?

A shuffle. Something dropped. 

“Where’s the goddamn light?” she hissed through the dark.

Wyatt tensed. Either he was having a weird dream, or there was a woman in the room with him. Two thunks reverberated on the cheap floating floorboards. Boots? Sliding and scuffling followed. Why would a female be searching his room, and—another soft thud as something fell to the floor—Christ, she was getting undressed! 

Who would be getting undressed? Must be the daughter who used to live there. There being the semi-detached apartment above their suburban home garage. It was only one room, a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. One bed. Sliding doors opened onto the garage roof that doubled as a balcony with external steps leading down to ground level.

It had to be her. What was her name, again?

Movement as his bed dipped and another moan, as though she wasn’t feeling too good.

He swallowed, mouth dry. 

“Ahh,” she sighed, landing ungracefully, face first onto the pillow beside him, sending a waft of feminine perfume and alcohol into his lungs. “Home at last.”

She’s drunk.

Her hand arced out, perhaps to stroke the sheet beside her, but hit his ribs instead. She patted around to test the odd shape her bed had taken. Her soft palm hit his face, his hair… down his naked chest. Wyatt winced and froze, holding his breath as if it would turn him invisible.

What should he say? He couldn’t say anything! He couldn’t speak. 

She was going to freak.

But she didn’t. She made an appreciative sound while her hand headed south, bumping low over the ridges of his abdomen, slick with sweat.

An electric shock sparked between them and they both jackknifed up.

Fifteen years of martial arts and combat training had him springing to land deftly on his feet, while she stumbled and grabbed her head with a pained groan.

“Stop spinning, room,” she muttered.

He turned his side-lamp on but, when his thumb went to depress the switch, he pushed right through it. The damned thing crumbled in his hand like a cookie. Shit.

She switched her lamp on and the room illuminated. 

Wyatt lost all train of thought as his eyes locked onto her body—pure, lush feminine curves, toned in all the right places—naked except for a dark crop-top and panties. It was the kind of body men would give their left nut to see in the flesh. Blond hair stuck up in a disarray of curls around her head. Wide blue eyes blinked but, where he expected fear, he found desire burning back at him. 

Aw, hell no. 

He scrambled back, hands out, and shook his head. He wanted none of this. No fucking way. He didn’t care how cute she looked, or how many of his atoms were clambering to touch and taste her like—he shook his head to dispel his derailing thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? No.

“I like this dream,” she purred and seductively crawled over the mattress toward him.