Complications with Phil aside, he almost felt sorry for the bitch.
EIGHT
Later that morning, an uppercut came flying at Wrath from the left, and in spite of the whistle it made traveling through the air, he couldn’t respond in time: The knuckles nailed him square on the jaw and the crack rang his idiot bell, his head ripping around, blood flying out of his mouth.
It felt fucking great.
After another nightmare throne-al session with Saxton—seven to ten more hours of his life he was never getting back—he’d gone up to his and Beth’s private quarters. Sex had been the only thing on his mind, the only release that was going to save the planet from his rotten mood.
His mate had been not just asleep, but passed out cold.
He’d lasted about an hour staring at the ceiling before hitting up Payne and telling her to meet him here in the training center’s gym.
Like Rhage had always said, sex or fighting to take the burn down. Sex was out, so there ya go.
Harnessing the energy from the impact, he went with the momentum and redirected it into a kick that creamed his opponent in the side, throwing her off balance and sending her reeling. No to-the-mat for V’s sister, though. Her landing was light and quick as a cat’s, and he knew she had plans for him.
Triangulating the rushes of air, the scent of the female fighter, and the sound of her bare feet coming at him with a louder cadence, he knew she was approaching front-on in a crouch. Bracing himself, he sank into his thighs and loved the feel of his muscles tightening up and securing his two-hundred-seventy-pound body in the upright position. Tucking his elbows in, he waited for her to get in range and then punched outward. With her reflexes and the advantage of sight, she dodged the affront and dipped down to come up and cable him around his waist.
Payne didn’t hit like a girl, whether it was with her fists or her feet or her entire body. She was more like an SUV, and as much as his ball sac would have preferred otherwise, she got him but good.
With a curse, he ass-over-elbowed and back-flatted like a little bitch. Not gonna stay that way, however.
And that turned out to be a problem.
As he fell into thin air, he was reminded of the way he’d yard-saled off the bed at the loft—and his inner ignition switch got tripped: True aggression came out—in the blink of an eye, this was not about training or keeping up his skills or getting some exercise. The war instinct was unleashed between him and his sparring partner.
With a growl that reverberated throughout the gym, he caught Payne’s upper arms in a punishing grip and turned her tables, ripping her off him and slamming her facedown into the mats.
She was a solid female, well muscled and deadly—but she was no match for his strength and size—especially as he straddled her and snaked his arm around her neck. With her throat in the crook of his elbow, he locked his free hand on his thick wrist and leaned back into the choke hold.
Lessers. Enemies. Tragic deaths that changed the course of his life—and others’.
Distance from his mate. Sexual frustration. Suspicion Beth was keeping something from him.
Chronic frustration that downshifted quickly into an anxiety load that never left him.
Fear. Unacknowledged, well buried, and poisonous.
Self-hatred.
Against the dark backdrop of his blindness, everything went white, rage taking over when it had no place to go. And the effect was to give him far greater power than his muscles and bones already had: Even as Payne’s fingernails bit into his forearm and she struggled in the manner of a death throe, nothing registered.
He wanted to kill. And he was going to—
“Wrath!”
As with Payne’s defense, whoever was yelling his name didn’t matter to him. He was locked on this path of murder, all sense of what was happening lost to the—
Someone else came and started yanking at him as that name-hollering thing got louder.
Beneath him, Payne was submitting, the fight slowly leaving her body, that eternal stillness exactly what the rage in him wanted. A little longer was all it would take. A little more pressure. A little—
A loud, repetitive noise sounded right in front of his face. Over and over and over again, like a bass drum, the beats perfectly spaced. The only thing that changed was the volume.
It increased.
Or maybe it was gradually cutting through his fury.
Wrath frowned as the racket continued. Lifting his head, he stopped squeezing so hard for a moment.
George.
His beloved, docile golden retriever was directly in his grille, barking loud as a shotgun, sure as if he were demanding that Wrath cease and desist right this moment.
All at once, the reality of what he was doing flooded into him.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Wrath released his hold, but he didn’t have a chance to jump free. Whoever was pulling at his shoulders took over, tearing his heavy weight off the female fighter.
As he landed on the mat on his back, the retching and heaving breaths of his opponent mixed with the curses of whoever else was with them—as well as a soft whimpering.
“What the fuck are you thinking!” Now someone else was in his face. “You nearly killed her!”
Putting his hands up to his head, a cold sweat bloomed over every square inch of him. “I didn’t know…” he heard himself say. “I had no idea—”
“Did you think she could breathe like that!” It was Doc Jane. Of course—she was down in the clinic and must have heard the barking or …
And iAm was with them. He could sense the Shadow even though the guy was as usual not saying much.
“I’m sorry—Payne … I’m sorry.”
Dear God, what had he done?
He abhorred violence against females. The problem was, when he was sparring with Payne, he didn’t think of V’s sister as one. She was an opponent, nothing more, nothing less—and he’d had the bruises and even a broken bone or two to show that when it came to her, no quarter was asked for nor given.
“Shit. Payne…” He reached out into the empty air, smelling the remnants of her fear as well as the scent that came with impending death. “Payne—”
“It’s okay,” the female said hoarsely. “Honest.”
Doc Jane muttered a number of foul things.
“This is between me and him,” Payne ordered her sister-in-law. “This is not your—”
As a round of coughing cut her off, Jane snapped, “When he nearly strangles you, it sure as hell is my problem!”
“He was going to let me go—”
“Is that why you were turning blue?”
“I was not—”
“His arm is bleeding onto the mat. You telling me your fingernails didn’t do that?”
Payne caught her breath. “It’s fighting, not Go Fish!”
Doc Jane lowered her voice. “Does your brother know exactly how far this is going?”
As Wrath added his own cursing to the fruit salad of F-words, Payne growled, “You are not to tell Vishous about this—”
“Give me a good goddamn reason why and maybe I’ll consider it. Otherwise, no one tells me what I can and cannot say to my own goddamn husband. Not you, not him—”
Wrath was sure she was shooting a glare his way.
“—and certainly never concerning a fucking safety issue about a member of his family!”
The silence that followed was marked by rising aggression. And then Payne barked, “How many bones have you set on the King? How many stitches? Last week you thought I’d dislocated his shoulder—and at no point did you feel the need to run to his shellan and report it. Did you. Did you?”