If it was a terminal wound, he was screwed nearly as badly as if she’d gotten away.

The flashlight skipped around the landscape as he closed the distance, highlighting trunks and branches, underbrush, the snowed-up ground.

And then there she was. Facedown in the needles, gripping one knee to her chest. Except he wasn’t falling for it. God only knew what else she had up her sleeve.

“Get up or I’ll shoot you again.” He put a fresh clip into the butt of his gun. “Get the fuck up.”

Moaning. Rolling.

He pulled the trigger and put a bullet into the ground right by her head. “Stand up or the next is through your skull.”

The woman pushed herself off the ground. Debris hung from her black clothes and parka, and her dark hair was fuzzed up. He didn’t bother rating her on his fuck scale. First and foremost was getting her into the secured location.

“Hands up,” he ordered, training his weapon at the center of her chest. “Walk.”

Her limp was bad, and he could smell the blood as he fell in behind her. No more sprinting for her.

It took them four times as long to get back to the car, and when they did, he found Phil still on the ground and not moving. Breath was going in and out of his open mouth, however, the subtle wheezing sounds suggesting that the pain was all-consuming.

As they passed, Two Tone checked out that face. Oh … shit … third-degree burns all over, and one of those eyes was not coming back. Except the bastard was probably going to live.

Right?

Fucking great. But he’d deal with that later.

When the pair of them came up to the door, he knew he needed to retain control of this situation.

With a quick move, he grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her headfirst into those hard-ass panels.

This time, as she slumped to the ground, he knew she wasn’t coming up for air for a while. But he still gave her a chance to twitch it out before he put his gun away, pressed his thumb into the fingerprint reader, and opened the way in.

Flicking the lights on, he took hold of her armpits and dragged her inside. After locking them in together, he pulled her across the concrete to the stairwell … and then carried her down into the basement below.

There were three cells filling out the lower level, just like the ones on TV with iron bars, concrete floors, and stainless-steel pallets for beds. The toilets were functional not for the comfort of the prisoner(s), but for the boss’s sensitive nose. No windows.

Two Tone didn’t take a deep breath until he had her in the first of them and had locked the door.

Before he went aboveground to confirm capture with home base, put the camo tarp over the Crown Vic and deal with Phil, he went to the cell next door and urinated for what felt like an hour and a half. Zipping up, he stepped out and looked at the stained wall across from him.

The pair of shackles that hung from the two sets of steel chains were going to get used soon.

Complications with Phil aside, he almost felt sorry for the bitch.

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?