Fury of Desire (25 page)

And honestly? He liked it that way.

Detachment allowed him to do his job. Had shaped him into the kind of warrior his brothers valued, needed, and expected him to be—a natural born killer without conscience or mercy. He didn’t want what the other Nightfuries shared with their chosen females. Juggling a relationship and his responsibilities as a warrior didn’t belong in his lexicon. The first would distract him from the second, ensuring he failed at both.

It all came down to one thing…

Choice.

He’d made one years ago when he joined the Nightfury pack. His brothers—his vow to protect each—came before all else. Bewitching females included. So enough foolishness. His attraction to Jamison must die a swift, unholy death. No good would come from straying from a path already taken.

Air hissed as the glass door to the medical clinic slid open.

In a state of complete panic, Tania shot over the threshold. Time slowed as she pivoted toward him, spinning into an endless stretch. Horror darkened her brown eyes. Wick wiped his expression clean, preparing for the worst. Mac’s female didn’t like him. She’d made it clear that he frightened her… even though he hadn’t done a thing to make her fear him. He was who he was: quiet, reserved, so baffled by social situations he never knew what to say, never mind how to make someone like him. Wick understood the truth of it… accepted it too. Most females reacted to him the same way, but as tears pooled in Tania’s eyes, Wick suddenly wished he wasn’t so inept.

A few well-placed words would no doubt reassure her, but—

“Oh my God… oh God. Mac!” Her terror-filled rasp wrung Wick out, twisting his insides into knots as Tania froze in the middle of the corridor. Her gaze glued to him, both feet rooted to the floor, she shook her head. “She’s dead, isn’t she? You… you… oh God, you—”

Wick growled, cutting her off mid-accusation. How typical. Tania thought he’d killed her fucking sister. Her reaction pissed him off, even though it shouldn’t have. The conclusion wasn’t a bad one considering his reputation and temperament. Toss in his propensity for violence, and…

Ah, hell. Her assumption made a certain amount of sense.

“She’s isn’t dead, female.”

Tania blinked. “But—”

“Motherfuck.” Mac growled, stepping out of the clinic behind his female. “Tania, I told you to stay put.”

“I can’t… I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Why isn’t she moving? Why does he have her? You promised… you said she was okay.”

“She is, honey. Your sister’s been injured. She’s exhausted… sleeping hard, that’s all.” Throwing him an apologetic look, Mac cupped her shoulders and tugged Tania into his arms. As her back met his chest, he wrapped her tight against him. “Wick saved J. J.’s life tonight. He’s taken good care of her. You owe him an—”

“Thank you,” she said, cutting off her mate mid-scold. Eyes still huge in her small face, she met his gaze, and Wick blinked. Wow, would you look at that? Tania had never looked at him before, never mind spoken to him. Both were huge firsts, and she didn’t stop there. “I’m sorry, Wick. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to… it’s just I’ve been so
worried and…” Tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing her home.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, reciprocating for once, giving Tania her due. It was only fair. Courage, after all, deserved acknowledgement. “She’s all right, Tania. A little banged up, but it’s nothing time won’t heal.”

A lie. Boldly told and beautifully delivered.

No one knew better than him that time didn’t heal all wounds. Jamison would heal from the physical trauma, no question. The healing energy he shared with her would see to that, but five years spent in prison damaged a person. Readjusting to being on the outside—to the real world and her newfound freedom—would take more than just time. Pile on surviving a vicious knife attack and witnessing a dragon battle on top of that and… yeah.

D-day. Detonation inevitable. Psychological scarring times ten.

Movement flashed in his periphery.

Glancing through the open door, he spotted Myst inside the clinic. Snapping her rubber gloves in place, B’s female tilted her head, inviting him inside. “I’m ready. Bring her in.”

With a nod, Wick crossed the threshold. Shitkickers rasping across the industrial-grade hospital floor, he eyed the examination table. Warrior-sized, the surface stretched beneath the bright overhead lights. Stainless steel cabinets rose beyond the setup, hugging the back wall, framing the female who now stood alongside the stretch of cabinetry. The scent of antiseptic soap added to the medical ambiance, making his nose twitch and his heart hammer.

Different night. Same story.

Except that wasn’t quite true.

The medical supplies laid out in tidy rows on the rollaway cart weren’t for him. Or one of his brothers. Not right now. Tonight, each plastic-wrapped package—all those metal tools along with the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff—belonged to Jamison. The thought bored a hole through his breastbone, piercing his heart. All of a sudden, Wick couldn’t breathe. Jesus. He didn’t want to put her down… or leave her here all by herself.

Totally ridiculous, considering who stood in the room.

Myst would take good care of her. Treat her with kid gloves and gentle hands, ensure Jamison received all she needed to heal. But as Wick stopped beside the table—seeing all the bandages and other packages up close—something snapped deep inside him. He felt the splintering shock wave. Heard the roar of denial along with the blood rush in his ears. The throb hammered his temples. Wick shook his head, fighting the buzzing surge of awareness, and waged an internal war. Logic told him to put her down. The territorial bastard inside him overrode the system, unleashing a torrent of possessiveness.

Shit. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t relinquish—

“Wick.”

The sharpness of Myst’s tone brought his chin up. She nailed him with serious violet eyes. “I need you to put her down.”

Holding onto Jamison like a greedy two-year-old, he shook his head.

“Trust me… I know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” he rasped, not doubting her skill for a moment. The female possessed a shitload of know-how. She sewed up the Nightfury warriors on a regular basis. Hell, Venom owed his life to Myst and her talent with a needle.
But relinquishing Jamison wasn’t about that. It was about something more. Duty, maybe. Honor, certainly. A strange sense of entitlement too, ’cause… God. After caring for her the last couple of hours, abandoning her to another’s care seemed, well… wrong. “I’m just…”

“I get it. I really do, but I need to examine her. Make sure the hospital did their job, and she wasn’t reinjured on the way here.” Reaching out, she patted the top of the examination table. The sheet rustled, crinkling under the gentle pressure, ratcheting his tension up another notch. His dragon urged him to hold on. Myst wanted him to let go, and as Tania stopped at the head of the table, backing up her friend, denial rose on a violent wave. “One of us will come get you if she needs you. Deal?”

Wick hesitated. A big hand landed on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. Thank God. Venom. Trust his best friend to arrive in the nick of time. The male always helped him pull his head out of his ass.

Exhaling hard, he unlocked his muscles. The cage he made with his embrace opened, and just like that, it was done. His arms were empty. Jamison lay on the table: his leather jacket half covering her face, the blanket twisted around her hips, plaster cast sticking out to expose her bare toes. The sight tipped the balance. Pressure banded around his rib cage, making it hard to breathe. So fragile… too many bruises… beyond vulnerable without him to protect her.

Venom pumped his shoulder again.

He shrugged, throwing off the hold, and cleared his throat. “I’ll come back later.”

“Good. She’ll need you,” Myst said, somehow managing to reassure and praise him at the same time. How the
hell she did that, Wick didn’t know, but he said a silent “thank you” anyway. Her no-nonsense tone eased his worry, smoothed down the ragged edges of concern. “We’ll put her in recovery room one.”

Wick nodded and, flexing his fist, cut the cord with a vicious mental swipe. As much as he yearned to stay, watching wasn’t an option. He’d go ape-shit crazy as her wounds were revealed. He didn’t need to see it to believe it… or understand the brutality of what had been done to her. So instead, he dragged his gaze away and pivoted toward the exit. A distraction. He needed one. Right now. Before he did something stupid, like turn into a first-class pansy and refuse to leave her side.

From his position at the back of the room, Wick watched the other Nightfury warriors file into the com-center. Heavy footfalls bounced off pale walls, making the room’s generous portions shrink and his head pound. The sting slid around to hammer the base of his skull. Rolling his shoulders, he resisted the urge to rub his temples. Fuck the pain. The frustration and confusion too. All he wanted was out. Out of a space filled with males who took up too much room. Away from the hustle ’n bustle and all the chitchat. Into the silence of his room and the comfort it brought him.

Too bad that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

His gaze narrowed on the male responsible for screwing up his plans. Or rather messing with his escape route.

Boots planted beside the desk across the lab, Bastian stood alongside their resident computer genius. Seated in his uglier-than-shit chair, Sloan nodded at B, his eyes on the wall-mounted screens, fingers flying over the keyboard, making his supercomputer sing in the predawn hours. Watching the byplay, Wick flexed his fists, trying to alleviate the tension. It didn’t work. He was too far gone. On edge. On the brink of exploding into aggression-laced agitation.
In need of space and a shitload of alone time to power down. But as his comrades fanned out, taking up most of the available real estate, stealing all the air in the room, the harder he worked to keep his cool.

It was nothing but an act. A game of cover-up he’d played for years.

Not even Venom understood the depths of his emotion. He was good at keeping it contained and out of the spotlight. He understood the coping mechanism. Crossing his arms over his chest, Wick growled. He should too. He’d read every book the field of psychology had to offer—Jung, Freud, fucking Alfred Adler. He knew them all, every single one of their theories. It was all so much bullshit. None had helped him get past his problem. Or cured his phobia.

The thought twisted his stomach into knots.

Wick swallowed the burn and tossed his commander another nasty look. “All right, already. Get the fucking show on the road.”

The low grumble brought Bastian’s head around. Piercing green eyes met his. Wick tensed. His commander left Sloan’s side, coming toward him from the other side of the room. Ah, hell. Here it came… the inevitable question and answer routine the second B reached him.

Stopping beside him, B propped his shoulder against the wall and raised a brow. “You okay?”

“Never better.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Wick snorted, the sound full of amusement. He couldn’t help it. He liked B. Respected the male too. A step up for Wick. Sentiment wasn’t his thing, after all. But after years spent fighting side by side with the warrior, proximity had turned to friendship… and loyalty to love. Now, he trusted
Bastian with his life. The male was solid: stout of heart, whipcord smart, with a wicked amount of lethal on top. Always a good combination. But that didn’t mean he wanted to share what had gone down in Seattle a few hours ago.

The upheaval was still too fresh. Way too raw to get into with B.

So only one thing left to do… deflect his commander’s concern.

Crossing his arms, Wick bent one knee and planted his boot against the wall. “You gonna get this party started or what?”

“Nice try, my brother, but…” As B trailed off, Wick tensed. Jesus, he was in for it now. His commander refused to let it go, which put him in the hot seat. Lovely. Just what he wanted to avoid—an in-depth examination with Bastian in the driver’s seat. “You wanna explain what happened out there, or would you prefer I take a guess?”

“Fuck off, B.” The fail-safe response acted like a shield, deflecting inquiry, shutting down conversation with the added bonus of forcing others to keep their distance. Per usual, Bastian wasn’t fooled, and as a muscle twitched along his jaw, Wick relented. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

“Fair enough.” Bastian nodded and backed down. At least, in the metaphorical sense. The male was still close enough to nail him with a no-nonsense look. “But when you are, come to me. I’ll talk you through it.”

A prickle of discomfort rippled through him. He didn’t want to
talk
about it. Not now. Not ever. Wick dipped his chin anyway, agreeing without words… if only to get B off his back.

“Energy-fuse is serious shit, Wick. You can’t fight it,” he said, his voice low to prevent the others from overhearing.
“My advice? Don’t try. Embrace it. Thank God you found her. Give your female what she needs, and you’ll end up with more than you can imagine.”

Your
female. Holy fuck. Bastian thought Jamison belonged to him.