Fury of Desire (27 page)

Close to the edge of the mattress, J. J. lay flat on her back in a huge bed. Man, the thing could fit five of her across. Maybe more… easily. Ridiculous. Especially since her prison cot had only been twenty-eight inches wide. Narrow sure, but familiar too. Her home behind the safety of a locked door. The one place in the world she’d found solace after a long day spent avoiding trouble in general population.

Sad, wasn’t it? Instead of comfort, all the extra space made her uneasy.

Breathing in, she filled her lungs, counted to five, then exhaled and glanced at the clock across the room. Mounted above white cabinets, its wide face, the endless ticktock of the second hand, taunted her… kind of like Chinese water torture would a prisoner of war. She swallowed past the knot lodged in her throat. POW. Ha. Surprise, surprise… the title fit, working in a way that surpassed alarm to skid smack-dab into surreal. Not that she was in chains or locked in a dingy hut in a godforsaken jungle somewhere. Her room was beautiful: pale-walled, high-tech, and, above all, spotless.

Normally, she would’ve approved. Clean, after all, meant tidy. Everything put away in its proper place. Always a good thing in her estimation, but not today.

Tidiness didn’t work for her. Not after what she’d seen last night.

Blowing out another shaky breath, J. J. returned to staring at the ceiling. Not that there was much to see. Nothing to count either. No pockmarks in the plaster. No brush swipes or straight edges left by the push-pull of a paint roller. Just smooth sailing, a sea of white interspaced by dimmed-down halogens overhead.

Which sucked. In a big way.

She needed a distraction. One that would keep her from obsessing over the fact Wick lay next to her. J. J. huffed. All right, so n
ext to her
leaned toward exaggeration, but not by much. Seated on a stool beside the bed, he slouched against the mattress, taking the real estate along her right side. Dark head pillowed on his forearm, he’d tucked his face against her hip, nestled in, and gone to sleep. Not that she blamed him for being tired. After breaking her out of Swedish Medical, he deserved the rest, but…

Was it really necessary for him to… to…

Oh boy. She was in so much trouble. The kind that sent her into a tailspin. Now she didn’t know what to do. Or the best way to react. Not with his arm pressed against a, well… rather sensitive place.

Sometime while she’d slept, he’d tunneled under the covers. Now the back of her knee rested on his muscled bicep while his forearm traveled across country, allowing his hand… holy moly… to curl over her bare hip. Big. Strong. Calloused. Fingers spread wide on her skin, he claimed the spot under her hospital gown, making her aware of every nerve ending she owned. Throw in the fact his position left a certain part of her anatomy vulnerable and unease turned
the corner. Panic upped the pace, dumping her into apocalyptic territory with two very different choices.

Stay still and enjoy—the zip in her veins and buzzing effect of his touch—while she waited for him to wake on his own. Or freak out and punch him in the face.

Fisting her hands in the sheet, J. J. debated the pros and cons. It was a toss-up. After five years on the inside, she’d lost her bearings. Most of her autonomy too. And her ability to trust? Long gone. Prison did that to a person. Everyone—good, bad, or indifferent—became suspect, another enemy in the struggle to stay alive in a place where hardened criminals called the shots. But as she lay in the dim light, under the welling warmth of Wick’s palm, she didn’t want to fight. She wanted to stay still, enjoy the echoing quiet along with the man, if only for a little while.

Which… ding-ding-ding, give the girl a prize… didn’t make any sense.

Her reaction to him bordered on stupidity. She should’ve hammered him by now. Wound up and let fly the moment she woke up with him all over her. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve made him pay for getting too close. But for some reason, the situation didn’t qualify as
normal.
Forget the dragon stuff. Her hesitation started and ended with Wick—the man, not the monster. Odd in more ways than one. Particularly since she never allowed men anywhere near her.

At least, not anymore.

She’d learned her lesson the hard way. Mistrust might not look nice on paper, but it kept a girl safe. Not to mention alive.

But with Wick, her defenses were shot. Down for the count and disengaged from the motherboard. Something
about him rang true. Despite the man-to-dragon switch-up, she recognized safe when she saw it. Most women would’ve jumped for joy at the news flash. Gotten off on his trustworthiness and gone shopping for his and her towels or some crap. Not her. J. J. didn’t
like
the imaginary juxtaposition.

The attraction she felt for him scared her too much.

Careful not to jostle him, she shifted on the mattress. Next she drew a fortifying breath, screwed up her courage, and glanced his way. Oh God. Unfair. He looked unbelievable lying there, like a fallen angel with his thick lashes and messed-up dark hair. Chewing on the inside of her lower lip, she ran her gaze over him again. Boy, he was big. Intriguing as well, all male with wide-set shoulders, hard-muscled arms, and a gorgeous face. Lingering on his mouth, she listened to him breathe, watched his back rise and fall—

“Good lord,” she whispered. “What should I do?”

She racked her brain and waited, hoping
He
might take pity and toss her a bone. An idea. An inkling. A certified escape plan. Anything at all to help her out of the mess. But as the clock’s hands walked around its face, tick-tick-tocking in the quiet, her mind went blank, refusing to cooperate. Annoying much? No question. Beyond frustrating too, particularly when temptation called, infecting her with curiosity, making her stare at the top of his head and wonder things like…

Would his hair be as soft as it looked? Would the day-old stubble along his jaw be as prickly as she thought? Would the heat he radiated warm her chilly fingertips within moments… or would it take longer?

Stupid questions. All of them. She knew it the moment each one drifted through her mind. Her reaction to him—the awful pull of attraction—bordered on ridiculous.
Illogical and insane worked too, considering what she knew about him.

An image of him rose in her mind’s eye.

Horned head framing golden eyes. Black amber-tipped scales flashing in the moonlight. Razor-sharp claws crowning huge talons that had ripped other dragons apart.

Dragons.
Oh dear God. The sky had been full of them last night and—

J. J. swallowed as panic sent her sideways. Practicality stopped the psychological slide. Freaking out wouldn’t help. It never did. She’d seen what she’d
seen.
No going back or denying it. And yet as she stared at him, replaying the events, she fought to reconcile what she’d witnessed with the man asleep next to her. With the very human hands holding her and the realization that his touch brought her comfort. J. J. wanted to deny it, but facts were tricky things. Uncompromising, each one got in her face, making her admit the truth. She wasn’t hurting anymore. The pain was gone, leaving nothing but a nagging ache along her rib cage where she’d been sliced wide open.

Oh, and a slight throb in her ankle too.

Wiggling her toes, she lifted her leg beneath the sheet. Propped on a pillow, the plaster cast rustled against cotton, but… huh. Some discomfort, but nothing like before, which prompted a realization. He’d done something to her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what. Human beings didn’t heal that fast, so…

She owed her fast recovery to Wick.

Frowning, J. J. dug deep, examining her conclusion, turning it over in her mind, looking for holes in the theory. Nothing but certainty surfaced. Proof positive lay in the strange current buzzing though her. She could feel the ebb
and flow of sensation swirl. Closing her eyes, J. J. pinpointed the epicenter. The heated rush radiated from the center of his palm, sizzled across her skin, spread out, sank deep, enfolding her body to embrace her from the inside out.

Between one heartbeat and the next, J. J. made her decision. Waking him up had just become priority number one. She had questions. He possessed the answers. A conversation was in order. One problem, though. She didn’t know how he’d react. Experience told her men didn’t like to be shaken awake. So poking at Wick while he slept? Probably not the best idea. He might wake up swinging, and considering the size of the hand gripping her hipbone, avoiding a knuckle sandwich a la Wick seemed like an excellent strategy.

Apprehension cocked like a gun about to go off, J. J. cleared her throat, hoping the sound would wake him. Nothing. No reaction. Not even an eyelash flutter.

“Wick?” She kept her tone soft, nonthreatening. “Time to wake up.”

Again, he didn’t move.

Out of options, J. J. reached out. Her hand touched his shoulder. She nudged. He frowned. J. J. added a jostle to the equation. He grumbled something. She blinked. Surprise folded into annoyance. Frigging guy. She wasn’t completely certain, but it sounded as though he’d just told her to fuck off.

Irritation strangled self-preservation. She jabbed him with her fingertip. “Hey!”

His hand flexed, tightening on her hip a second before he snarled. J. J. squeaked in alarm as his head came off his forearm. Intense golden eyes met hers, then narrowed. The breath stalled in her throat. Memory grabbed hold,
dragging her back five years to a time and place she didn’t want to go. Oh shit. Jesus help her. She should never have lost her patience. Now he would make her pay. Eat her alive. Hurt her for pissing him off. The lash of experience struck and left welts behind, forcing her to remember what she wanted to forget. She recognized the expression Wick wore… understood history often repeated itself and that hers had come to claim her. And even though being hit was nothing new, J. J. screamed inside, howling at the unfairness.

Not again. Never again. She’d made herself a promise. Had shot and killed a man to keep it and herself safe. But here, in a strange room, under the dim light, the past came back to haunt her. And as fear stripped away reason, she froze under the threat of brutality, not knowing which way to turn or where to go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hating the plea and the weakness that drove it. She was broken. Beyond fragile. So pathetic the rasp of her voice made her cringe. But even after five years, habit—years of training meted out by an ex with a sadistic side—forced J. J. into an awful pattern of surrender. A quick roll. A fast jerk, and she curled into a ball. With efficiency born of desperation, she brought her arms up to protect her face. “Please don’t h-hit me. Please don’t. I’m sorry… s-sorry.”

As the ugliness spilled out of her, Wick flinched. “Holy fuck.”

His curse banged around inside her skull. Her heartbeat took up the cause, ricocheting inside her chest, throbbing hard as J. J. waited. For the violent rush of air. For the first punch to land. For the pain that always followed. Except…

She blinked. Nothing happened. The worse didn’t arrive.

And as quiet expanded in the wake of her outburst, J. J. stopped reacting and started thinking. Drawing a lungful of air, she listened hard. No sound. No movement. Nothing at all. Just the warm, heavy weight of his hand on the outside of her thigh. His absolute stillness reassured her. His silence gave her courage.

Lifting her elbow, she peeked through the space between her forearms. A furrow between his brows, he stared at her, confusion and more in his eyes. A slight tremor in her hands, she lowered her guard halfway to test him. When he stayed perfectly still, J. J. released a choppy breath. Thank God. He wasn’t going to retaliate. Had no intention of hitting her at all.

Tears gathered as the realization settled deep.

Her gaze locked on him, she exhaled and allowed her muscles to unlock. As the tension eased, she called herself a fool.
Dumb-ass,
though, worked even better. She’d shocked the hell out of him. She could tell by the look on his face. The mixture of concern and wariness made her chest go tight. Jeepers, she’d done it again. Gone deep six without proof and overreacted, allowing her past to infect the present. Which made Wick a casualty in her sad little war, didn’t it?

Not fun for him. Embarrassing as hell for her.

Unable to stop the shame, her cheeks warmed to a full blush. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she uncurled her limbs and, with a push, sat upright. Drawing away, his hand slid from beneath the sheet, leaving a cold spot on her thigh. Rubbing her lips together, she searched for the right words. “I just insulted you, didn’t I?”

He shrugged, downplaying her explosive reaction.

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “I should’ve known better. Especially after last night.”

“Why? You don’t know me.”

“I saw you, remember?” Another image of him streamed into her head. Of him at the hospital, gentle hands on her arm, strong arms around her as he carried her down the stairs, the deep timbre of his voice in her ear. “You protected me and saved my life while doing it. There’s no reason you would hurt me now. I just…”

Her voice cracked, cutting off her words.

He raised a brow and waited for her to continue. The gesture struck her as odd. Not in a bad way, simply different. Most men would’ve rushed her along. Looked at their watch, maybe even tapped on its face and said, “chop-chop, honey.” Not Wick. He sat unmoving, patient, silent, giving her the gift of his time, allowing her to regroup. And as J. J. stared at him, letting the quiet drift, she debated.

The pros. The cons. How much to admit… what to hold back.

Honesty was a rare commodity, one she liked more than most, but the truth didn’t always set a person free. She knew it, but as she held his gaze, something strange happened. J. J. decided to be brave. She was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of the games too. As the silence stretched and he remained patient in the face of her uncertainty, she lost her usual caution. Screw it. He seemed solid, trustworthy even, so… the heck with it. Time to test him and see where she landed.