Fury of Desire (32 page)

He’d been trained from an early age to be that way. No talking. No physical contact. No warmth of any kind. Deprivation like that changed a male. Made him quiet. Kept him apart. Bred mistrust and suspicion.

The ultimate way to build a killing machine.

Flexing his hand, Wick watched his muscles work, undulating beneath the brand, distorting the numbers his captor had burned into his skin… remembering what had made it.

Molten dragon venom, the only substance that could mark his kind.

If used before a male went into his
change
—before the magic in his blood activated—the stamp of ownership scarred and never faded. The burden became something to carry, a blatant reminder seared into skin. One to look at and live with every day. One that dragged the past, no matter how distant, into the present.

He should know.

Every time Wick looked at it, his stomach rolled, taking him to the night he’d received his number. As memory spun him around, things he yearned to forget bubbled to
the surface. In a blinding flash, he was back in the filth and squalor, reliving the brutality—the flames burning high in the fire pit, the red glow of steel as the bastard lifted the brand from the bubbling vat of dragon venom, the acrid smell of smoke in the air, the hard hands holding him down, the bite of steel against his throat.

Wick clenched his teeth. He should be over it by now. Sixty years was a long time to hold onto the pain, but… God. Recall was a bitch with a mind of its own. No matter how many times he tried to blot out the details, the experience stayed with him, haunting him. The helplessness in the face of savagery. The bitter taste of defeat. His rage as they forced him to submit.

Not that it had taken much to subdue him.

His captor had done it right. Waiting until his body chemistry dipped, landing him on the edge of his
change
. He’d been too weak to fight… so ill, beyond vulnerable, in need of help from a senior male to get him through his first shift. Most males anticipated the occurrence. Dreamed of the night it would happen and rejoiced when it came. Then again, those males had sires who loved them. He’d had a sadistic bastard who wanted him dead at the first sign of true strength. The second Wick’s magic spiked, his captor had realized his peril, recognized the warrior inside the male, and understood Wick would hunt him to the ends of the earth—tear him limb from limb—the instant he woke in dragon form.

So yeah. He understood Azrad. And as he looked at the male seated across from him, Wick saw everything he felt reflected back at him.

“They didn’t send you…” Clearing his throat, Azrad trailed off. His brow furrowed, he shifted in his seat. A
moment later, he broke eye contact and traced the edges of his own scar. “You were never at Tanzenmed. I would have seen you there.”

The name made Wick tense. Tanzenmed. A Dragonkind prison so terrible, males begged for death, a merciful kill when faced with the prospect of imprisonment there.

“I never got that far.” Thanks to Venom. His best friend had risked everything. Given up a cushy life inside Dragonkind’s aristocracy to rescue him. Throat gone tight, he glanced over his shoulder. As always, Venom stood at the ready, willing to back him up at a moment’s notice. Just like the night he’d defied the general and intervened to save his life. “Which club did you come up in?”

“Rodin’s.” A hard gleam in his eyes, Azrad’s nostrils flared. “You?”

“The general’s.”

“My sire’s club,” Venom said at the same time, his voice overlapping Wick’s, revealing what neither of them ever had before. “Rodin’s right hand back in the day.”

“Jesus H. Christ. A fight club run by Dragonkind elite?” Grabbing a chair, Rikar dragged it over and joined their circle. Concern in his pale eyes, he shook his head. “The practice has been outlawed for hundreds of years.”

“Doesn’t mean the clubs don’t exist. The new law simply pushed them underground.” One shitkicker crossed over the other, Bastian leaned back against the table edge. The pose was relaxed. Wick knew better. His commander didn’t do nonthreatening. “Thought they only used human fighters, though.”

“Probably still do,” Wick said, a prickle of unease nipping at his nape. He didn’t want to talk about it. Hated the
power of recall and what it did to him. “But they bet on boys too.”

“I entered the ring for the first time on my seventh birthday.”

“Same.” A bad taste entered his mouth. Fuck. No more secrets. Nothing to hide behind anymore. Wick flexed his hands, not knowing what to do with the knowledge… or how to act now that his brothers-in-arms knew the truth. “They kept me caged by day and fighting by night until—”

“You went into the
change
,” Azrad said, completing his sentence.

Wick nodded. “After that, I was too much of a risk. I was slotted for Tanzenmed, but Venom intervened, pulling me out before the general loaded me on the truck.”

Resulting in the death of Venom’s sire.

Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Patricide. Jesus, what an awful burden to bear. One Venom carried every day. A moment in time that had put a price on both their heads and sealed their fate. An act that made them instant fugitives, sending them running with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

“I did what was needed,” Venom murmured, shrugging off the sacrifice. He always did, downplaying his bravery. But Wick knew the truth. That night had taken a terrible toll on both of them. The strain in his friend’s voice broadcasted that fact loud and clear. “But you were already inside Tanzenmed by then.”

Azrad nodded. “Godforsaken place.”

No doubt.

Established to train the elite, the prison used live targets—Dragonkind sentenced to death, males drawn from the fight clubs, or anyone the Archguard wanted
silenced—in a series of war games designed to teach fledging dragons how to fight. Spread out over vast acreage in rural Russia, the compound kept the live targets enclosed in a limited area via an electronic collar, allowing the hunters to track and kill their prey. Packed with explosives, the collars would detonate, blowing a male’s head off if he crossed the boundary to flee the compound.

Death via C-4. Or try to fight your way out.

A depraved practice with an equally revolting endgame. Once imprisoned, no one walked out of Tanzenmed alive.

Which begged a question, didn’t it?

His gaze narrowed, he looked Azrad over.

Quick on the uptake, Venom caught his mental string. “The compound is reputed to be impenetrable. Only one way in. No way out, so…”

Rikar huffed. “Wanna explain how you managed to escape, Azrad?”

“Wrong question, my brother,” Bastian said.

“Exactly.” Intuition spiked, and Wick growled. Ah, yes… the plot thickened. “
How
isn’t important, Rikar. It’s the
who
we want to know.”

“Fucking hell,” Rikar growled.

“Nian,” Venom said, the anger in his tone unmistakable. “You’re in the bastard’s back pocket.”

“No.” Sitting up straighter, Azrad shook his head. The violent movement backed up his denial, making his irises shimmer like blue diamonds. “I used the Archguard asshole to get out of that hellhole… nothing more.”

“Nothing is ever that easy.” Pushing away from the table edge, Bastian stood. Suspicion made the air crackle with hostility. Patience worthy of a commander stayed his hand. “What did you promise him… my head on a platter?”

“Never,” Azrad said. “Nian came to me three months ago with a proposition.”

“Why you?” B asked.

“I earned a certain reputation in prison.”

“Oh really?” Sarcasm out in full force, Rikar flashed his pearly whites, half smile, mostly snarl. “Mind sharing what that was exactly?”

His gaze predatory flat, Azrad cracked his knuckles. “I kill whatever comes near me.”

Wick snorted. “Handy.”

“It worked for me. So here’s how it breaks down.” Azrad glanced from him to Bastian, then back again. “You know how the pampered bastards think. Nian is the same. He needed a warrior outside the Archguard’s grid, a player they’d never see coming, never mind miss. He offered me a deal… freedom and a first-class ticket to Seattle for one thing.”

“A face-to-face with me.”

“Bingo.” Azrad shrugged. “The deal is: I get close enough to facilitate the meeting. After that, I’m to get in your good graces… in tight enough to feed him information about Bastian and the Nightfury pack. I never agreed to that part of the bargain, but…” Trailing off, the male frowned at his bruised knuckles. “I wanted to meet you, so lying to him about the spying shit seemed like the play to make.”

“Not a bad plan,” Venom said, sounding impressed.

“It got me here, didn’t it?”

Venom rolled his eyes.

Azrad grinned, then smoothed his expression. As amusement slid into seriousness once more, the male met B’s gaze. “Look, I know you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. If someone showed up claiming to be my blood kin, I’d
hurt him first and ask questions second. All I ask is that you run the DNA. Give me that much, at least.”

Expression impassive, Bastian eyed the male. “No promises, but… give us a few days. The blood work will get run. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime,” Azrad said. “I’m into something else you should know about.”

Curiosity nudged Wick. “What’s the cherry on top?”

“I’m inside the enemy camp.” A nasty gleam in his eyes, Azrad smiled, the expression making him look like a kingpin. A dangerous one with his finger on the trigger. “I figured you might need a gesture of goodwill to take me seriously, so I infiltrated the Razorback ranks over two weeks ago.”

“Christ,” Rikar said, looking like he’d been hit upside the head. With an axe, sharp side up.

Venom blinked. “For real?”

“For real. The bastards think I’m one of them.”

“A spy.” Wick grinned. He couldn’t help it. The plan struck him as ingenious. Smart. Bold. A gutsy move by a gusty male. Right up Wick’s alley. “That’s how you knew about Jamison.”

Dark-blue eyes met his. “Razorback chatter and some research put the female in the mix. You ruffled some feathers when you stole Tania out from underneath Ivar. Logic suggested you’d go after the sister next.”

Rikar dropped another f-bomb. “We’re that predictable?”

“Only when it comes to females.” Heavy metal on his face winking in the low light, Azrad stared at the Nightfury first in command. “Otherwise, you’re a fucking mystery. Good thing too. With the Razorbacks hunting you, secrecy is—”

“So little brother wants to join our cause.” When Azrad nodded, B approached on silent feet. Skirting the end of the coffee bar, his commander rolled up beside his
maybe
brother. Azrad froze. Wick didn’t blame him. As calm as B looked, everyone in the room knew he wasn’t playing. Raising his foot, B nudged the side of Azrad’s chair. “What’s in it for you?”

“Payback.”

“Ivar piss you off or something?”

“Too soon to tell. I haven’t met him yet.” His head tilted back, the male looked up at Bastian, meeting his bright-green eyes. “I’m still working my way up the Razorback food chain. But Ivar’s just a stepping stone, one I’ll use to catch a bigger fish.”

Wick hummed. “You’re talking about Rodin.”

“I owe him a lifetime of pain.” Azrad smiled, the show of teeth animalistic. “Besides, Rodin and his cronies are bankrolling the Razorbacks.”

Looming above them, interest sparked in B’s gaze. “Do you have proof of that?”

“Not yet, but—”

An alarm went off, beeping double time.

Azrad glanced at his watch. Midnight on the dot. “Nian’s on the hunt for it. You interested in talking to him?”

“You got a go bag with a computer here?”

The male nodded.

Bastian tipped his chin. “Then set it up.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. The second B agreed, Azrad pushed out of his seat so fast the chair wobbled. As he turned to his warriors, Eye Patch handed him a black backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he crossed to the large table in the center of the room and went to work: unzipping
the bag, pulling out a laptop, fingers flying as he typed in coordinates and set up the video chat.

Wall-mounted above a cluster of club chairs, a large flat screen TV flipped on. Wick strode over for a better look. The video prompt box blinked on center screen, washing the coffee shop’s pale walls with bright-blue light. Smart move on Azrad’s part. The wide-angle webcam hooked on top of the TV would capture the entire room, allowing Nian to view all of them from the other side of the world.

Azrad tapped a few more keys and—

“About flipping time.”

“Good to see you too, Nian.”

Seated behind a desk, a dark-haired male stared out at them. Eyes the color of opals swept the inside of Starbucks. “Which one of you is Bastian?”

“Right here.” Impassive, Bastian sat down, unloading his weight on a club chair. As he set his shitkickers on the coffee table, he met the youngest member of the Archguard head-on. With more growl in his voice than patience, he said, “What the fuck do you want, Nian?”

“Any number of things,” the male said. “But first things first. You need to get your warriors the hell out of Prague. Rodin’s hatching a scheme… one that includes Gage and Haider’s execution. At nightfall, a death squad will be sent out to secure them.”

Wick bared his teeth on a snarl.

“Goddamn it,” Venom growled.

“Exactly.” A row of bookcases behind him, Nian leaned forward in his office chair. Not bothering to hide his concern, he nailed Bastian with shimmering multihued eyes. “I don’t know where the Metallics sleep, so I can’t reach them. But if you can… do it. Tell them to stay out of dragon
form. No flying. The city will be crawling with Rodin’s thugs come sundown. Tell them to contact me via this web link. I’ll smuggle them out of the city.”

Lovely in theory. Big problem with its proposed execution.

Wick didn’t trust the Archguard whelp any farther than he could throw him. No male in his right mind would. Especially considering Nian’s pedigree and history. Any number of possibilities might play out. The bastard could be in league with Rodin. He might be setting the leader of the Archguard up to take the fall for whatever scheme he had in the works. Could be lying through his teeth in order to lead the Metallics into a trap too. Any combination of which would see his brothers-in-arms murdered in cold blood.