Fury of Desire (35 page)

Straight teeth worrying her bottom lip, Myst glanced away while Tania pretended to examine her cuticles. The stall tactic didn’t work. J. J. knew trouble when she spotted it. The pair were hedging, no doubt wondering how much to tell her. Which didn’t bode well. Not for her anyway. Tania
times Myst equaled smart squared. A scheme was definitely afoot. One that included her—probably Wick too—so…

No. Letting sleeping dogs lie wasn’t an option.

“Well?” Ignoring the twinge of pain along her side, J. J. shoved away from the table. Expression set in militant lines, she raised a brow. When neither folded under the pressure, J. J. dug in. No way would she walk around Black Diamond blind, deaf, and dumb while Tania plotted the equivalent of a military coup. “Spill or all bets are off.”

Sheepish her new middle name, Tania sighed. “I was worried about you.”

“Since when?” J. J. asked, sarcasm out in full force. A chronic fixer, her sister worried about everything. Normally, she didn’t mind. The constant barrage of concern reassured her, telling her plainer than words that her sister loved her. Today, though, she could’ve done with a little less fretting and a lot more forthrightness. “Tell me why you’re in fixer mode.”

“I freaked out when Wick carried you in.”

Myst huffed. “She accused him of killing you.”

“What?”

“I know,” Tania murmured. “Totally uncalled for and I apologized, but that doesn’t mean I trust him not to hurt you. He’s a straight-up killer, J. J.”

“So am I,” she said, making her sister cringe. J. J. felt the answering ping soul deep. A terrible ache rose in its wake. She didn’t like reminding Tania, but fact was
fact.
She’d killed a man. Was guilty of the same crime her sister now accused Wick of committing. And honestly? The double standard bothered her. Wick didn’t deserve the distain. “He would never hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes… I do.” Saying the words helped solidify her certainty. Wick might be rough around the edges. He might even scare the hell out of Myst and her sister, but labeling him a woman beater was unfair. She’d insulted him once by fearing he might hit her. J. J. refused to do it again. Or let anyone else think badly of him either. “He saved my life, Tania. Got me away from Griggs, out of the hospital, and here in one piece. All while keeping me pain-free. So, I don’t care that he scares you. I like him. I’m attracted to him. I want to know more about him… even if the thought of commitment makes me want to run. So back off.”

Her outburst echoed, bouncing around the clinic like automatic gunfire.

Stunned into silence, the women stared at her. J. J. glared back, anger helping her hold the line. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake. Well able to take care of herself. So screw the new ID and her sister’s idea of a safe house. She wanted the chance to get to know Wick better. The decision was noteworthy, her first self-affirming one since getting out of prison. A tribute to autonomy and her newfound freedom. And if she made the wrong choice and it turned out badly? Well then, she would have no one to blame but herself.

Bare feet planted on the bathmat, Ivar raked a hand through his wet hair and yanked a towel off the top rack. The silver shelf rattled. Terry cloth snapped its tail, protesting the rough treatment. Ivar didn’t care. He wanted to trash the entire bathroom. Just let loose and put his fist through the wall. The only thing that stopped him was the sight of fancy light fixtures bookending the antique mirror.

He frowned at the fuckers. Ah, hell, he couldn’t do it.

Installed less than a week ago, the expensive pair heralded a momentous occasion. Construction on the underground lair was almost complete. Proof positive lay in the finishing touches that now graced his en suite. After months of waiting, the vanity finally sat in its place, the last tiles had been laid, and, yes, he now owned wall sconces. Small details. Big impact. Which meant he needed to reel it in before he took his frustration out on the wrong thing. And set his plans back another step. With his bedroom suite now complete, he didn’t want his worker bees back in his space. The human construction workers he imprisoned had enough on their plates without him fucking up the flow.

Reasonable. Logical. Annoying as hell.

He wanted to kill something. Maybe then he’d kick the cabin fever. Two days. Almost forty-eight hours of nothing. No progress in the lab. No contact with his soldiers. No fresh air either. Why? One answer. He’d been stuck inside his bedroom with Hamersveld. The male was still out of it, flaked out in his bed, suffering from God only knew what for a wren Ivar couldn’t find.

With a growl, he tossed the towel into the corner and conjured his clothes. Jesus. Could it get any worse? Another entire night wasted. The confinement was getting old. Inactivity drove him insane. Was the kiss of death, a sign of an idle mind and—

A groan sounded from the other side of the closed door.

Ivar sighed. Terrific. Time to go another round with Hamersveld.

Not bothering with shoes, he padded across the heated floor tile and swung the door wide. Light from the bathroom cut a swath across the bamboo floor, spilling onto the bed beyond. His head half-buried beneath a pillow, blond hair matted with sweat, Hamersveld lay belly down, one arm hanging over the side of the mattress. Not much different there. The warrior had been that way since collapsing on the bed, but…

Ivar frowned and, sidestepping the chair he’d parked beside the bed, stared at the male’s back. The tattoo bracketing both sides of his spine shifted and… holy shit. Ivar drew a quick breath in surprise. Nothing normal about that. The tribal marking Hamersveld wore like a badge of honor wasn’t red anymore, but morphing, changing, sifting through the color palate to land on polished silver. Mesmerized, he took a step closer, changing his vantage
point for a better view. The tattoo went mirror smooth, reflecting the pink of his irises back at him.

A sizzling hiss rolled through the quiet. Mist rose, twisting like steam from Hamersveld’s skin.

A pattern formed in the smoky swirl.

Ivar stilled, then reversed course, backing away a step at a time. Distance seemed like a good idea, and caution an absolute must. Especially right now. Something nasty stared out from the mist, yellow-slitted pupils narrowed on him. Self-preservation punched through. Ivar called on his magic and conjured a protection spell. The invisible shield settled in his hand and—

The thing shrieked, coming through the fog fangs first.

With a curse, Ivar dodged as the miniature dragon lunged at him. Shield up, he avoided the quick strike of a duel-clawed forepaw and countered, feeding the wren a face full of magical steel. A brutal
crack!
ricocheted. Fen’s horned head snapped to the side. Scales the same shark-gray as his master’s clicked as the wren’s gaze swung back to him. The move was slow, measured, full of aggression and twice as deadly. Ivar froze, hoping the male got the message. He meant no harm. Didn’t know much about wrens either. By all accounts, the subspecies of Dragonkind owned a matched set… equal parts vicious and merciless.

Lovely for Hamersveld. Not so hot for him at the moment.

Fen didn’t know him from Adam. And it showed.

Tilting his small head, the spikes lying flat against the wren’s neck flipped out, making him look as though he wore a barbed collar. The thing looked positively wicked. Deadly too. Attributes Ivar appreciated. At least under normal circumstances. But here… locked in combat with a miniature
dragon inside his bedroom? Not so much. He couldn’t shift into dragon form to protect himself. Deep underground, surrounded by bedrock and concrete, the space was nowhere near sufficient. He’d get squished while Hamersveld and his wren ended up dead. A terrible outcome, considering he’d spent hours playing nursemaid to the Norwegian.

“Hamersveld!” Half-yell, half-growl, the entreaty bounced around the room. “Wake the fuck up!”

Venomous tail rattling, Fen curled his paws over the footboard. Yellow eyes full of lethal intent, he bared his razor-sharp teeth, leaned into the crouch, and—

“Fen… stop!” Hamersveld lunged to his feet behind the wren. Big hands encircled the male’s throat from behind. The second skin touched scales, Fen submitted. The collar of dragon spikes flattened, folding back against his neck as the wren turned and pressed his horned head beneath his master’s chin. Ivar blinked. Jesus. The thing wanted a hug. Hamersveld didn’t deny him. Blond hair sticking up at odd angles, the warrior stood on the mattress and ran his hands over Fen, petting him like a dog. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“I’m all right too.” With a grumble, Ivar dropped his guard. Magic crackled, then dissipated, taking his invisible shield with it. “Thanks for asking.”

Black eyes rimmed by pale blue met his over Fen’s head. “Sorry about that. He’s always a bit jumpy when he transitions out.”

Just a bit?
Fuck him, if that constituted
a bit,
Ivar needed a new set of parameters. Or a new dictionary. One or the other, ’cause… hell. Hamersveld’s description lacked a certain something when it came to the entire wren experience. “Protective of you too.”

“Believe it,” Hamersveld murmured. “I’m his host. If I die, so does he.”

Not understanding, Ivar shook his head and ran a critical eye over Fen. Less than half his size in dragon form, the wren looked tiny to him. Then again, allowance must be made considering the male didn’t have an ounce of human in him. A pure species, the wrens’ chromosomal DNA diverged, making them related to Dragonkind but separate too. Which meant the subspecies operated under the yoke of a different set of magical principles. Interesting. Especially from an empirical point of view. Chromosomal mutations fascinated him, putting his love of all things scientific to work.

And the wren? Shit, the miniature dragon was a gold mine. Mapping the structure of Fen’s DNA would keep him busy for months, if not years. And now—with Hamersveld in the fold—he had the perfect opportunity to explore the possibility.

Careful in his approach, Ivar crossed to the foot of the bed. He ran his gaze over Fen’s flank and reached out. As his hand touched down on shark-gray scales, the wren hissed. Hamersveld murmured, soothing the male, allowing Ivar the examination. Huh. Very cool. The miniature dragon wasn’t much different from the rest of Dragonkind: ridged scales, sharp claws, spikes running the length of his spine to the tip of his tail. He was quite simply a smaller specimen of a bigger version, the only deviation being the two-taloned forepaws instead of the regular five claws.

Extreme curiosity picked Ivar up, driving him toward the need to know. “How does it work?”

“The bond he and I share?”

Ivar nodded.

“What do you know about wrens?”

“Not much beyond the fact they are a magically distinct species.” Stepping around the end of the bed, Ivar touched one of the spikes along the wren’s spine. A pinprick of blood welled on his fingertip. “And that we nearly hunted them into extinction a few centuries ago.”

“A brutal practice that forced wrens underground… or rather, into the Ether.”

“Jesus,” Ivar murmured, surprise spinning him full circle. No one entered the Ether and lived to tell about it. Owned by a deity, the vast space lay between Heaven and Earth. The magical wasteland acted as a cushion, protecting the creators of all things from the earthly realm, but was ruled by one. “The Goddess of All Things allowed this?”

“She offered all wrens sanctuary, inviting them to make a home within the enchanted lands.” Dark eyes intense, Hamersveld pushed Fen away to sit on the side of the bed. As the Norwegian’s bare feet touched down, the wren curled around his master from behind, half on the bed, half off, and laid his head in his lap. “With a proviso.”

Typical fare for the goddess. She was a vindictive bitch. One who never gave without taking something in return. Witness the fact she’d punished all of Dragonkind for the mistake of a philandering idiot—Silfer, the dragon god—tying his race to humankind, cursing them to procreate with the inferior species, taking their ability to feed themselves from the Meridian and sire female offspring. A circumstance Ivar hoped to change with his serum and the breeding program.

“What did she demand in return?” Ivar asked, repositioning the chair beside the bed. Angled toward Hamersveld now, he sat and, lifting his legs, propped his feet on the
bed. The journal he’d left perched on the arm slid sideways. Quick reflexes allowed him to snap it up. His gaze glued to his new friend, he rotated the red leather-bound book in his hands. “A lifetime of servitude?”

Hamersveld shook his head. “Her hatred of us does not extend to our relatives.”

“What then?”

“She changed their magical makeup.”

“Forced evolution.” Made sense. A species might evolve over time, helping the subset adjust to changing ecological conditions, but it didn’t happen fast. Or all at once. Which gave Ivar a clue. Hell. She’d remade an entire species to protect them from inevitable extinction. “So now a wren must bond to a Dragonkind male to ensure his survival. He doesn’t feed in the usual fashion, does he? You nourish him via your energy, the same way human females feed us.”