Fury of Desire (37 page)

No doubt as to who “they” were.

Her first clue? Her sister’s excitement and speedy exit. The second indication? The clang of dishes from the dining room as Myst and Angela abandoned table-setting duty and, skirting the end of the massive table, made tracks in her sister’s wake. Watching the mass exodus, J. J. slid off her perch but stayed put. No sense jumping the gun. Or making a fool of herself when she didn’t know where she stood…

Or if Wick wanted her to greet him.

The assumption seemed like a stretch. But then, everything did when it came to him. It was an odd state to be in… wanting to get to know him better without having any clue how to go about it.

Balancing on her good leg, J. J. nibbled on the inside of her lip, debating what to do. Go or stay? Be safe or bold? She glanced toward Daimler, hoping for a bailout. An expectant expression on his elfish face, he raised a brow. Well, wasn’t that a kick in the pants? As helpful as the Numbai had been
over the last few hours, he refused to give her any clues. Instead, he remained silent as stone, no doubt waiting to see which way she would hop.

J. J. glared at him. Flipping elf. He looked as though he was enjoying—

“Ah, Master Wick,” Daimler murmured, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Welcome home.”

A death grip on the edge of the countertop, her attention snapped toward the opposite end of the kitchen and… oh my. Lord have mercy. Wick in all his glory, looking better than the cupcakes she’d made, and twice as sweet. His golden gaze raked over her. Her heart went AWOL, dipping low only to rebound into her throat. He skimmed her again, making her feel as though she’d just been strip-searched. Stripped bare within a blink of an eye… all without him touching her.

Dear lord. She’d never experienced anything like it. Or him. He made her burn just looking at him, and in that moment, she understood primal attraction. Grasped the magnitude and rawness that pulled her into his orbit. Accepted the need. Reveled in the want. Felt the underlying tug as fate locked her into place.

Completely ridiculous? Nothing but hocus-pocus infused balderdash?

Maybe. Maybe not. All J. J. knew was that she didn’t want to fight it. Exploring it sounded way more fun.

Drawing a deep breath, J. J. opened her mouth to greet him and—

“I’ll be in my room.”

She blinked.

Daimler nodded. “Very good, Master Wick. I’ll see to your supper.”

And just like that, he was gone, heavy footfalls echoing as he turned and strode into yet another corridor.

J. J.’s brows collided. A moment later, she scowled at the empty spot where he’d stood. “What the heck was that?”

“Go after him, my lady. But before you do, I would ask one thing of you.”

“What’s that?” Frustration riding shotgun, J. J. limped around the end of the island.

“Be patient with him,” Daimler said, giving her pause. “He’s had a hard life, one I believe you will understand better than most. Better than any female, in fact, so… please, be patient, my lady. He needs you more than he knows.”

The entreaty settled her down.

She understood hardship. Had lived with the reality day in and day out… and now with the memory of it. She would never forget its effects. Or the chaos it left in the aftermath. So, no problem. She could be gentle—tough, patient—whatever Wick needed. Forbearance, after all, was her friend. But as she hobbled out of the kitchen and into the corridor, doubt came calling. What if he turned her away? Not an improbable outcome considering he’d just taken one look at her and run in the opposite direction.

Wick registered her presence long before she approached his bedroom. Standing in front of his easel, his gaze riveted to the door, he wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days. Stained with old paint, frayed around the edges, the cotton served as his catchall. Something he used while painting during the day. Tossing the scrap of cloth on the table beside him, he plucked his favorite brush from a large
mason jar. Wood rattled against the glass rim. The familiar sound did nothing to break his fixation. His senses were too attuned… on fire for a female he craved, but knew he didn’t deserve.

He should turn her away. Be safe. Act sensibly. Do the right thing and leave her locked on the other side of his door. As far away from him as possible.

Sounded like a plan, but for one huge problem.

He wanted her too much. Needed to know what made her so different from other females. Yearned to touch her again and discover if it was all in his head. Or if Jamison was as incredible as she seemed, able to banish his phobia—stoke his appetite, interest his dragon half by the simple virtue of existing.

Drawing his thumb over boar-hair bristles, Wick frowned at the painting he’d been working on for days. Almost finished, the urban landscape called for a few more details. The final touches, a series of well-placed highlights that would take it from good to great. As he studied the piece, he brushed his hand over his bare chest and waited, heart thumping, half holding his breath, hoping the knock would come. Would she be brave enough? Did she really want to know—about him, about them, about what it meant to cross the threshold and enter his domain?

Wick blew out a long breath. No mercy. That’s what it meant. What she would get. What he would give her if she chose to walk toward him instead of away. Unfair? Probably. But he didn’t care. Despite his phobia, he wasn’t a coward. And with curiosity running rampant, Wick refused to back away. He wanted to explore. Take a closer look at the growing connection between them and identify the variables.

Which… yeah… put Jamison in the hot seat.

The soft thud of uneven footsteps stopped outside his door.

The muscles bracketing his spine tightened. The moment of truth. Would she? Or wouldn’t she?

Knuckles struck wood, the sound hesitant yet somehow certain at the same time. His mouth curved even as he shook his head. And there it was… the answer. Bold, beautiful Jamison had just gone all in, playing her hand, dealing him his, sealing her fate. The realization made him nervous. Yet even as his stomach dipped, excitement circled too, making him buzz with sensation. On a precipice. He stood on the edge, the need to jump battling the fear of falling.

The soft knock came again.

“Go easy.” Rolling his shoulders, he attacked the tension, forcing himself to relax. But it was hard. The brief glimpse of her in the kitchen had wound him tight. “Don’t scare her.”

Sound advice. A good strategy going forward too.

Wick heeded both and unleashed his magic. With a sharp mental flick, the dead bolt flipped open. A moment later, the door swung wide and… oh fuck. Could she be any more beautiful? Even in too-big sweats and a faded T-shirt, she looked incredible. Fresh-faced without an ounce of makeup to hide her beauty. Strong. Sure. Beyond sexy with her dark hair cascading around her slim shoulders.

Eyes bluer than a cloudless sky met his. His heart rebounded, trying to escape through the center of his chest as she looked him over. Gaze traveling, she showed no mercy, skimming over exposed skin to move to his paint-splattered jeans. She stared at his bare feet a moment before her lips tipped up at the corners.

Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Ah, hell. Talk about bad etiquette. He was half-dressed, for fuck’s sake. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll put a shirt on.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a good look for you.” As he blinked, wondering what the hell she meant, she asked, “Is it okay if I come in?”

Unable to find his voice, Wick nodded.

Weighed down by the walking cast, she limped over the threshold. He frowned as his gaze slid over her. Favoring her right side, she kept her elbow tucked against her rib cage as though one wrong move would send pain spiraling. He bit down on a growl and, tapping into her bio-energy, read her vital signs. Fucking hell. She was still hurting. Not a lot, but enough for him to want to kick his own ass.

He should’ve known one go-around with him wouldn’t be enough. Not after the injuries she’d sustained. So time to jump back on the energy train. She needed another infusion, and compulsion dictated he feed her again. Provide what her body needed to heal up nice and tight.

“Jamison,” he said, hearing the anticipation in his voice. He couldn’t help it. The thought of touching her did something odd to him. Instead of reacting with revulsion, the prospect excited the hell out of him. “Come here.”

“In a minute.”

Wick’s brows collided. What the hell did she mean
in a minute?
“You need more healing energy. I can help if—”

“I know,” she said, closing the door behind her. The click sounded loud in the silence, cranking him tighter as she made her way past the fireplace and over to the custom bookcases. Jammed full of hardcovers, the floor-to-ceiling built-ins occupied one corner of his room. With a hum of
pleasure, she ran her fingertips over a colorful spine. “Tania explained all the Meridian stuff.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. Her attention bounced from him to the unmade bed.

Shoved up against the wall, the king-size mattress and box spring sat on the floor. No bed frame. No silk sheets or froufrou pillows. Nothing fancy. Just a tangle of sheets twisted up in the middle of Serta’s finest. Wick grimaced. Not his finest hour. Half-dressed. Messy bed. Trashed workstation. Maybe he should’ve tidied up a bit. Made a good impression and dazzled her with neatness, but…

Well, it was too late for that.

His slob-like tendencies were out of the bag. So was his habit of tossing damp towels into the corner beside the door. A fact she’d already noticed (goddamn it). Daimler usually took care of that, but with preparations for the mating ceremony in full swing, the Numbai had been too busy to make the rounds. Add that catastrophe to all the canvases stacked against the far wall and… yeah. He wouldn’t be getting the award for Tidiest Male of the Year anytime soon.

Stepping around his easel, he scooped the duvet off the floor, folded it into quarters, then set it on the end of his bed. As he relinquished the load, Jamison slipped the book she held back into its spot. Her focus narrowed on the canvases leaning against the wall by the window. Nervous tension got the better of him. Not sure what to say, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and waited—for inspiration to strike, for her to break the silence first, for the moment she gave him the green light to touch her again.

Pain or not, the decision was hers. Which meant he’d better start praying ’cause… shit. It wasn’t looking good so far.

“Wow,” she said, stopping in front of a stack of paintings. Fingering the white edges of the canvas frames, she ran her hand over the top of the first group, then moved on to the next. At least forty pieces strong, the collection represented the work he’d done over the last eighteen months. “Did you paint all of these?”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze skimming the artwork, she smiled, and his heart flip-flopped, somersaulting inside his chest. Did she like what she saw? The artist in him wanted to know… to be appreciated for his efforts. The more practical side of him scoffed. He didn’t paint for anyone but himself. The pastime helped him relax, giving him an outlet after a hard night of fighting. End of story. No need to court anyone’s praise. But as he watched her flip through painting after painting, Wick craved a good word. Anything that would tell him what she thought about his work.

Which was so much bullshit. And the entire reason he never showed anyone his art.

Not even Venom.

Other than Daimler—and now Jamison—no one knew he painted. All right, so all his brothers-in-arms knew about his love for art. They would have to be blind not to notice. The evidence hung the length of the corridor outside his room… all over the lair for that matter. But he never talked about it, and none of the other Nightfuries knew the extent of his obsession. Or rather… passion.

Given half a chance, Wick preferred to keep it that way.

He’d involved Daimler out of necessity. At first, he’d disliked depending on another. Over time, however, the Numbai had proven to be a true partner, keeping him well stocked with painting supplies, helping him hunt down and purchase precious works of art from all over the world while sneaking every bit of it past the other warriors. All without complaining or sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

Awesome didn’t begin to describe the male.

“Holy moly, Wick.” Pure, unadulterated awe on her face, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “These are gorgeous. How long have you been painting?”

“A while,” he murmured, his gaze on hers. The wonder he spied in her eyes sent him sideways. Pride surfaced, filling him so full he struggled to contain it. Jesus. He got off on her admiration. But more than that, Wick loved the way she looked at him. Interest tinged by a sharp sense of longing rode her expression, making him feel valued. Worthy. Like an upstanding male deserving of her attention. “Almost twenty years.”

“You need to hang these. They belong in a gallery.”

He shrugged, hiding his pleasure. “I’m not the gallery type.”

“No, I don’t imagine you are…” She paused, and turning toward him, crossed the room on a slow shuffle. “You’re too modest for that.”