Fury of Desire (4 page)

“Hey!” Sharp with displeasure, the strange voice bit a second before a woman’s head popped up from behind the high countertop. Dark eyes narrowed, she glared at Goth Guy. He put the brakes on, skidding to a sliding stop in front of the nurses’ station. “We’re in a hospital, not on a race track. Slow down!”

“Apologies,” he said, grinning, not looking sorry at all. Another snap of gum. The sound ricocheted, banging around inside J. J.’s head as she glanced up at the guy. The pink blob disappeared back inside his mouth. “But I was told to get her here… lickety-split quick.”

“Lord save and keep me, I swear…” With a huff, the nurse pushed out of her chair and stepped around the high countertop. Heavyset with a round face and dark skin, she drilled Goth Guy with another look. Running shoes squeaking, she approached the side of J. J.’s bed. “You do realize there’s a difference between efficient and ridiculous, don’t you?”

“Just trying to help,” he murmured, the gleam in his eyes a little, well… J. J. didn’t know exactly. Unsettling? Untrustworthy? Aggressive with a touch of amusement? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. She could be imagining things. Might be a tad off her game, fuzzy in the mental realm considering the IV pumping painkillers into her body. “So… where you want her?”

Suspicion took a turn across the nurse’s face. Her eyes narrowed on him. “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

“New guy.” Big hands flying, he tapped against the headboard as though playing a big drum finale. Rhythmic sound
carried, rising in the quiet to drift down the deserted corridor. “All right, I’m outta here. Take good care of her, nurse.”

“Hang on just a minute, mister. I need your—”

“Nah, you don’t.”

The nurse frowned at him.

He winked at her. A moment later, his gaze flicked down to meet J. J.’s. His mouth curved, he tipped his chin at her, then let go of the end of her bed. “Catch yah later, sunshine.”

As he turned away, J. J. blinked, the nickname catching her by surprise.

“Impertinent bugger.” Looking fifty shades of pissed off, the nurse watched the guy lope back toward the elevators. As he disappeared around a corner, she shook her head. “Double-damned idiot. Don’t know where they find them these days, but that one needs an attitude adjustment.”

“Driving lessons too.”

The nurse’s lips twitched. “Shook you up a bit, did he?”

“Feeling like a James Bond martini over here.”

“Ha! Shaken, not stirred. Good one, hon.”

Thank you would’ve been the thing to say. But as J. J. opened her mouth, her throat closed, and the words wouldn’t come. The burn of nausea, though, was right on time, exploding with inferno-like pressure up her windpipe. As her gag reflex kicked in, muscles bore down, twisting her abdomen into knots. Turning her face into the pillow, J. J. moaned.

“Hell in a handbasket.” Leaping toward the nurses’ station, the nurse grabbed something off the counter. Back in a flash, she cupped J. J.’s nape and lifted her head. As J. J. dry heaved over the kidney-shaped container, stitches pulled, making her skin scream. She whimpered. The nurse murmured, her tone soothing, her instructions no-nonsense.
“Breathe through it now. In through your nose, out your mouth. That’s it, kiddo. You got it.”

Sweat broke out on her forehead. The chills set in, making her teeth chatter. Clinging to the sound of the nurse’s voice, J. J. listened to her heart pound. The throb multiplied, beating triple-time as she dry heaved again, cresting another excruciating wave. But as she tripped down the other side, dipping into agony’s valley, something miraculous happened. Numbness set in, helping her muscles unlock. She drew a lungful of air, thankful she could breathe at all.

“All right now. There we go.” Still holding the impromptu puke bucket, the nurse cupped her wrist. Pressing her fingers to J. J.’s pulse point, she glanced at the wide-faced clock hanging on the wall beyond the high counter. “Much better. Your pulse is evening out. Keep up with the breathing. I’ll get you sorted out.”

Curled on her side now, J. J. nodded, liking the plan. Especially if
sorted out
meant another round of painkillers.

“Good.” Releasing her, she set J. J.’s hand down on the mattress. “So there are a few things you should know. I’m Nurse Ashford. I’ll be looking after you for a while. How are you doing? Better?”

J. J. dipped her chin, the movement slight. Not much in the way of a response, but it was the best she could do. All she could manage as her muscles twitched in protest, nausea still circling as fatigue set in.

“Demerol will do that to a body,” Nurse Ashford said, tone soft and full of sympathy. Adjusting the blanket, she smoothed the bunched fabric and met J. J.’s gaze. Her hand reached out. J. J. tensed, unaccustomed to being touched, expecting the worst. But the worst never came. Instead, Ashford smiled and gave her knee a gentle pat. “Don’t you
worry, Jamison. You’ll be feeling better in no time. Peace and quiet. Lots of rest is what you need. The doctor will be down to check on you soon, but for now, let’s get you settled, shall we?”

Kind words wrapped in concern.

The tears J. J.’d been holding back rushed to the surface. As her vision blurred and her chest went tight, she swallowed, fighting the onslaught. Crying wouldn’t solve anything. Experience was a great teacher, but… wow. She hadn’t expected that. Not the patience. Nor the kindness. Convicted felons, as a rule, didn’t get much from anyone. Didn’t deserve any either. But as Ashford kept up the chitchat and got them rolling, the squeak of wheels echoing down the corridor, gratefulness made a home inside J. J.’s heart. A
gift.
Whether the nurse knew it or not, she’d given her an incredible gift. One that handed J. J. her dignity. Made her feel normal. Valued. Like a real person instead of a degenerate for a change.

“Nurse Ashford?”

“What is it, kiddo?”

“Thank you.” Tilting her head, she glanced at the nurse.

“Don’t give it another thought. I got a brother on the inside and things are never what they seem.” Expression serious, the nurse’s brown eyes met and held hers over the rim of the headboard. “Are they, Jamison?”

“No, ma’am,” she said, her voice whisper thin.

The pace gentle—very un-Goth Guy–like—Ashford pushed her past one of the hospital rooms. Slid to one side, the clear glass door stood open, allowing J. J. an unobstructed view of the inside. Her mind took a snapshot, cataloging details, relaying information. Pale walls, the soft beep of medical machines, a wooden U-shaped wall unit
surrounding the bed and… nope. Not hers. Someone occupied room number 532 already, the large lump in the center of the bed a dead giveaway. Glancing farther down the corridor, she spotted another doorway. As they approached, a man stepped into the hall. Boot soles creaking, he pivoted in her direction. The hallway light winked off the badge pinned to his chest.

Fear hit J. J. chest level, stalling the breath in her lungs. Oh no… no, no, no. It couldn’t be. It just
couldn’t.
She refused to believe the universe was that perverse. But as his all-too-familiar gaze met hers and she shook her head, the truth broadsided her. She was a dead woman, the how and when nothing but a formality.

She knew it deep down, where reason lived and intuition reigned.

Officer Griggs. The man responsible for hurting her—for organizing the attack and sending Daisy to corner her in the prison library. Breath stalled in her throat, J. J. stared at him, mind whirling, suspicion gathering, panic rising… the reason he stood inside the hospital becoming all too clear.

He’d come to finish the job.

She could see it in the hard glint of his gaze. His plan was simple. Correct his mistake. Silence her before she talked, putting him and his actions under the warden’s microscope. Guys like Griggs didn’t enjoy that kind of scrutiny. He thrived in shadow, deep in the dark areas most didn’t want to acknowledge, never mind visit. And as he pulled his shiny prison issue handcuffs out of his utility belt and strode toward her, J. J. started to pray.

For divine intervention. Some kind of miracle. A clever idea—something, anything at all—that would stall fate, stave off the inevitable, and save her life. Griggs was just that
cunning, a real snake in the grass. One way or another, he’d find a way to shut her up. Accidents happened. Inmates got roughed up all the time for various reasons: mouthing off to the guards, smuggling contraband…

While attempting to escape.

All of which might prompt the use of deadly force.

A scenario Griggs could manipulate to his advantage. He would make it look good too. Set the scene. Ensure it ended messy and he came out clean. All in an attempt to cover his own ass. And with Griggs neck-deep in trouble and sinking fast? A cover-up became priority one, so… yeah. No way would he hesitate to put her six feet under.

Filled with more stars than Wick wanted to count, the sky glittered above him, folding over urban edges with majestic sparkle. A rare sight. One he appreciated as cloud cover cleared, leaving nothing but the dark velvety vista in its wake. Wings spread wide, he slowed the velocity of his flight. Cold air slithered over his scales, rattling the weave of his interlocking dragon skin.

His fiery side should’ve grimaced, complaining about fall’s slide into winter. His dragon, though, didn’t make a sound. No protest. No wishing for warmer weather or a trip down south. Not even a shiver of discomfort. The silence was an anomaly, signaling his freakish nature. Most fire dragons hated frost and snow, spending more time indoors than out when mountain air turned chilly and north winds blew south, dragging subzero temperatures over the Canadian border.

Not him. A lifetime of deprivation had set the pace.

Now, he simply followed the curve, flying out to meet the enemy no matter the weather. Rikar, a frost dragon and the Nightfuries’ first in command, loved him for it. Freezing rain. Snowstorms. Whiteout conditions. It didn’t matter.
Wick never missed an opportunity to play hunt-and-kill with the Razorbacks. Which meant while the other warriors hunkered down to wait out a bad squall, he served as Rikar’s wingman. Good all the way around. The arrangement gave them both what they needed—a ball-busting fight—while adhering to the rules. Bastian didn’t fuck around or tolerate insubordination. No one flew out of the lair without backup.

And if a male was foolish enough to try? B would hand the warrior his ass on a stick.

Not advisable… or even close to fun. The rules existed for a reason, one that kept the Nightfury pack healthy and its members breathing. And as much as Wick enjoyed chaos, he liked his brothers-in-arms too much to risk them in the pursuit of foolishness. Smart was always welcome. Dumb-ass stupid, however?

Not so much.

Which meant he couldn’t bust a move or go AWOL. Not with Venom and the rest of the boys flying in his wake. Wick ground his fangs together. Fuck him, but he wanted to make a break for it. Fly to his favorite spot deep inside Mount Rainier and curl up next to a river of lava flow while his comrades found suitable females and fed. He snorted in disgust. Droplets of magma swirled from his nostrils, ghosting over his horns as he shook his head. All hail his upbringing. Brutality at the hands of his captor had left him phobic, not wanting to be touched, never mind touch in return.

A bad taste washed into his mouth. Wick swallowed, combating his unease. God. He was a pansy, a lily-livered chicken, for his aversion. Most males relished time with the opposite sex. Enjoyed the slap and tickle. Craved the contact and mutual pleasure. Not him. He dreaded it, feeling
inadequate, unprepared, unable to give the bliss-fueled ecstasy a female demanded while males of his kind fed. Shit. He didn’t even know what that meant. Had never experienced true pleasure, never mind provided any for another living soul.

Too bad compulsion and hunger didn’t care.

He was a slave to his nature and the energy his kind needed to survive. The Goddess of All Things had seen to that, cursing his race long ago. Some said she’d cast the spell to exact revenge. Others thought her methods a judicial righting of wrongs. Wick didn’t give a shit either way. All he cared about was the outcome, and Dragonkind’s utter dependence on human females—to not only procreate but also connect to the Meridian, the electrostatic current that fed his kind. Ringing the planet, the energy source nurtured plant and animal alike. The process was an automatic one for all living things, with the exception of Dragonkind. Thanks to the goddess—and her colossal snit—the direct link between the Meridian and his kind lay shattered. Now, a male needed a female to survive. Which entailed connecting to the Meridian’s energy stream through her. Getting up close and personal, so close skin touched skin and…

Wick stifled a shiver. Brutal punishment with sharp teeth and a big-ass bite. Unfair? Without question. Too bad
fair
had nothing to do with it. Silfer the dragon god had screwed up, pissing off the wrong deity with his cheating ways. Now all of Dragonkind suffered for his stupidity. Which sucked, but hey…

It was what it
was.
Flip the dossier closed. File it under Fucked Up and get on with it.