Fury of Desire (5 page)

Good strategy. The best, really… logical, straightforward, precise. Too bad none of that helped him. He couldn’t
quell the dread. Or turn off his brain as he lined up his approach, gliding over building tops and the avenue below. Cloaked by an invisibility spell, he scanned the city streets. Seattle was busy tonight. Humans were everywhere, huddled into their coats, collars turned up, hands jammed in pockets, the fast click of high heels echoing as they hustled along sidewalks. Music drifted, thumping bass rolling out of nightclubs, enticing males and females out of taxicabs, toward neon signs and closed doors.

Another Friday night. Same outcome.

Humans liked to party. The faint smell of alcohol and perfume told him the scene was in full swing. Good for Venom. Not so great for him. It meant there would be lots to choose from, and more action than he could handle.

The thought cranked Wick one notch tighter. He didn’t want to do it. Then again, he never did. The brush of strange hands against his body—the unpleasant rush of sensation—made him cringe and curl inward, away from the prickling pain of overload. Away from bone-bending pressure and the mind-warping hunger that shoved him to the edge of endurance, messing with his control.

Fight or flight.

An instinctive response, nature’s own and one Wick couldn’t avoid. Not that he didn’t try… all the time. But Venom was right. He couldn’t go after Jamison and repay his debt while hungry. He wanted to rescue the female, not endanger her. So, no getting around it. No negotiating with it either. He needed to grow a pair and allow closeness with a stranger. Someone who didn’t give a damn about him. A human who only wanted one thing… the promise of pleasure and its rapid delivery.

With a grimace, Wick circled into a holding pattern, wheeling like a bird of prey over a low-lying rooftop.
Pleasure.
The word gave him the chills. His dragon shied, not appreciating the psychological deep freeze or the implications behind it. Shit, he wasn’t any good at this, and no matter his eighty-seven years and all past feedings, it never got any easier. He always felt inadequate… completely out of his league. Unable to provide what a female demanded as he took what he needed.

All right, so Venom helped. Was ever constant, smoothing out the rough patches, supporting him through the process, providing what he couldn’t for himself. Sad, but true. He couldn’t feed without Venom present. Panic always picked Wick up, then shut him down, forcing him into freak-out mode the instant a female got too close. Disgust sank deep, cutting through to sear his soul. Damaged. He was beyond redeemable. Shamed by the inability to provide for himself.

Tucking his wings, Wick dropped like a rock between two tall buildings. Glass shuddered and rattled in steel frames, reflecting his black amber-tipped scales and the fierce glow of his gaze. As the golden light refracted, skipping across asphalt, Wick touched down on the brownstone’s rooftop. The razor-sharp tips of his talons screeched across metal, setting him on edge.

Not a great start. Especially since he was already wound way too tight.

Dark-green scales flashed overhead, glinting in the moonlight. A moment later, Venom touched down without a sound beside him. Rolling his massive shoulders, his friend wing flapped, sending rock dust swirling into mini-tornados. Muscles rippled along the male’s flank, showcasing his
strength as he folded his wings, drawing the black webbing against his sides.

Ruby-red eyes shimmering, Venom nodded.
“The Gridiron. Good choice.”

Good
had nothing to do with it. The nightclub, and the humans it catered to, drew his friend like a loadstone. Venom liked a rough crowd and lithe, Gothed-out females, so… no shit, Sherlock. It was a no-brainer. Considering the favor Venom did him, Wick always went with his friend’s favorite.

“Shove over.”
The low growl, spiked with a hint of the Highlands, came through mind-speak, vibrating between Wick’s temples. A second later, the purple-scaled Scot uncloaked, coming in on a fast glide. Smoke swirling in his wake, Forge bared his fangs.
“Or better yet, get gone. Not a lot of real estate down there. We cannae land if you wankers donnae move.”

“Do we have to?”
Mac grumbled, rotating into a slow flip behind the Scot as he lined up his approach.
“I hate the Gridiron. It’s too fucking loud.”

Venom rolled his eyes but shifted, moving from dragon to human form. Wick followed suit, and stomping his feet into his shitkickers, headed for the rooftop door. The staircase made its home behind steel, and a whole bar full of “just-kill-me-now” lay beyond that. But hey, no time like the present. The quicker he got the job done, the sooner he could go on his way. Be all the way across town, kicking ass inside Swedish Medical.

Not here, looking FUBARed in the face.

“Shut your yap, Mac.”
Dark-brown scales glimmering, Sloan tucked his horned head, somersaulting in midair to land on the roof edge. Snow-white talons played a game of
clickety-click against the building side as the triple scorpion-like stingers tipping the male’s tail glinted in the city glow.
“Not all of us have a personal plaything feeding us at home.”

“My mate’s not a plaything,”
Mac said, the snarl in his tone undeniable. He flexed a huge blue-gray talon, razor-sharp claws promising aggression.
“You say anything like that about Tania again, I’ll rip your face off.”

Wick snorted, boots crunching on stone dust as he crossed the roof. He liked Mac’s style. Easy to do. The male might be new to Dragonkind—and the magical abilities that accompanied the
change
—but he packed a helluva wallop and didn’t take shit from anyone. Both big pluses… at least in his opinion.

With a chuckle, Forge thumped the newest member of their pack with the side of his spiked tail.

Mac threw the Scot a dirty look.

Sloan bared his teeth, the smile half-amusement, half-challenge.
“Bring it on, Irish.”

“Stop mucking around.”
Deep voice rolling like thunder, Venom stretched his shoulders. Leather creaked as his biker jacket protested.
“I’m hungry, and we got a female in the mix tonight. The sooner we feed and get out of here, the better.”

The statement sobered the group.

And no wonder. Pulling an injured female out of danger would take some doing. Strange, but the idea enlivened Wick. Not for the discomfort he would cause, but for the good he might do… for the peace he would bring Mac and his female. For the debt he would repay. And, yes, for the chance to screw over human authorities and flout their ridiculous laws. He’d read the police report and court transcripts. Jamison had protected herself. And for that she’d been imprisoned, and now mistreated.

Wick’s eyes narrowed. The metal handle settled in his hand, frosting his palm. He cranked the door wide, barely registering the cold. Injustice. It came in so many forms. He was a prime example. His imprisonment—all the agony he’d suffered over the years—didn’t matter anymore. It was ancient history. But Jamison still had a chance, and he would see that she got it. But first, he needed to… to…

His throat went tight. Wick cringed. He forced himself to move forward anyway and descended the stairs. The rank smell of stale alcohol rose, assaulting his senses as his warrior brothers filed in behind him. Multiple boots clanked out a rhythm on steel treads, joining the heavy thump of bass and the high-pitched shriek of a singer’s voice. Darkness descended and swelled, enclosing him inside a prison all his own. His night vision sparked, showing him the way as excitement turned to dread, congealing in the pit of his stomach.
But first…

God-awful words. Too bad neither changed the facts. Or lifted the curse of his kind.

A furrow between his brows, Wick paused at the bottom of the staircase. Decision time. Turn right toward the emergency exit, say “fuck it,” and pull a fast flash’n fly. Or go left into the alcohol-fueled oblivion of human frenzy. Shitkickers planted, hands curled into fists, he glanced through the open door into the club. Strobe lights backlit those closest to the entrance, holding male and female bodies in silhouette. Some congregated along the back bar, waiting for their drinks. Others stood intertwining, more interested in sex than the surroundings.

Wick’s heart squeezed, then rebounded, slamming the inside of his chest. Now or never. No easy choice. Especially considering escape lay a few feet away. A couple quick
strides, one swift kick, and he’d be outside… in the alley beyond. Deep in the chill, breathing in crisp night air instead of female perfume, the smell of male sweat, and cigarette smoke.

Temptation lit him up. He leaned toward the exit.

A big hand landed on his shoulder.

Clenching his teeth, he glanced left. An uncompromising set of ruby-red eyes met his. Wick shook his head.

Venom tightened his grip. “Let’s go.”

Mouth gone dry, Wick couldn’t answer. He nodded instead and, putting one foot in front of the next, led the way into the last place he wanted to go.

As the back of the bed’s headboard bumped against the wall of her hospital room, J. J. tried not to panic. Fear stuck it to her anyway, punching through to pierce her breastbone. The sharp barbs grabbed hold of her heart, sank deep, and stretched her thin, making it hard to concentrate, never mind control her reaction.

But she needed to. Right now. Before Griggs saw her expression and picked up her distress. The second that happened, she was cooked.

Flambéed with an extra order of screwed on the side.

A consummate manipulator, the slimy good-for-nothing guard would use it against her. Up the ante until nothing but dread remained. Anticipation, after all, was worse than reality. He knew it. So did she. Too bad she couldn’t stop the unease. Or stop her palms from sweating.

Curling her hand in the sheets, she wiped the moisture away as he approached the end of her bed. Handcuffs in hand, he swung the metal shackles around the tip of his finger. The move was pure intimidation, 100 percent wild, wild West, the kind of thing gunslingers did with their
six-shooters. Twirl. Flip. Point and shoot. The weasel had it down cold.

Not that Ashford noticed.

The nurse was too busy getting her settled. Humming a god-awful tune, Ashford gave the bed one last jiggle, making sure it sat perpendicular to the wall behind J. J., then bent to lock the wheels. Lovely, wasn’t it… that kind of obliviousness? J. J. wished she possessed a touch of it. Maybe then her heart would stop thumping. Maybe then she could forget the threat, bury her head in the sand, and pretend she was safe for a change.

Maybe then the music would come back.

Her throat so tight she found it hard to breathe, J. J. reached for her fallback. She needed a three-four beat. An up-tempo song. Any melody—a single note—would do, just as long as it blocked out the chaos rebounding between her temples once and for all.

Her gaze riveted to Griggs—and his imminent landing beside her bed—she found the beat on the third try. Rounding the bases like a baseball player at full throttle, the melody came home, sliding in to save her. Acoustic and raw, the guitar thrummed to life. The drums arrived next, snapping imaginary fingers inside her head. B-flat weighed in on the first stroke of piano keys and…

Thank God. The piece was fully formed. Only the lyrics stayed away, letting the refrain lead the way to sanity. J. J. clung to the rhythm, let the music take her, and relaxed into the flow of composition like a sunbather in the noonday sun. Warm on her face. Hot in her soul. Beauty tempered by control and partnered with perfection. And as the symphonic sound melded, her body unlocked, allowing her to release the breath she’d been holding.

As air rushed from her lungs, Ashford grumbled. “Stupid… stubborn… lever.”

A double snick sounded a second before the nurse’s head popped up over the edge of the mattress. As she straightened, she smiled at J. J.

“Did you get it?” J. J. asked, stalling for time, trying her damnedest to ignore Griggs.

Ashford brushed her hands together. “Got it. You’re all set… won’t be rolling away on me anytime soon.”

A smug look on his face, the weasel snorted. “Wheels locked or not, I could’ve told you that.”

The nurse gave him a pointed look, and J. J. tensed. Here it came. Any second now, he’d—

The cuffs rapped against the bed rail. Metal clanged, erupting in the quiet, bouncing off pale walls and a bank of bare windows. A violent twist of his hand, and the loop closed, locking the steel ring against the rail. The familiar
zzzz
of shackles set J. J.’s teeth on edge. The shivers came next, rattling through her bones. The second he reached for her arm, she cringed and, clinging to the thread of acoustic guitar, breathed out. Panicking wouldn’t help. But staying calm, holding firm, standing strong in the face of fear? Those things never failed. Would allow her to think, make a plan, but most of all, beat the weasel at his own game.

Too bad she’d never been much of a player. At least, when it came to poker.

The piano, however? Heck, she could play that puppy all day long. And as she rooted herself in the ascending refrain of a three-four beat, the steel grip on her wrist didn’t seem so bad. Neither did the weight. Or the cold against her skin. Griggs could go to hell… along with his nasty disposition and obvious agenda.