Fury of Desire (13 page)

Venom slapped the back of his shoulder. “Such a do-gooder.”

Sloan snorted.

Wick brushed off the comment and stayed silent. What could he say? That he had a soft spot for kids? That seeing one suffer bothered him? That childhood should be full of ice cream, lollipops, and cartwheels? His chest went tight. Shit. Like that would go over well. None of his brothers would understand. Not that it mattered. He did what he wanted. Always had… no need to explain further.

Shrugging Venom’s big mitt off his shoulder, Wick got back with the program. A speaker crackled overhead, paging Dr. Somebody-or-other to cardiology. His mouth curved. Good. The humans were on the ball. Not that the girl-child needed the attention anymore. His magic had done its job, sewing up the hole in her left ventricle.

Footfalls silent on the industrial-grade floor, he made the last turn and…

Strode straight into hell.

He grimaced, registering all the activity. Nurses in scrubs. Doctors in white coats. Visitors and patients sitting in chairs waiting their turn.

“Goddamn,”
Venom muttered behind him.

No kidding. The place was a logistical nightmare.
“Far corridor on the other side of the hub.”

“The one next to the nurses’ station?”

Wick nodded and, scanning the space, moved toward his target. The sooner he entered the hallway, the quicker he’d find Jamison’s room.

“Later, boys.”
Leather bag slung over his shoulder, Sloan peeled off, heading in the opposite direction. Skirting a man on crutches and a child playing hopscotch on different-colored floor tiles, he crossed the threshold. Disappearing inside the belly of the beast, he mind-spoke,
“I’ll holler when I’m done at the com-center.”

Venom answered in the affirmative.

Wick didn’t say a word. No need. Sloan required no encouragement. The male would do what he did best: crack the database and take what he wanted without leaving a trace. No worries on that front.
“Meet us street level afterward.”

“Uh-huh,”
Sloan said, mind already on his mission.

Stepping around a row of chairs and the human occupants, Wick moved toward his destination. As he bypassed the high counter of the nurses’ station, a prickle ghosted over the nape of his neck. His pace slowed to a stop. Combat boots planted, dragon half rising, Wick sank deep inside his senses, hunting for the signal. Another round of snap, crackle ’n pop. The muscles bracketing his spine tightened, putting him on high alert.

Shit. Trouble. Not the good kind either.

With a growl, Wick glanced over his shoulder.

“I feel it. We’ve got company.”
Red eyes shimmering, Venom scanned the hub, searching for an enemy. When he came up empty, he glanced Wick’s way.
“Rogue?”

Wick shook his head.
“Maybe. Can’t tell. There’s too much electrical interference here.”

His friend cursed.

Wick seconded the motion and put himself in gear. No sense standing around with his thumb up his ass. Hanging back—waiting for something to happen—wasn’t his style. The role of game changer suited him better. Natural born killer worked too, and as Wick closed the distance, the predator inside him rose, answering the call of duty. Moving with intent, he crossed into the mouth of the corridor. Static hissed inside his head. He mined the signal, adjusting the dial on his sonar, pinpointing the precise location.

Close. So very close. The unknown male was on the move, but—

Jesus fucking Christ. He spotted the bastard.

Pushing a wheelchair and dressed like an orderly, the male paused, slowing to a stop in the middle of the hallway. Wick stopped walking and widened his stance, blocking the end of the corridor as he sized up the stranger. Tall. Strong, but on the lean side. A Dragonkind male who carried himself with the confidence of a warrior. But odder still, the male sported a spider tattoo on the side of his neck and burgundy streaks in his hair.

Dark-blue eyes met his.

Wick snarled.

The warrior’s mouth curved. The stud piercing his eyebrow winked as he dipped his chin and stared at him beneath the curve of his brows. The look was pure challenge, a primal “fuck you” that spoke volumes.

“Heads-up, sunshine.” His gaze fixed on Wick, the asshole bent his head, bringing attention to the person seated in the wheelchair. “The party’s getting started.”

Shifting in her seat, his passenger blinked.

Wick’s focus flipped to her and—

“Fucking hell,” he growled, recognition instantaneous. “Jamison.”

The fucker smirked. “Pretty, isn’t she, Nightfury?”

Right, on both counts. Though how the male knew he was a member of the Nightfury pack was a puzzle. One best left for another time as Wick turned his attention to the first declaration. Which was… Jesus… a total understatement. The female was more than just
pretty.
She was beautiful. Incredible. So powerful her connection to the Meridian pulsed in the air around her.

Unexpected in every regard, considering her injuries.

Some of the bruises he could see. Others he couldn’t. But even battered by circumstance, her energy glowed, lighting her up from the inside out.

As his reaction to her went cataclysmic, Wick sucked in a quick breath. High-energy, his ass. She was a Meridian-infused inferno, burning bright, the deep oranges and reds of her aura flickering like firelight. Urgency thrummed through him, making him want to get closer. Reach out. Maybe even… he swallowed a mouthful of saliva… touch her to see if she zapped him with energy shards. The resulting jolt would no doubt be one for the record books and—

Wick’s brows collided.

Holy fuck. What the hell was his problem? Reach out and touch her? God be merciful, he’d lost his mind. Nothing else explained the sudden urge. Or the undeniable tug he felt when he looked at her. Something about her tempted
him to a dangerous degree, shaking his foundation, waking his dragon half, cutting through to shred his well-used rule book. The one that housed the no-touch, no-talk, make-very-little-eye-contact edict by which he lived.

Unable to help himself, he looked her over anyway. Not that he wanted to—really he didn’t—but he needed the intel. Assessing her injuries would determine the best way forward and…

So what?

He enjoyed the way she looked. Big deal. But as sleepy blue eyes met his and his dragon growled, liking what it saw, Wick abandoned his excuses. He wanted her. For the first time in his life, he
wanted
a female. The admission damned him. His dragon didn’t care, fixating on her as though she were manna sent from the sky. She blinked, a slow up and down. Wick frowned. Something about her response was all wrong. She was too sluggish. The realization reset his internal barometer in a hurry. Dilated pupils. Lax muscles. Blank expression. His gaze cut to the IV plugged into her arm. Comprehension struck like a sledgehammer.

Drugged.

The male holding her prisoner had cranked up the volume. Now Jamison sat in murky mental shadows. Compliant in the face of danger. Relaxed when she should be fighting. A sitting duck, vulnerable in every sense of the word.

“Venom…”

Primed for a fight, Venom growled in answer.
“How dead do you want him?”

“Alive enough to talk.”

A good strategy considering the male’s interference. Something about the warrior didn’t sit right. The scent he wore—his magical vibe—was all wrong… decidedly
un-roguelike. So, yeah. No doubt about it. Figuring out what the asshole wanted—the why behind the hostage taking—needed doing before he took the bastard down for touching Jamison.

“Half-dead it is,”
Venom said, tone full of anticipation.
“You deal with her.”

He intended to.

With his dragon half riveted on her, no other option existed. Primal need had taken hold. Now compulsion ruled, rousing instinct, shoving intellect and reason out of the way. No time to think or ask why. The
how
was more important. He needed to span the distance between them to become her shield. ASAP. Before the clock ticked down and time ran out. Before the tatted bastard used her as leverage. Before the fighting started, and the female he’d sworn to protect got caught in the crossfire.

J. J. couldn’t believe her eyes. Both were playing tricks on her, making her see things that couldn’t be there. Impossible things. Beautiful things. Things like oh, say… a sexy as sin dark-haired stranger. Squinting hard, she leaned forward in the wheelchair. Her get-a-little-closer idea didn’t help clarify matters. Her vision was shot, wavering in and out of focus, shading everything in an ethereal light… making him glow around the edges.

Otherworldly. He must be an alien or something. Nothing else explained the glow. Or the fact his eyes shimmered in the dim light. The golden glimmer drew her deep, held her aloft in the mind-fog and…

Huh. Weird, but she recognized him somehow, from somewhere, for some reason.

Which didn’t make a lick of sense.

The idea that she knew him was, well… far-fetched. Inaccurate. Way off base. Especially since J. J. knew she’d never met him. A girl didn’t forget a guy who looked like that. One encounter would sear him into a woman’s brain. And that kind of imprint? It never faded or got lost in mental debris. It endured for all time. Logic told her so, gathering evidence, refuting fact, and yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling. He felt too familiar, safe in the same way a bunker would while a tornado raged, ripping apart the landscape overhead.

Raising her hand, J. J. rubbed her eye. Bad idea. The movement turned her head. Her mind sloshed, sliding sideways inside her skull. As clear thinking went by the wayside, she frowned at Mr. Gorgeous. Where, oh where, had she seen him before? Was he another
for the moment
friend or something better? Both excellent questions. Neither of which she could answer. A shame, really, ’cause… yup. The answers seemed important, but as J. J. leaned toward the blunter side of dull, she struggled to care.

Another bad decision no doubt.

The thought tickled her funny bone. Weird, she knew, but… God. For some reason that was funny.

Unable to stop herself, she huffed, the sound half-laugh, half-snort. The wheelchair creaked beneath her. Rubber tires rolled forward, and J. J. forced herself to refocus. Hmm, lucky her. He was still there. Boots planted at the opposite end of the corridor, Mr. Gorgeous looked good enough to eat. She ran her gaze over him again and sighed. Wow… just, well, wow. Power personified, he exuded a
lethal amount of confidence. Big. Strong. And badass. Too handsome for words, never mind reality.

Ah, and there it was… bingo, a conclusion that fit.

He wasn’t real. Her drug-addled mind was in overdrive. The result? She’d conjured the golden-eyed god out of thin air.

“Shoo,” she whispered, hoping the sound of her voice would make the apparition disappear. She craved clarity. Wanted a shot at regaining some semblance of control. Which meant the dark stranger—vision extraordinaire—needed to go… and go quickly. No way could she think straight with him standing there, looking beautiful, cluttering up her visual field. “Time for you to go.”

Mr. Gorgeous frowned at her.

Azrad shifted behind her. “What did you say?”

“Oh, shut up, Azrad. This is all your fault. Dumb drugs are making me see things. Now I’m imagining
him.
”

“Hate to tell you this, sunshine, but—”

“I’m real.” The low growl hung in the air, sounding soft, landing hard.

She blinked. “You are?”

“He is, female.” A big blond man moved in behind Mr. Gorgeous. “And so am I.”

Azrad cursed under his breath.

“Oh,” she said, trying to make sense of the news flash.

A useless endeavor. She couldn’t… wasn’t able to…

Good lord, he was real? Beyond a shadow of doubt
real?
J. J. frowned. How was that even possible?

Confusion circled, whacking her with a stick full of “holy crap.” He shifted—widening his stance, blocking the corridor, cranking his hands into twin fists—and J. J. stared at him, forcing herself to reevaluate. Okay, no need to panic.
So he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. So he looked like death come calling. So the guy next to him didn’t look any less lethal. So…

Oh, baby Jesus in a bread basket. Someone help her. He was on the move.

Shoulders rolling, long legs eating the distance, he strode up the corridor toward her. Leather creaked and time faded, warping awareness until all she saw was him. Her heart paused mid-thump, then rebounded, throbbing in time with his footfalls. Boom-boom-pause. Boom-boom-throb. Each beat spiraled out, filling her head until static buzzed between her temples. Soft, intense, beyond strange, an electric current flowed on supercharged wings. Her skin prickled, making the fine hairs at her nape stand on end. One instant merged with the next as his heart beat a drum inside her own veins.

Only then did she understand. He was more than real. He was a force of nature: confident in his approach, commanding in the moment, all his focus on her.

A man from another world. The angel of death. He was… he was…