Fury of Desire (14 page)

Oh crap. That’s why she recognized him. Anyone would. Death took all forms, after all. And his? The glamour and beauty—his otherworldly quality—made perfect sense. Her time was up. He’d come to punch her ticket. Now she would be made to pay for her mistakes. Be taken to the one place J. J. knew she deserved to go. She’d known the price for pulling the trigger. For becoming judge and jury. For taking another’s life.

Eternal restitution in hell.

Murderers, after all, didn’t deserve second chances, but… God. She wasn’t ready to go. Not right now. Too much
had been left unsaid. So much undone. All of her wrongs yet to be righted.

Tears welled, burning her throat.

“No.” Shaking her head, she met the dark angel’s gaze, a desperate plea in her own. Maybe if she begged, Mr. Gorgeous-Death-Angel would show her mercy, come back some other night… take her another time. After she’d made amends, gotten to say all the sorrys she owed, starting with the biggest one of all. Her sister. Tania deserved an apology. The words, sure, but also the remorse and closure behind them. She needed one last hug. One more shared meal. A night spent talking, the privilege of contact and a proper good-bye. “I’m not ready to go. Not yet. I’ll go quietly, I promise, just… please come back later.”

Bafflement winged across the dark angel’s face.

“Just a little more time. That’s all I need. Please, I—”

“Easy.” A large hand landed on her shoulder. With a gentle tug, Azrad drew her back, resettling her in the wheelchair. “Apologies, Nightfury. Too much Demerol. She’s a little loopy.”

“Back away from her,” the dark angel said, his voice soft yet somehow deadly. “And I’ll let you live.”

“You’re a bad liar. Tell you what though…” Azrad paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’ll relinquish her without a fight… for a price.”

“Name it,” the blond guy said.

J. J. frowned, her gaze ping-ponging between the two. Huh. Two death angels for the price of one. And the blond one? He was beautiful too, although not in the same way. His dark-haired companion appealed to her more. Sexy vibe. Gorgeous face. Incredible body. A thirteen and a half out of ten on her yum-o-meter, which…

Was just plain wrong. In major ways.

Dear God, what was the matter with her? No way should she be admiring him. The guy planned to kill her, for pity’s sake. Take her straight to hell, and what was she doing? Scoping him out. Singing his praises. Imagining what notes he might make her hit in bed.

“A meet and greet.” Rubber tires humming against hospital floor, Azrad walked her backward. As he retreated, the death angels advanced. “Bastian’s presence is required.”

“Not going to happen,” the dark angel said, an underlying snarl in his voice.

“Two choices, Nightfury.” With a quick shift, Azrad slipped his hand over her shoulder. J. J. flinched, shock spinning a sticky web as he palmed the front of her throat. Pressing his thumb against her jugular, he brought her chin up and tilted her head back. “You agree or I snap her neck.”

Immobilized, J. J. jerked in her seat to break his hold. Too little, too late. She got nowhere. Azrad was too strong. Her injuries made her weak. And with her reflexes obliterated by drugs, her chances of breaking free landed somewhere south of zero. She swallowed against the hand gripping her throat. A sitting duck. Out of her league. Bait for Mr. Gorgeous. All of which Azrad had intended from the beginning.

Golden eyes aglow, Mr. Gorgeous growled.

The blond bared his teeth on a curse.

J. J. gasped, the sound panicked as helplessness swamped her. She tried anyway. Fighting the lockdown, she grabbed Azrad’s forearm. Her nails bit deep to gouge his skin. With a “fuck,” Azrad tightened his grip, and she wheezed, struggling to draw air into her lungs. A tremor rolled through her. Fear followed, diving deep to unearth self-preservation.
But it was too late. She knew it. So did Azrad. The jerk had played her to perfection.

And fool that she was, she’d let her guard down. Had ignored instinct—every lesson she’d learned in prison, surrounded by violent offenders—allowing Azrad to slip under her radar. Now she would pay the ultimate price.

Azrad wasn’t playing. She felt it in the strength of his grip. Recognized it in the flex and release of his muscled arm. Heard the warning in the intensity of his tone.

J. J.’s breath hitched on a sob. Life or death. He now held hers in the palm of his hand.

“Azrad?”

“Stay very still, sunshine,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

“You’re hurting me,” she rasped, pulling at his wrist. “Please let go.”

He grumbled something. J. J. wanted to believe it was “sorry,” but she wasn’t that naïve. He had her by the throat, so… no. Only a fool would believe he felt remorse for holding her prisoner.

Mr. Gorgeous took another step toward her.

“Half a second, that’s all it’ll take.” Azrad tensed. J. J. winced as his big hand pressed against her windpipe. “Not enough time for you to reach her, Nightfury. So you decide… a dead female or a friendly chat with your commander. What’s it gonna be?”

He didn’t answer, just kept coming, moving closer in small increments.

The blond guy’s gaze narrowed. “You’re no rogue. What pack do you call home?”

“Your answer, warrior,” Azrad said, a lethal edge in his tone.

“Where and when?”

“Starbucks… 1st Avenue and Pike. Tomorrow at midnight.”

The blond nodded. “Done.”

“Excellent,” Azrad murmured. “She’s a lovely female. I would have hated to hurt her.”

“Let her go.” Chilled by violence, the dark angel’s voice slithered through the quiet. Goosebumps erupted, spreading like frost across J. J.’s skin.

“With pleasure.” With a quick hand, Azrad released the death grip. As she sucked in a quick breath, he grasped the back of her wheelchair. “Hold on tight, Jamison Jordan. He’ll catch you… I promise.”

The lilt of his tone warned her. Intuition spiked. Comprehension followed, laying out Goth Guy’s plan like tracks on a runway. “Don’t! Azrad… don’t!”

Too late.

With a hard shove, he sent her rolling. Rubber wheels hummed as she rocketed down the middle of the hallway. Horror shoved shock out of the way. J. J. yelled. Both angels cursed. The IV bag bounced off the metal pole stand, and the speed increased. Careening out of control, J. J. curled her hands around the steel armrests. As her knuckles turned white, each breath came hard, ramping into hyperventilation. Oh God. Oh no. Jesus help her. She was headed for a fall, a serious bone-cracking tumble.

The slam-bang of combat boots echoed down the corridor.

Perception warped and time stretched, spinning everything into slow motion. Fierce golden eyes met hers. She watched him run, arms and legs pumping, a prayer locked in her throat. But even as she sent her entreaty heavenward,
hope making her heart throb, pain loomed like a promise at the end of a short trip. And J. J. knew, without a shadow of doubt, Mr. Gorgeous would never catch her in time.

Venom sprinted down the corridor, chasing the idiot with the spider tattoo. Wick barely noticed. He was too busy hauling ass, all his focus on the female. Bad odds. Even less time. He ran like a motherfucker anyway, the slam-bang of his boots matching the chaotic rhythm of his heart. Lungs burning, legs and arms pumping, he bared his teeth and pushed hard. He needed to reach her, to stop the furious roll of the wheelchair before…

Jesus. He was so fucked. Still too far away. Twenty feet from his target and not closing fast enough. And as each second whirled past, victory slid in the wrong direction. God help him. Any moment now, the chair would destabilize, come apart and send her reeling into a fall. One that would reopen her wounds. Make her bleed. Inflict so much pain she would scream in agony.

None of which Wick could prevent from happening.

The tatted bastard was just that smart.

Azrad cast one hell of an encryption spell. Now Jamison sat wrapped in magic, surrounded by an invisible force field that propelled the wheelchair at breakneck speed. Reaching out with his mind, Wick tore at the enchantment. Powerful
and complex, the energy shield whiplashed, holding firm, denying his will to control it. Her bio-energy flared. His concern for her spiked as he registered the extent of her fear. She was in full panic mode, so amped up he felt each painful throb of her heart, saw the flare of her aura and the dread inside her mind.

Her heartbeat drove his, making each breath saw against the back of his throat. Wick pushed past physical limits and hammered the shield again. The structure flexed. Spotting a weakness, his dragon half growled, and Wick sank deep, connecting to the source of his power. Magic exploded through his veins, taking up all the space inside his head. He held it close a moment, then wound up and let it go, hurling the decryption spell like a hardball pitch in a softball game.

Rubber tires whined, picking up speed.

The pitch and sway rocked Jamison in the seat. Her knuckles turned white against the dark padding of the armrest. As the steel frame shuddered with catalytic rage, the chair veered, hurtling toward a pair of double doors. Oh shit. Not good. The chair wasn’t holding up beneath the strain and—

Metal groaned, threatening to buckle at the joints.

Wide-eyed, Jamison met his gaze. Wick bared his teeth. Already taut muscles tightened over his bones, and fury gave his magic more strength. The cosmic web around the wheelchair shuddered. He hammered it again. The bastard’s hold trembled, then crumbled, dissipating like vapor in dry air.

Triumph roared through him.

Wick didn’t pause to admire his handiwork. Without breaking stride, he reached out with his mind and grabbed
the chair. He issued a mental command. The velocity downgraded, slowing little by little. Almost there. A few more seconds, and he’d—

In a panic, she grasped one of the wheels.

“No, Jamison… don’t!”

His shout went unanswered as the wheelchair flipped, launching her out of the seat. She went up and over, dark hair flying as her head whiplashed. The sight made Wick snarl. Reality made him curse as he watched the IV tube stretch taut. The needle ripped from her arm. The scent of blood filled the air. Wick’s heart stalled, pausing mid-thump to hang inside his chest.

Fucking hell. Another wound. More pain. Just what he’d hoped to avoid.

But even as her life’s essence splattered across her hospital gown, he didn’t hesitate. Or stop running. He reacted instead. With a well-timed thought, he crushed the wheelchair mid-flip. Steel crumpled beneath the force. He hurled the compacted metal like a bowling ball, protecting the female from debris, aiming for the empty nurses’ station at the end of the hall. As steel slammed against the half wall, Jamison stopped going up and started to come down. Wick threw himself across the floor. Shitkickers leading the skid, he slid like a baseball player, arms extended, eyes locked on her, body prone to break her fall.

A major-league move. Wicked results.

Jamison landed with a solid bump against him. She whimpered in pain. His stomach clenched, but stayed true. Thank Jesus. He didn’t have time to freak out. Or puke. The whole aversion to being touched thing needed to stay where it belonged. On the back burner. Buried six feet under. In the passenger seat, not behind the wheel… whatever. Wick
didn’t care how it happened, just as a long as he kept his shit together.

For his sake, sure. But honestly, right now it was all about her.

She needed him. And strange as it seemed, he wanted to provide whatever he could in the face of her agony.

Jamison trembled against him. Wick cursed and, still in a full-body skid, locked his arms around her, wrapping her up tight to protect her from further injury. Jeans skating across the hospital floor, boot heels digging in, his T-shirt and jacket rode up, exposing his lower back. Wonderful. Just what he didn’t need. Rug burn via a heavy-duty industrial floor.

Ignoring the pain, he hung onto his prize. The slip and slide slowed to a stop, leaving him sitting in the middle of the corridor. Breathing hard, shock wreaking havoc, he didn’t move. One second slipped into the next as he took stock. Bright lights overhead. Him on the floor. Her in his lap. He blinked. Holy shit, he’d done it. No hesitation. No balking. Just full-on commitment the moment she needed him. Now, she lay in his arms, a warm bundle curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

Pride picked him up, then circled deep. Panic tried to edge it out, closing his throat.

Wick shoved it aside, along with his phobia. He didn’t have time for bullshit. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. And neither was he. He needed to get her the hell out of Swedish Medical. Down five floors to meet Forge and Mac. All while keeping her comfortable, so—

Voices sounded, coming around a blind corner. His gaze narrowed, Wick’s head snapped in that direction. Multiple
footfalls, one heavier than the others. At least one male in the group.

“Shit,” he growled, knowing what it meant.

Humans. A bunch of them headed his way.

So much for his brilliant crush-the-wheelchair strategy. The crash-bang against the deserted nurses’ station had resulted in a ripple effect. Attention from a species known for their curiosity… and their ability to call the cops faster than an F-18 going Mach 1. So yeah. No time like the present. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge.