Fury of Desire (47 page)

Energy snapped, humming in the air like electricity.

Summoning a length of yellow ribbon, Wick pushed to his feet. “Ready?”

Naked, standing unashamed in bright light, Jamison didn’t answer. She held out her hand instead. Releasing a long breath, Wick reached out and slid his palm into hers. She tugged. He accepted her invitation, moving toward fate instead of away as he joined her inside the sacred circle. He stopped in front of her and raised his right hand. Lifting her own, she pressed her palm to his. Within seconds he looped the ribbon up and over, threading the length of satin between their fingers, completing a necessary part of the ceremony, tying them together in a ritual older than time.

“I remember the words from Tania’s wedding,” she said, reverence in her quiet tone. “I’ll go first.”

“Jamison?”

“Yes?”

“Never forget that I love you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. One fell, tipping over her bottom lashes. He brushed it away, and she smiled. Not a lot, just enough to reassure him as she inhaled soft, exhaled smooth and began the rite that would tie them together for all time. “Fate of my fate. Light of my light. Kindred of spirit without shadow or slight. You are mine. And I am yours. Two hearts intertwined forevermore.”

Her vows finished, he began his own, speaking to her in Dragonese, the language of his kind. Gaze steady on hers, his voice rose and fell over rolling
r
’s and long-drawn
s
’s. Her breath hitched. Another tear escaped to flow down her cheek. The gemstones started to glow. White light writhed from their centers, dancing in a decadent swirl around their feet. Awe rushed through his veins, making his heart stall as the binding spell took hold, marrying his life force with his female’s, and hers with his.

Pain seared the back of his hand.

The yellow ribbon caught magical flame. Satin turned to cinder as the mating mark burned over his knuckles. Beautiful in design, silver lines drew matching tattoos on their skin. Emotion tightened his throat. Jamison started to cry, and as she laced their fingers, he reeled her in. The warmth of her skin met his. Wick hummed and, holding her close, kissed each tear away. She’d given him a gift beyond measure. His female. His mate. His equal in all things. And as she tucked her head beneath his chin and whispered that
she loved him, Wick vowed to protect her always, cherish her forever, and love her until the end of time.

Moving slow and steady, Wick slipped from between the sheets and out of bed. As his feet touched the cold floor, Jamison grumbled, protesting the loss of his body heat. His mouth curved as he watched her curl onto her side in the dark. Night vision pinpoint sharp, he saw everything. Every strand of her hair. Each one of her thick eyelashes. The beautiful lines of the mating mark on the back of her hand, telling him plainer than words she was all his.

He flexed his fist and stared at his knuckles, examining his own tattoo.

A mix of emotions tumbled through him. Pride. Thankfulness. But most of all, an overwhelming sense of contentment. So light. So bright. His heart had never been so full before… or so vulnerable. But hell. He couldn’t stop the slippery slide into happiness. Didn’t want to either. Jamison made him feel good: valued, honorable, and needed too.

All things he’d craved, but never believed possible. Until now.

Still, the switch-up startled him a little, tossing the usual red flags, raising his internal alarm system. Old habits died
hard. Wick shoved them aside anyway. Locked down doubt, let the tension go, and accepted that things had changed. He didn’t need to be on his guard with her. Jamison would never hurt or betray him. His secrets were safe with her, and so was his heart.

Unable to resist, he pressed his hands into the coverlet on either side of her. As he leaned in and touched his mouth to her temple, she reached out. Her palm slid across his pillow. A frown marring her brow, she murmured his name.

He kissed her softly again. “Sleep,
vanzäla.
I’ll be back soon.”

The moment she settled, he pushed away from the mattress and, conjuring his clothes, rounded the end of the bed. Worn jeans and a faded T-shirt brushed his skin. He didn’t bother with boots. He wouldn’t be that long. Would slip right back into the bed next to his female the second he finished his errand.

Which… shit… wasn’t going to be pleasant.

To be expected. Apologizing, no matter the circumstances, sucked.

Bare feet silent against the hospital-grade floor, Wick crossed the recovery room. His choice of beds furthered his goals. Had been purely strategic, for a number of reasons. First, he hadn’t been able to wait to make love to Jamison again after the mating ceremony, and—fuck him, but his own bedroom had seemed too far away at the time. And second? Forge. Laid out one room over, the male was passed out, recovering from brutal injury and sleeping like the dead.

Or had been until a few minutes ago.

Dragon senses keen, he heard the voices. Uh-huh. No doubt. The wonder twins were up and at ’em. Not surprising, considering the lateness of the hour. Walking past a round table with a pair of chairs, Wick glanced at the clock above the bank of stainless steel cabinets. Each ticktock sounded loud in the quiet, skinny hands walking around its wide face, speeding time along. 2:43
P.M
. Mid-afternoon, prime wake-up time for the Nightfury warriors. So no time like the present. He needed to get a move on and the conversation over before B and the others rolled in to check on Forge.

Unleashing magic, Wick flicked the handle and shoved. The connecting door swung wide. Strides even and sure, he crossed over the threshold and—

“Bloody hell.” Propped up in bed, looking like a thundercloud, Forge scowled at his apprentice. A deck of cards between them, amethyst gaze narrowed, he studied his cards as Mac tossed his hand down on the mattress. The Scot cursed under his breath. “You wanker.”

“You wanna win?” Seated in a chair next to the bed, Mac reached for the pot. Colorful poker chips rattled as he raked them in. “Beat me fair and square.”

“Fucking Irish,” Forge grumbled, tossing his own cards. Spades and diamonds slid against the bedspread, triple sixes bumping into a pair of jacks. A sliver of pleasure thrummed through Wick. Straight Up Texas Hold ’Em, his favorite game. “Bone-headed brats, every last one of you.”

With a snort, Mac flipped his buddy the bird, then gathered up the deck and started shuffling.

Standing just inside the room, Wick closed the door behind him. The soft click joined the quiet buzz of halogens.
Two pairs of eyes swung his way. Only one, though, concerned him. He met Forge’s gaze. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want tae beat the shite out of Mac.”

Their resident water dragon rolled his eyes.

Wick’s lips twitched. “Better then.”

“Aye.”

The male’s low tone drew Wick further into the room. He stopped at the end of bed and, planting his forearms on the lip of the footboard, leaned in. He frowned at the individual stitches dotting the top of the handmade quilt, then cleared his throat. Jesus. How to start? What to say? Where to begin? He didn’t know. Remorse never entered his equation, but as he looked up and saw the thick bandage crisscrossing Forge’s chest, regret hit him hard. God, he’d almost killed one of his brothers.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he said, staring at his hands, his throat so tight the words came hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” Shifting against a pile of pillows, Forge sat up a little straighter. “Friendly fire, lad. It happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Tae every male, if he lives long enough.”

He shook his head. Despite Forge’s willingness to forgive, Wick couldn’t let it go. A mistake had been made. He must pay for his part in it. “I owe you restitution. A blood debt of—”

“Bullshite. You owe me nothing,” Forge growled. “’Tis the other way around. You shared your female. Saved my life by letting J. J. feed me.”

Let her?
What a big, fat lie. “I wasn’t exactly willing.”

“Neither was I.” Expression serious, Mac split the deck with one hand. A pro move. Not surprising. The newest
member of the Nightfury pack excelled at the poker table. Was a regular card shark, even by Wick’s lofty standards. “Venom and the others held me down too when Tania took her turn. And Rikar?”

Wick raised a brow, waiting for the punch line.

“The corridor turned into a winter wonderland. Total Frostville the second Ange entered the fray. We couldn’t hold him back, so Bastian hammered him. Knocked him out cold.” Mac huffed, cards moving rapid-fire, a silent shuffle in his hands. “You should see the shiner he’s sporting. Ange is still babying him.”

“Seems tae be going around,” Forge said, gesturing to the back of Wick’s hand. “You’ve gotten some of the same.”

“More than just some.” He flexed his fingers, making the mating mark move across his knuckles. Pride settled deep. A swirl of happiness followed. “Didn’t think I had the balls to claim her, did you?”

“Courage isn’t your problem, Wick.” Picking up a poker chip, Forge flicked it at him. He caught it in midair and, running his thumb over the ridged edge, turned the piece over in his hand. Mischief in his eyes, the Scot smirked. “People skills, on the other hand?”

“Fuck off, Forge,” he said, unleashing his favorite phrase.

As intended, the comeback made both males laugh. And just like that, the tension eased, and it was over. Apology accepted. Back to normal. Forgiveness sent and accepted. Fantastic. But as relief took away the burden, another worry popped up to replace it. A big one that had nothing to do with the warriors already safe inside the lair.

Skirting the end of the bed, Wick unloaded on the mattress. His back against the footboard, he stretched his legs out on top of the quilt and crossed his feet at the ankles.
Gaze ping-ponging between his comrades, he asked, “Any word from Gage and Haider?”

Mac shook his head. “Nothing. B’s worried.”

Wick was too. The Metallics never went this long without checking in. The fact they’d gone radio silent wasn’t a good sign. “What about Nian?”

“Sloan’s sending him messages, but so far he hasn’t answered.”

“Shite.”

“No kidding.” Sliding into a slouch, Mac leaned back in his chair. Plastic creaked as he lifted his legs and set his shitkickers down beside Wick’s bare feet. “We got another option, though.”

“Azrad,” Wick murmured, picking up his buddy’s line of thought.

Forge hummed. “A good bet, considering his connection tae Nian. The male might know something.”

Fingers crossed. Information was step one. Action would come next. “Is Bastian setting up another meeting?”

“Yeah. Not sure when it’ll go down,” Mac said. “He wants Forge on his feet first.”

Wick nodded. Made sense. “All hands on deck.”

“Bloody well better be.” A sour look on his puss, Forge glared a warning. “You leave me at home, I’ll kick your arses from here tae Saint Paddy’s Day.”

“Could be worse.” Flashing pearly whites, Mac grinned, half devil, all eager. “At least, there’ll be lots of beer to drink.”

“Green ale,” Wick said, joining in on the fun.

“Total wankers… the pair of you.”

Mac laughed.

Wick shook his head, even as appreciation for his fellow warriors sank deep. Despite their newness to the pack, Mac and Forge fit like marrow inside bone. They belonged. Were family in every way that counted. Which meant he should be able to ask them anything. He frowned. Right? After a moment spent thinking it over, the answer came to him. No question. Both males were solid, safe, smart as hell too, so… yeah. Asking for their advice seemed like the thing to do.

But for one small problem.

He’d never asked anyone for help before. Wasn’t sure how to go about it either. Should he jump right in? Was there a protocol he needed to follow? A code of etiquette of some kind? Shit, he didn’t know, so…

Fuck it. He might as well wade in. “Hey, Forge?”

“Aye, lad?”

“I hear you’re good with a hammer.”

An understatement. A huge one. Particularly since Wick had seen his work. A master carpenter, Forge owned serious tools and a shitload of skill. Ones he put to good use every afternoon, carving out a spot for his collection of fine wines and aged whiskies. The passion fueled his project, keeping the male happy as he built a wine cellar in one corner of the underground lair. Barely begun, the space reeked of style and sophistication, with exotic woods taken from foreign lands, and a sense of tradition brought over from the old country.

From a Highland heritage and a history that endured.

Rapt interest in his eyes, Forge perked up. “What are you building?”

“A gift for Jamison.”

Chasing an itch, Mac rubbed his shoulder against the seat back. “Lay it out.”

Simple as that, the conversation began. Amazing, really. Something as basic as a question could give birth to camaraderie. The kind he’d only ever experienced with Venom. But as Wick shared his idea, his brothers accepted him without question: helping him shape his vision, hashing out the details, and making a list of materials. Extraordinary. Wicked fun too, and as he listened to Forge and Mac argue about the best wood screws to use, his excitement lit off like a rocket. Watch out world. He was headed into the great unknown, about to attempt something he never had before with his friends’ help. The fine art of pleasing a female. And oh baby, he couldn’t wait to get started. Couldn’t wait to see Jamison’s face when he unveiled his gift and surprised the hell out of her.