Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4)

by Coreene Callahan

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she whispered, her eyes half-closed. “I like you. You’re nice.”

  Nice? Wick stifled a snort. Sure, he was. “And you’re completely shitfaced.”

  “Drugs will do that to a girl.”

  “No doubt.”

  With a tug, he pulled the coat lapels closed, cocooning her in the lingering warmth left by his body. It was cold outside. He didn’t want her getting a chill when he stepped into the alleyway, a few strides away from the extraction point. And speaking of which? Time to find that door. Wick glanced down the corridor. A quick shift, and he gathered her up. Less than a second later, he was on the move, the exit into the stairwell in his sights.

  Her face half-buried in his coat collar, she took a deep breath. “Hey, you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “You smell nice too.”

  Wick flinched. Good Christ. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? He didn’t have a clue. Polite conversation wasn’t his strong suit. He only talked when necessity required it. In fact, the whole convo with Jamison qualified as bizarre. But as he stared down at the top of her head, he thought maybe… shouldn’t he… well, say something? Respect her effort—along with the compliment—by answering her in some way?

  Silence expanded around the idea. Inspiration struck, prompting him. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  No worries. He wouldn’t be mentioning it anytime soon. The entire topic was out of his league. A different one, however, circled, demanding clarification. “Hey, vanzäla?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know the text message you sent?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you sign your name?”

  “I dunno.” She took another deep breath and hummed on the exhale, the sound one of pleasure. Wick gritted his teeth, determined to keep his shit together. Turning into a pansy over the fact a female enjoyed his scent wasn’t on his list of things to do tonight. “Maybe.”

  Terrific. Trouble lived behind that maybe.

  Wick upped his pace. The Razorbacks weren’t idiots. Masters of technology, the rogues monitored human channels and databases the same way Sloan did. So if Jamison had used her name while contacting her sister, the enemy would investigate. Which put him on an even tighter schedule. He needed to get out of the area fast. Before the enemy picked up the Nightfury energy signal. Under normal circumstances, the frequency a large pack of males emitted while in the same area worked in their favor, making it easy to draw multiple Razorbacks into the kill zone.

  Not tonight. Wick wanted to fly below enemy radar for a while. At least long enough to ensure Jamison’s safety.

  With a mental flick, he swung the door into the stairwell wide. Careful not to jar her, he kept each stride smooth. She grumbled, not liking the jog as he descended the first flight of steps. With a murmured apology, Wick adjusted his hold and slowed the pace. The sound of his voice soothed her, and she settled as he rounded the second landing.

  Two floors down, three to go.

  She yawned again. “What’s your name?”

  “Wick.”

  “Huh,” she murmured. “Another weird one… like Goth Guy’s.”

  Par for the course. The tatted bastard was Dragonkind. Stood to reason the male would be named according to the traditions of his kind. Not that Wick would tell her that. Oh no. The whole dragon/secret race powder keg would be blown up at Black Diamond. And not by him. He refused to be the messenger. It wasn’t his place to inform her she’d just stepped inside another world… one where dragons ruled and humans remained clueless. Tania and Mac could handle that nightmare. So the sooner she stopped asking questions, the easier it would be for him.

  “Jamison?”

  “Yup.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  Unimpressed by the direct order, she huffed. “You’re very warm… like a fire.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, agreeing just to agree. Refuting the facts was a waste of time. As a fire dragon, his core temperature always ran north of hot.

  “It’s nice… the heat.” Tipping her head back, she opened her eyes, and he got nailed with sky-blue peepers.

  Beyond distracted, he cleared his throat. “Good to know.”

  “And you know what else?”

  “Jesus help me,” he muttered. “What else?”

  “It’s J. J. No one ever calls me Jamison.” Slipping her arm out of his jacket, she held up her hand. The slight weight of her in his arms, Wick stared at it, wondering what the hell she was doing. “Nice to meet you.”

  Oh for Christ’s sake. She wanted to shake his hand? Right now?

  Amusement whispered through him. Frickin’ female. She was one of a kind. Ridiculous in the way only the fairer sex could manage, but… shit. He couldn’t deny there was something special about her, adorable even.

  Ignoring her hand, he took the next flight of stairs. “I like Jamison better.”

  “Not your call. It’s my name.”

  “Nickname,” he corrected. “I’ll call you what I want. Now, go to sleep.”

  “Bully,” she said, her amused tone contradicting the word choice.

  Wick bit down on a laugh. Had he said adorable earlier? Times that by a thousand and call him screwed.

  Giving into the inevitable—desperate for some peace and quiet—Wick opened the cosmic channel wider, increasing the Meridian’s flow to feed her more energy. He hoped the excess would knock her out. Send her into a tailspin. Push her deep into a healing state… or whatever. He didn’t care how it happened just as long as she fell into a deep sleep. He needed a break before the husky sound of her voice sent him over the edge.

  “Close your eyes, baby.”

  Overwhelmed by the energy, she obeyed and succumbed to the warm rush. As she slipped into slumber, Wick breathed out in relief.

  Holding her was hard enough. But talking with her—being impressed and amused by her? Pure torture, both good and bad. On the one hand, he preferred his own company. Was more comfortable in silence, in the shadows, than he was in another’s presence. To be expected, he guessed, considering the first twenty years of his life had been spent alone in the dark, his sole contact the brutal fist of a harsh master and the violent conditions of slavery. The only time he’d touched another was when he fought under glaring spotlights and the watchful eye of Dragonkind males who paid to watch young boys fight to the death.

  A fight club complete with membership dues. As vile a concept as it was vicious.

  Even now, all these years later, he couldn’t shake the violence of his past. Or forgive himself for all the lives he’d taken. Innocent lives in the bud of youth. Did it matter he had been nothing but a boy himself? Made to pick up a knife at the age of seven and forced into combat? To become an instrument of death for other males’ amusement? Wick swallowed past the tight knot in his throat. Do or die, the story of his life. Not a very good one either. Had he been stronger, he would’ve done the right thing and perished: defied his master, refused to fight, and died in the squalor so that another boy might triumph and live.

  But he hadn’t. He’d done the unforgiveable instead and…

  Survived.

  So many dead to preserve one life. His life. Now he lived with the guilt. Day in. Day out. Night after night. Which meant one thing.

  He didn’t deserve enjoyment of any kind. And certainly not the ease Jamison made him feel. She was off limits. Nothing more than a means to an end. He needed to remember that. Otherwise he would overstep his bounds, do the unthinkable, and seek her out to discover what she was like after the healing was done.

  Dangerous. In so many ways. Too many to count.

  Navigating the last flight, Wick focused on the reinforced steel door at the bottom.

  “Wick,” Mac said through mind-speak, his Boston accent more pronounced. The tonal shift put Wick on high alert. The male always became more intense, accent included, when trouble approached. “ETA?”

  “Now. I’m
at the alley door.”

  “Move it. We’re picking up a shitload of static. Company’s coming.”

  “How many?”

  “Not sure.” A car door slammed, coming through mind-speak along with Forge’s voice. “My guess? A full fighting unit.”

  “Fuck.” Disengaging the security system, Wick shoved the door open. Reinforced steel swung wide, opening into the night. Frigid air rushed in, ruffling his hair as he stepped into the alleyway. Jamison shivered. Wick reacted, pulling the edges of the coat tighter together to keep her warm. The tug-and-draw should’ve been enough. It wasn’t. He wanted to do more. To make sure she stayed comfortable at all costs. Without thought, he unleashed magic and upped the temperature, surrounding her in a heated bubble, insulating her against the cold. Boot treads crunching over broken glass, he headed for the mouth of the alley, searching for his brother-in-arms street side. “Venom, where—”

  “Headed to the roof with Sloan.”

  “The male?”

  “Gone.” Venom made a sound of disgust. “He’s a slippery little bastard, I’ll give him that. But don’t worry, I’ll crack his skull tomorrow night.”

  At the meet and greet Azrad wanted. Venom didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. After years of living together, Wick knew his friend better than he did himself. “Get airborne, Ven. We’re gonna need cover.”

  “On it. What vehicle you got?”

  The purr of an engine rumbled from the south end of the alleyway. Headlights lit the building’s facade, arching across dull brick. An SUV rolled into view, pulling up curbside.

  Mac chimed in. “Red Suburban… blinged-out front grille, fancy running lights.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Wick growled, spotting the poor excuse for a truck. Nothing like picking something with too much flash. The thing screamed “look at me!” “Red? You stole a—”

  “Sorry, man.” Putting the pimpmobile in park, Mac popped the driver’s door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He glanced at the stripe of chrome running along the Suburban’s side, then back at Wick. He shrugged. “It was this or an orange Prius.”

  Hopping out of the passenger side, Forge met his gaze over the SUV’s roof. “We picked the lesser of two evils.”

  Lucky him. The wonder twins were at it again, backing each other’s play.

  Wick didn’t bother to razz the pair for it. The mentor/apprentice thing was serious shit. A bond not unlike the one he shared with Venom: unbreakable, intense, the kind of friendship that lasted a lifetime and made males sacrifice for one another. That Mac and Forge fell into that category so quickly after meeting was a good thing. No sense getting bent out of shape about it. Or their dumb-ass choices.

  Especially with a squadron of Razorbacks flying in hot.

  Now that he was outside, Wick could smell the acrid burn in the air. Add that to the static buzzing between his temples and… yeah. There were multiple rogues in the area. Minutes away probably.

  Footfalls hammering the quiet, Wick ran toward the only way out. Moments before he reached the tricked-out SUV, Mac swung the rear door wide. Wick pivoted mid-stride, spinning into a 180-degree turn. Ass-planting himself on the edge of the backseat, he slipped inside with Jamison in his lap and inchwormed until his boots cleared the cushion edge.

  The truck doors slammed.

  Forge met his gaze over the top of the passenger seat. Purple eyes drifted over the female asleep in his arms, then snapped back to Wick. The Scot raised a brow, the look on his comrade’s face all about “are you, okay?” Wick stayed silent. What could he say? No, not even close to okay? Yes, totally fine? Neither answer seemed adequate. Or anywhere near truthful, so instead of answering, he told Mac to punch it, hoping the ex-cop drove like a speed demon. Otherwise, the enemy would close ranks around them, and Jamison would end up with a bull’s-eye on her back.

  Home on his mind, Nian took the treads two at a time. The rhythm of his footfalls echoed up the stairwell, bouncing off concrete and steel. The scent of stale beer and sex lingered in the narrow space, telling the tale, revealing the stairwell’s secrets, highlighting the truth of club goers’ amorous pursuits in dark corners. Not a problem most nights. He didn’t give a damn about what went down in his clubs. Right now, though, he thanked God for the quiet and the coming dawn. All the patrons had left, stumbling into the night, leaving the Emblem Club, and the nightclub that sat one floor above it, empty.

  A blessing, if ever there was one.

  After the strain of the last week, he needed a break. Could feel exhaustion settle into his bones, then reach deep to touch his heart. An unusual occurrence for him. The hustle and bustle never bothered him before. He liked to keep busy. Thrived on all the activity. Enjoyed the income his many businesses provided too. Tonight, however, proved to be the exception, not the rule. He was tapped out… tired of the constant barrage of questions from employees and the heavy load of responsibility. He needed peace. He needed quiet. He needed the Metallics to call him the hell back.

  Hellfire and brimstone. What in God’s name were the pair doing? Well, besides ducking his calls and avoiding his presence. No matter how many messages he left, nothing came back. It was frustrating. Annoying. Beyond disrespectful. Something he never tolerated from anyone. His pride—and position as a member of the Archguard—disliked disdain. From anyone. But true to form, the Nightfury warriors didn’t give a damn about him.

  Or what he planned.

  Now he had less than diddly-squat. Nothing but all’s quiet on the eastern front. A never-ending string of stalling on Gage and Haider’s part. Nian gritted his teeth and, grasping the handrail, ascended another flight of stairs. What the devil was Haider’s game? The warrior seemed sincere enough, promising him a face-to-face with Bastian. But despite everything, it hadn’t happened. At least, not yet. Which was why he always put together a contingency plan, one for every occasion. He’d done the same for the Nightfury situation over a month ago… long before he approached Bastian’s warriors.

  A brilliant strategy, but for one thing.

  The male in charge of plan B wasn’t returning his calls either.

  Two weeks had passed and… nothing. Not a peep from the warrior he’d freed from indentured servitude for the sole purpose of infiltrating the Seattle scene. He needed viable intel to tempt Bastian into an alliance with him. A two-pronged attack. Step one involved him. As a member of the high council and Archguard elite—head of one of the dynastic families that ruled Dragonkind—he sat at the very top of Dragonkind hierarchy, able to collect insider information Bastian wouldn’t be privy to on his own. Details of which he would share with the Nightfury commander to win his trust.

  And step two? Plant a spy inside the Nightfury camp.

  A risky proposition? No question. But success required calculated risk, and Nian needed an edge. One that would allow him to keep an eye on Bastian and the Razorback situation. The best way to accomplish that was from inside the Nightfury pack. The plan held tremendous promise but wasn’t without problems. Bastian didn’t run an adoption agency. The male was too guarded to accept a new pack member without vetting him first. So the chance of planting an ally loyal to Nian next to the Nightfury commander was slim to none. But if his warrior proved useful to Bastian—figured out a way to exist on the fringes of his pack—it would be enough. Enough to feed him information. Enough to help him keep his thumb on the pulse of Bastian’s mood. Enough to give him the advantage while he furthered his own agenda in Europe.

  But only if the bastard he’d sent to Seattle did his job.

  Impatience beat on Nian as he reached the last landing. With a snarl, he upped his pace. His gaze on the Exit sign, he hammered the security bar. The door swung wide, flying back to slam into the building facade. The violent bang pinged off brick and mortar, raging across the cityscape to touch the heart of Old Town. Sidestepping, he avoided the backlash of reinforced steel and strode across the roof.

  Five stories up. Not a lot of height to get airborne. Nian d
idn’t care. He needed to fly. To shift into dragon form, feel the rush of frigid air and experience Prague in the predawn hours.

  Arms and legs pumping, Nian sprinted toward the edge. Street lights flashed in his periphery. His magic flared, swirling in the center of his palm, warming the air around him as he transformed and leapt skyward. The burnished gold of his interlocking dragon skin glimmered in the gloom. With a growl, he unfolded his wings and rotated into an ascending spiral. Pushed south by the north wind, frost rushed over him, stripping away the city filth. The tri-headed spikes running along his spine rattled, shivering down to touch the tip of his barbed tail. Baring his fangs, he hummed, reveling in winter’s sweet smells as urban lights fell away beneath him.

  Oh, so good. Better than good, actually. Perfection. Bliss. Excellence wrapped up in open skies and the brutal stretch of taut muscle.

  Fast flying took him out of the city, over thick forests and rocky terrain. Nian sighed. Almost there. Another few minutes, and he’d be where he yearned to be… home. Safe within the confines of his mountain lair. Away from the demands of his many businesses and all the Archguard tripe.

  Fine golden mist rising from his nostrils, Nian shook his head. Something needed to change, and quickly. He couldn’t stand much more of Rodin’s foolishness. The leader of the Archguard was out of control: arrogant, overconfident, infected with idiotic notions driven by twisted ideology. So blind. So stubborn. So very foolish. The depravity—the female slave auctions… the fight clubs with ten-year-old boys playing gladiator—turned Nian’s stomach, driving him to the point of rage.

  Not good. Or the least bit productive.

  Showing his cards too soon wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Neither would anger or grief. Only deliberate action and a clever plan would achieve his end. He wanted so much better for his race. But change would never occur with Rodin at the helm. Fact, not fiction. He’d watched and waited since ascending to his position, searching for a light at the end of the tunnel. It hadn’t come. Now—after three months of enduring the Archguard’s corruption—Nian knew it never would.