Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4)

by Coreene Callahan

  As though she wanted to wear a mating mark of her own.

  The thought freaked Wick out. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t stand in the center of the sacred circle—as Mac and Rikar had just done with their chosen females—and say the vows that would bind Jamison to him forever. It wouldn’t be fair. Despite his greed for her—and the amazing hours spent in her arms—he refused to do that to her. He wasn’t up to par. Didn’t deserve the privilege of taking her as his mate. Would never be able to give her the kind of life that she wanted. But even as he faced the truth head-on, primal instinct grabbed hold, tempting him to ignore right, embrace wrong, and mate her anyway.

  Before he revealed too much of himself, and she came to her senses.

  Which made him worse than a fool. It made him an asshole.

  Dragging his gaze from her face, Wick turned away. Nothing good would come from trapping her. Or forcing her to stay in his life. He must find the strength to let her go, otherwise—

  “I can smell her on you.” Quiet, perhaps even a little pensive, the deep voice came from behind him. “Had a fun afternoon, did you?”

  “Careful, Ven.” Wick glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed on his best friend, he curled his hands into fists. “Show her any disrespect, and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  “No disrespect intended. I’m just surprised, is all. Happy for you too, but…” Expression solemn, Venom met his gaze then shook his head. “Everything’s changing. I guess I’m just wondering if you’re okay. If we’re okay going forward.”

  The unexpected concern—and Venom’s insecurities—hit Wick like a body shot. He absorbed the blow, stifling his reaction. Jesus. He should’ve known Venom would react like this. He knew the male better than anyone. Understood his best friend’s desire to protect. Venom needed to be needed. It was written in his DNA. Put the major savior complex Venom carried around like luggage together with the history they shared and… yeah. It was only natural that his friend react to the shifting landscape—the one in which he cleaved to Jamison instead of Venom.

  Sixty years was a long time to look after someone else. To be relied upon. To sacrifice for another without a thought to the toll it took on yourself. Wick understood. He felt the same way about Venom. They were brothers—by choice, if not by blood—but time didn’t heal all wounds, and habits had a way of becoming chains.

  Maybe it was time he freed Venom of the burden.

  Blowing out a breath, Wick opened his mouth to do just that.

  Venom cut him off. “Are you going to keep her?”

  “No,” he said, his gaze seeking and finding Jamison. She laughed at something Angela said. His heart lightened at the sound, then sank again, making dread pool in the pit of his stomach. “I’m going to set her free instead.”

  Venom frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to—”

  “Lads,” Forge said, Scottish accent drifting across the rotunda.

  Meeting the Scot’s gaze, Wick assessed the damage. The shadows in Forge’s eyes told the tale. He’d already been cornered by Bastian, information the name of the game. Everyone wanted to know what the male knew—the why behind Rodin’s sudden fixation, the reason behind the call to arms. Or rather, the planned assassination. Not that B would tell them. At least, not yet. His commander was good like that, respecting a male’s privacy, keeping a lid on secrets until no other option existed but to share the intel with the rest of the pack.

  Wick admired B for his tactics. Most days anyway. But as Forge approached, the hem of the navy-blue ceremonial robe brushing over his bare feet, he ached for his comrade. Whatever the sins of his past, the Scot didn’t deserve to be singled out by the Archguard. Or carry the guilt of putting the entire Nightfury pack in the limelight, a giant bull’s-eye on each one of their backs.

  A frown furrowing his brows, Forge adjusted his hold on his son, holding him against his shoulder as he came abreast of him and Venom. Eyes the same deep purple as his sire’s locked onto Wick. Giving him a stern look, the baby babbled an incomprehensible string of syllables. Wick’s lips twitched. Man, the kid was talkative… and kind of funny looking with the dark mohawk sticking up in the center of his head.

  Brushing past him, Forge headed for one of the archways. “Meeting in the living room, lads. We got five minutes. After that the wedding feast goes on the table and—”

  The kid squawked again, eyeballing Wick from over his father’s shoulder.

  “Daimler kicks our asses,” Wick said, finishing the Scot’s sentence as he smiled at the kid. He couldn’t help it. G. M. might be pint-size, but he was opinionated. Not to mention cute as hell.

  Kissing the top of his son’s head, Forge nodded. “Pretty much verbatim.”

  With a tug, Venom tightened the belt on his robe. “Better get a move on then.”

  No kidding. Only an idiot crossed Daimler. One who didn’t care if he ever ate well again.

  Following the Scot’s lead, Wick trotted down the steps into the living room. The epitome of casual, the space invited a male to sit down and stay a while. A usual occurrence considering the size of the couch. Kitted out in leather, the custom sectional took up all the real estate in front of the double-sided stone fireplace separating living from dining room. Floor-to-ceiling windows marched along one side, giving moonlight a frame as it peeked from behind the roll of thunderclouds. Throw in the foosball and twin pool tables. Kick up the comfort with fifteen deep-seated armchairs set up theater-style in front of the huge flat screen TV complete with a high-tech video game console. A catchall, the room functioned as a hangout, drawing the Nightfury warriors into the play zone most afternoons.

  Heading for his usual spot, Wick strode in behind the couch… and the Nightfury resident computer genius. Ass-planted on the back of the sectional, combat boots on the seat cushions, computer in his lap, Sloan frowned at the screen. Wick glanced over the male’s shoulder, getting a quick snapshot on the flyby. E-mail up and running. Video conference software blinking. A map of Prague on-screen.

  “Anything?”

  Sloan shook his head. “No word yet.”

  Fuck. Not good. Where the hell were Gage and Haider hiding? “B know?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, sending a furtive glance in Bastian’s direction. A scowl on his face, their commander sat down opposite Sloan and set his size fourteens on the glass-topped coffee table. “He ain’t happy about it.”

  “I can see that,” Wick said, getting the lay of the land with a quick scan.

  All the boys were in attendance. Still dressed in their ceremonial robes. Bare feet sticking out from beneath each hem. Looking like a bunch of thuggish monks. Wick swallowed a snort. Monks. Right. The sex-crazed lot he called his brothers had never come close to the distinction. He’d been the only one who qualified for the title. But after a day spent with Jamison, the official report was in. There wasn’t a monkish thing about him.

  Not anymore.

  Thank fuck.

  His eyes narrowed, Wick swept the interior again. AWOL. His female was no longer in the room. Ears tuned, he shut out the low rumble of masculine voices to listen for female ones. He picked out a trio of them as he skirted one of the pool tables. The vantage point gave him a clear view into the dining room. Ah, and there she was, standing beside the table, chatting with her sister and Myst, looking incredible in an off-the-shoulder gown. The amber silk complemented her coloring, making her skin glow and her dark hair seem more black than brown. Accepting a lighter from Daimler, she flicked it, no doubt planning to light the candles in front of the place settings.

  A single flame sparked to life.

  Wick snuffed it out.

  As she frowned and shook the lighter, he sent his magic swirling. Fire flared, attacking individual wicks, setting candles aglow. With a soft indrawn breath, Jamison glanced his way. He tipped his chin. Gifting him with a slow, sexy smile, she mouthed “thank you,” making him feel ten feet tall.

  “Yo, Wick. You with us, laddie?”


  The comment brought Wick’s head around. Forge raised a brow, the look sending a clear message. One that sounded like “hello, anybody home?” Wick killed the need to cringe. Shit. He really needed to pay better attention. Not the easiest thing to do at the moment. Jamison distracted the hell out of him.

  “I’m good,” he said, getting back with the program. A couple of strides put him even with the fireplace. Settling into his usual spot, Wick propped his shoulder against the timber-beamed mantelpiece. “Lay it out.”

  Shifting in his seat, Bastian glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up, Ange.”

  “Like I was saying… we’ve got a lead. I found a couple of interesting references in a financial statement.” Decked out in an ice-blue gown, the ex-cop held up a red file folder. A sharp gleam in her hazel eyes, she skimmed over the crowd in the room. “Any of you ever heard of Deuce’s?”

  “I have. It’s a private club downtown. BDSM, I think. Very exclusive. Very expensive.” Stepping alongside his best friend, Mac plucked the folder out of Angela’s hand. As he flipped it open and scanned the contents, he whistled long and low. “Wasn’t Vice looking into this when you worked with that squad, Ange?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We knew lots of illegal crap was going down inside. Drugs. Prostitution. Illegal gambling too. Problem was—”

  Bastian cursed. “You couldn’t prove it.”

  “Exactly. It was like trying to hit a moving target with a peashooter. Totally impossible to get a line on, never mind make anything stick.”

  “Stands to reason,” Rikar said, lacing his fingers with Angela’s. Treating his mate to a heated look, the Nightfury XO pressed his mouth to the back of her hand… against the mating mark that matched his own. As Wick watched, his throat went tight. Deep-seated sorrow followed, surprising him even as he accepted it. He would never do that… never treat Jamison with such open affection. “If the club is a Dragonkind asset—”

  “It’ll be surrounded by powerful magic,” Bastian murmured, interrupting his best friend. “A smoke screen to keep the humans off the trail. One worthy of Ivar.”

  Wick hummed, excitement sinking deep. Finally. A viable lead. Something to stick a target on. “Could be his new lair.”

  “A good source of cash flow too.” Big hands gripping the back of the couch, Venom leaned in, making the sectional groan. “We need to check it out. See if there’s an underground complex beneath it.”

  “Then blow it sky-high.” Wick cracked his knuckles. Fucking A. A club full of Razorbacks. A contained space with limited exit points. Or rather, escape hatches. God, he couldn’t wait to unleash hell and hit the bastards where they lived.

  “And so we will.” Swinging his feet off the table, B stood. “But not tonight.”

  A litany of curses rippled through the room.

  Green eyes flashed in warning as Bastian shook his head. “Tonight is for celebrating. To relax and get some much needed R & R. Deuce’s isn’t going anywhere. We’ll do some more research, get an action plan together, and hit the club tomorrow night. In the meantime… Sloan, you got anything for me?”

  With a nod, Sloan hit a few keys. Dark eyes unreadable, he swung the laptop around on his thighs. “DNA’s a match, B. Azrad’s telling the truth. He is your sire’s son… your brother by blood.”

  The pronouncement landed like a bomb, sucking the air out of the room.

  No one moved. No one said a word. The entire pack waited, poised on the edge, wondering which way to jump. And where Bastian would land. On the safe side of sanity? Or in Guiltsville for leaving his younger brother to a fate worse than death after the murder of their sire. The fact B had been abused, confined, made to submit to the Archguard’s cruel guardianship before he went through his change didn’t matter. Neither did the fact he’d fled as a fledgling male in order to save his own life. Nor that he hadn’t known of Azrad’s birth. Not to Bastian. Wick knew it just by looking at him. An honorable male, his commander couldn’t stand the thought of abandoning those he considered his family.

  No one got left behind. Pure and simple.

  It was part of the Nightfury code. A credo Wick lived by, loved, accepted without question. Except in this case, someone had gotten left behind. Azrad. So only one thing left to do. Figure out how to make it right. For Bastian. For the brother his commander didn’t know. For the entire Nightfury pack.

  “Fuck.” Raking both hands through his hair, B hung his head. “What the hell am I supposed to do? He was sent here by Nian. Has ties to the Archguard, for fuck’s sake. Despite what he says, I can’t trust him.”

  “No, but you can test him,” Wick said, stepping into the breach… as much for Bastian as for Azrad. He understood the male. Had shared experience to guide him, and something—instinct, intuition… a misguided sense of duty to the warrior who’d suffered the same fate he had—wanted him to give Azrad a chance to prove his loyalty. “Set him up. Tell him about Deuce’s. Give him the entire plan… the when, where, and how. Down to the last detail.”

  “Goddamn.” A predatory gleam sparked in Venom’s eyes. “If we walk into an ambush tomorrow night, we’ll know he’s in deep with the rogues. If not…?”

  Rikar huffed. “We work him as an asset inside the Razorback camp until we’re 100 percent certain he’s ours, then we’ll reel him in. Make him a member of our pack.”

  “All right.” Exhaling hard, Bastian scrubbed his hand over day-old whiskers. The rubdown left red marks on his jaw, broadcasting his unease and upset. “We’ll go that way. Set it up, Sloan. Let Azrad and his crew know what we’re up to. And the rest of you? Send a good word upstairs… pray I’m not forced to kill my own brother before this is through.”

  Good idea. An excellent item to put on a wish list, Wick decided as he followed his comrades into the dining room.

  Killing blood kin, after all, always came at a terrible cost.

  As dusk folded into night, giving way to the dark skies and the violence of the season’s first snowstorm, Nian checked his computer again. Palms pressed to the desktop, frustration turned the screws, twisting his muscles into knots. Hellfire and brimstone. What was taking so goddamn long? Gage and Haider should’ve contacted him by now. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled smooth, combating the tension, and scrolled through his messages again. He clenched his teeth. No video message. Not a single e-mail. Nothing from the warriors he wanted—no… needed—to help.

  How incredibly disappointing.

  Dangerous too. For him as much as the Metallics. Everything hinged on the Nightfury warriors, the ones both here and abroad. He needed the powerful pack’s support to secure his position. But if the pair got swept into Rodin’s net before he could get them out of the country? Bastian would kill him. But not before the Metallics died inside the Archguard’s three-ring circus. And honestly, a double beheading at the closing ceremony of the festival wasn’t his idea of a leap in the right direction. The second Rodin spilled Nightfury blood all bets would be off. So would all his best laid plans. The strategic power play would be dead in the water. Without movement. Or enough current to carry him into future greatness.

  But worse? Bastian would abandon restraint, murder him, and declare war on the Archguard.

  God have mercy on them all if that happened.

  Nian didn’t hold any illusions. Not after talking to Bastian. The Nightfury commander was a force of nature, a powerful figure able to curry favor, devotion, support, and… yes, even love… from the Dragonkind community. The second Bastian sounded the call to arms, thousands of warriors would answer. Starting a war unlike anything their kind had ever seen.

  “Come on,” he murmured, staring at the blank screen. “Call me.”

  Silence greeted the entreaty.

  With a growl, Nian pushed away from the desk and strode past the wall of windows. Snow swirled beyond the glass outside his study, howling along with the winter wind. He watched it a moment, wondering if staying home had been the best decision tonight. Maybe he should’ve abandoned
his computer and gone downtown to the Emblem Club instead. A favorite spot of the Metallics, the swanky cigar bar drew the pair like a couple of magpies. The warriors had spent most of the festival entrenched in a back corner booth, drinking expensive Scotch, smoking cigars, pleasing whatever female approached them.

  A trio of vices. Add the love of a good poker game to the mix, and their sins multiplied.

  At the moment, though, he hoped the pair weren’t anywhere near the Emblem. He prayed Gage and Haider were smarter than that. The cigar bar was too obvious. Every member of the Archguard knew the males favored the place. Nothing about the Nightfuries had gone unnoticed by the high council. Which made Nian nervous. Rodin hadn’t risen to power by being stupid. He might already have the Metallics in custody. Not an impossibility, considering the numerous death squads the bastard commanded.

  Which explained the radio silence, didn’t it?

  With a muttered curse, Nian stopped in front of the sideboard. Snatching a glass tumbler off the gold tray, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon by the neck and splashed himself a finger of the alcohol. As he turned and leaned against the antique, he glared at the computer. He wanted to toss the thing out the nearest window. Just wind up and—

  A thump sounded outside his study.

  Listening hard, Nian stared at the closed double doors. Nothing but quiet came back. Pushing away from his perch, he crossed the room. The Turkish rug whispered, cushioning his footfalls. With a quick mental flick, he turned the handle and pulled the door wide. The threshold opened into the soft glow of candlelight.

  Another bump-thump rattled through the silence.

  He frowned. “Lapier?”

  When the call went unanswered, Nian stepped into the central corridor, searching for his servant. The noises were no doubt the male’s doing. True to his Numbai nature, Lapier never went the night without tidying or polishing something. And yet as Nian scanned the shadows at the end of the hall, a chill snaked over his skin. Something was off. Not by much, but…

  His night vision sparked. Nian pivoted toward the front foyer. He called out for Lapier again and jogged down a set of five stairs. Huge oak doors that guarded his home loomed in the shadows. As he cleared the last step, he saw Lapier. On the floor beside the round table sitting in the center of the vestibule, the Numbai lay in a limp sprawl: arms flung wide, head turned away from him, tuxedo vest in disarray.