Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4)

by Coreene Callahan

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Shuffling the papers in her lap, Angela cleared her throat. “You should share how you feel with Wick. He’ll help you let go of the pain, along with the past. Rikar does wonders for me.”

  J. J. nodded, believing every word. Wick was power personified. Intense, yet kind. Lethal in a fight, yet gentle with her. Unassuming yet oh-so-hot in bed, he made her want, need, yearn in ways she never had before. An image of him, golden eyes shimmering as he loved her, flared in her mind’s eye. Desire rose on a heated wave. J. J. shifted on the mat and… yup. Sex kitten tendencies, here she came. Just thinking about him—how he felt against her, inside her, his skin brushing over hers, his taste in her mouth—and…

  Good lord. She needed to get a grip. Or hop into a cold shower. Quick. Before she embarrassed herself in front of an ex-cop who missed nothing and—

  “Accept it and move on.” A twinkle in her eyes, Angela grinned. “Rikar does that to me too. I get hot just thinking about him.”

  “Must make for an interesting scene when he walks through the door each morning.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Uh, hello,” she said, making a funny face. “I think I do.”

  Angela laughed. J. J. joined in. God, it felt so good to laugh… seemed normal to share a moment without studying the angles. Without wondering if what she said would get her killed. Or in hot water with the prison guards. But then, that wasn’t her life anymore. She was safe in a place where no one wanted to hurt her. The thought stilled her mind. The realization shifted her perspective, and as it sank deep, so did the idea of freedom.

  From everything: the fear, past mistakes, all the pain.

  Now she possessed the power to choose a different path and create a new reality. So time to pack up the past and put it away. No good would come from denying the truth. Or fighting what she felt for Wick. He was part of the equation now, and were she honest? Everything she wanted for her future.

  The truth tightened her throat, even as it set her free. “Hey, Ange?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Can you read Rikar’s mind?” As her new friend blinked in surprise, J. J. hurried to explain. “I mean, how powerful is the connection… all the energy-fuse stuff, ’cause I know things about Wick that I shouldn’t. Things he hasn’t told me about his past. I know it sounds weird, but when I’m with him, it’s as though I’m plugged in… being fed information. Images. Experiences. How he feels about both.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Angela said. “The connection between mates is a powerful one. I cherry-pick stuff off Rikar’s mind all the time. Thoughts. Worries. The stuff he doesn’t want me to know because he’s trying to protect me. Sometimes, it’s just a feeling… like a vibration. Other times, I get snippets of residual memory.”

  Snippets. Right. Made sense. Except she’d gotten a heck of a lot more than that from Wick. A full-on movie seemed like a better description. While lying in his arms, listening to him breathe, watching him sleep, she’d seen things he tried to hide. Borne witness to the cruelty: the cage and collar, the fighting and killing… that first day when he’d balked, and that awful man had tied a knife to his hand, then thrust him into the ring. God. The images made her ache from the inside out. For the little boy with the golden eyes, looking so lost and afraid. For the young man as Wick struggled against chains, screaming in agony as the red-hot poker seared his skin.

  Leaving the terrible brand behind on his forearm.

  Goddamn sons of bitches. The bastards had hurt him so badly.

  Tears stung her eyes as sorrow invaded her heart. J. J. willed them away. Crying would only make Angela ask questions. Ones she refused to answer. Wick deserved his privacy. His past was his own to share. Or not. The decision belonged to him and—

  “My lady!” The bellow echoed down the corridor.

  Sharing a look with Angela, J. J. vaulted to her feet. Something was wrong. She could hear it in Daimler’s voice. Heard it in the rapid thump of footfalls outside the gymnasium door. Felt it in every beat as her heart picked up the vibe, hammering the inside of her breastbone.

  “My lady, where are you?” Daimler yelled, his tone so panic-filled it raised the fine hair on J. J.’s nape. “Myst!”

  “In the clinic, Daimler,” she shouted even though she couldn’t see the butler yet. Ahead of Angela, J. J. sprinted across the gym. As she reached the door, Daimler sped past, tuxedo tails flapping, arms and legs pumping. Oh no. Oh shit… shit, shit, shit. Not good. The elf seemed an unflappable sort, but right now? Calm was history, leaving nothing but alarm in its wake. “She’s in the clinic!”

  “What’s wrong?” Shoving past her, Angela skidded to a stop in the middle of the hall. Breathing hard, her eyes glued to the elf, she watched him run toward the clinic. “Who’s injured?”

  Dark eyes wide with fear, Daimler glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride. “I don’t know, my lady, but it’s bad and—”

  The wall dead-ending the corridor wavered.

  Rooted to the floor, J. J. held her breath. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

  “Please, God,” Angela whispered, gaze riveted to the magical entrance. “Not Rikar. Please don’t let it be…”

  A dull roar in her ears, J. J. didn’t hear her friend say the last word, but filled in the blank, erasing Rikar’s name to insert Wick’s. Please, don’t let it be Wick. As the words bounced around inside her head, J. J. understood true desperation, and how very awful she could be. God, how depraved. How completely bent… to wish harm on another so that the man she loved stayed whole. But she couldn’t help it. The thought of Wick injured sent her into a tailspin. Did terrible things to her sense of right and wrong. To her sense of fair play. All she wanted in that moment was for it to be anyone but him.

  Selfish. Twisted. Beyond terrible, considering she stood beside a woman mated to a Nightfury warrior. One who would die the instant he did.

  Her throat closed as ancient stone rippled, undulating in the low light. The portal expanded to form a doorway, allowing her to see into the cavern beyond. A trio came into view. Three dark heads bent, two warriors bookended one, half carrying, half dragging the injured party. Her gaze riveted to the group, J. J. shook her head. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as one of them looked her way. Fierce golden eyes met hers. J. J.’s knees went weak. Oh, thank God. Not Wick. It wasn’t Wick. He wasn’t hurt, but…

  Jesus be merciful. Forge.

  The warrior was in bad shape. Worse than bad. He looked dead: unconscious, toes of his boots dragging on the ground, blood covering his torso—as Mac and Wick carried him into the clinic, leaving bloody streaks on the floor in their wake.

  Head pounding like a motherfucker, Wick lifted his injured comrade onto the examination table. Injured. Fuck, what an understatement. Forge was torn wide open, still bleeding like a sieve, so close to death Wick didn’t know what to do. Scream in agony for his fallen comrade. Or pick up a scalpel and gut himself for hurting his friend.

  Death seemed preferable. To the pain. To the shame. To the guilt.

  Fisting his hands in his hair, he stepped back from the table, but refused to look away. From the blood. From the gaping wounds. From the certain knowledge he’d put Forge at death’s door. Fucking hell. He’d done this. Was the cause and effect. The one responsible for all the chaos and pain. Had he done his job and stuck to the plan, instead of jumping the gun—going off half-cocked into battle, dragging his pack with him—his comrade wouldn’t be laid out on the table. A heartbeat away from losing his life.

  His fault. It was all his fault.

  “Jesus,” he rasped, glancing down at his hands. Smeared with blood, he watched them tremble. His throat clogged as remorse and self-loathing collided. The sound of ripping fabric brought his head back up. An intense expression on her face, Myst cut Forge’s blood-soaked shirt away, revealing the extent of the wounds. Hi
s eyes stung as he met her gaze. “You have to save him. Please save him, Myst. What can I do? Tell me what to—”

  “Get out of the way,” she said, her tone so calm it jolted him. In control. In command of her domain. In her element. The realization gave Wick hope. He took a step back. And then another, giving her space, doing what she asked, praying hard as his shoulder blades collided with the back wall. “And get Sloan. I need another set of hands.”

  Pacing the floor in front of him, Mac spun toward the exit.

  The glass doors slid open.

  “I’m here.” Sloan sprinted into the room, cutting Mac off. “Talk to me.”

  Her hand rose, then fell as Myst sewed another suture. “Get an IV going.”

  “On it.” Boots thumping, Sloan rounded the end of the table. He slid to a stop next to a rolling table. Grabbing a bag filled with clear liquid, he prepped the kit, and working around Myst, pierced Forge’s vein. Tape hissed as Sloan peeled it from the roll. As he secured the IV, he treated Wick to a worried look. “Get Angela and J. J. in here. Myst can’t feed him because of her pregnancy, and he needs an infusion of energy. And Mac?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go get Tania. We may need her too.”

  Mac nodded. Wick cringed as his buddy ran for the exit. Shit. Jamison feeding Forge. The idea struck him as dangerous. Particularly since the thought made his dragon half rise with aggression. A bonded male didn’t share his female. Ever. But as he watched Myst work, Wick knew no other option existed. Nothing else would work. Forge needed to feed. If he didn’t, the warrior would die. Wouldn’t survive the hour, never mind last the day. Even with the energy-fuse, he might not make it anyway, but—

  The airlock hissed, opening the door into the corridor.

  Out of breath, Jamison jogged into the clinic. “Mac said you needed us.”

  “What can we do?” Angela asked.

  “A lot.” Eyeballing Jamison, Sloan waved her over. “J. J., you first. Come here. I’ll talk you through it.”

  With a nod, his female headed toward the table. A growl rolled up Wick’s throat. Primitive. Possessive. Predatory. The soft snarl curled through the quiet. Like razor-sharp dragon claws, warning gouged at the underbelly of sanity, taking Wick out of his head into another place. A space where instinct ruled and logic didn’t live. His gaze on his female, he bared his teeth. Magic thundered through him, rumbling in his veins, making him twitch with the need to possess her.

  His hands curled into fists, Wick took a step toward her.

  Seeing his expression, Jamison sucked in a quick breath, and halfway across the clinic, stopped short. Her gaze locked on him, she whispered his name. In welcome. With need. With so much heat, Wick lost all sense of himself and his surroundings.

  He wanted her. Right now. He needed to dominate. Prove his dominion and show everyone that Jamison belonged to him. She was his.

  All his. No one else’s.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” Dark eyes shimmering, Sloan fired up mind-speak. “Venom, get your ass in here. Bring B and Rikar with you. Wick’s losing it.”

  Staring at him, Jamison licked her bottom lip. Lust spiraled deep, igniting a longing so profound Wick couldn’t contain it. Another growl rolled out of him. Venom skidded to a stop in front of the clinic with B and Rikar on his heels. A cacophony of cursing drifted in from the corridor. Unclenching his fists, Wick went after his female. His best friend vaulted over the threshold. In less than a second, Venom grabbed hold. Fighting the lockdown, Wick spun full circle and raised his arm. Bone cracked against bone.

  Venom’s face snapped to the side. “Goddamn it!”

  He cranked his fist back again. Right. Wrong. Neither held sway. Only one thing mattered. Jamison. He needed to reach her. Now. Before anyone touched her.

  “Oh my God.” Shock flared in his female’s eyes. The uncertainty came next, making her raise her hands. She held them palms up, the gesture one of reassurance. “Wick, stop. It’s all right. Don’t—”

  He lunged toward her, dragging Venom with him.

  “Fuck,” Bastian growled, entering the fray. Electricity crackled, supercharging the air. Hard hands clamped down. Wick roared as he got hauled backward. Away from Jamison. Over the threshold. Out of the clinic into the hallway. Tag-teamed by B and Venom, he struggled, muscles straining, shitkickers sliding on concrete, his dragon half fixated on her. He surged forward again. Bastian’s grip slipped. “Holy shit. Rikar…”

  “Got him.” Frost spread over his leather jacket as Rikar joined the party. With a roar, Wick twisted. His XO cursed and went hard core, pushing arctic air into his lungs. Oxygen disappeared. He wheezed, using what little remained to yell “no!” as his brothers dragged him from view. “Sloan… get it done, then get her into the corridor. We’ll keep him locked down until she’s finished.”

  Flipping him belly down, Bastian pinned him to the concrete floor. Still fighting, Wick tried to break his hold. B dropped another f-bomb, and grabbing his arm, cranked it behind his back. Then sat on him while Rikar secured his legs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my brother, but Forge needs it. He needs it, Wick.”

  “No,” he rasped, even though he knew the truth. But shit, it wasn’t about being reasonable. Or doing the right thing. The territorial bastard inside him had taken over. Now he couldn’t control his reaction. Or think straight. “She’s mine. Mine. I can’t… don’t…”

  “I know.” On his haunches beside him, Venom cupped the back of his head. “But it’ll be over soon. Hang tough. Just give it some time.”

  Some time? To what… feed another male? Fuck that. “Let go.”

  Bastian tightened his grip. “In a minute.”

  One minute turned into two. And then four. Wick counted off the seconds, each ticktock drove him closer to the edge of insanity. Taut muscles grew tenser, then started to shake. Venom murmured, trying to calm him. It didn’t help. He wanted to kill everyone. Rip his brothers limb from limb for getting in his way. For throwing Jamison in the hot seat, and him into emotional meltdown. And as mind fuck expanded, turning his skull into a pressure cooker, Wick groaned in agony. Even after years of battle, all the injuries, he’d never felt pain like this. Wretched. Debilitating. Life-altering anguish. It drilled deep, boring into him until heartache bubbled through the fissure, hollowing him out until all that remained was an empty shell.

  His face pressed to cold concrete, Wick moaned her name.

  “Here, baby. I’m right here,” a soft voice whispered from behind him. Her scent reached him on a heated curl. Wick exhaled hard, needing every little piece of her. “Please, take your hands off him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, J. J.,” Rikar said, refusing to let him up.

  “He’s too wound up. He might—”

  “He won’t hurt me. I can handle him, Bastian. Please, let go.”

  B loosened his grip. Baring his teeth, Wick threw off the clampdown. An explosive surge landed him on his feet. His brothers scattered, backing off as he spun to face his female. Serious blue eyes met his. Whispering his name, she reached for him. He didn’t hesitate. Desperate for her, he exploded into her arms. Palming her bottom, he picked her up, wrapped her legs around his hips, and dipping his head, invaded her mouth. Unable to resist, he tangled his tongue with hers. With a hum, she buried her small hands in his hair. Heat went cataclysmic as desire blew sky-high. She kissed him harder, opening wide, inviting him in, her nails scraped over his scalp, her hips rocking into his, egging him on.

  Shivers exploded down his spine. Oh God. Jesus help him. She tasted so good. So hot. So needy. So sweet. And as he deepened the kiss and carried her down the hall, Wick knew he was done. On the verge, about to ignore right and dive headfirst into wrong. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t resist her allure. Or stop the awful pull.

  Pure madness. Selfishness made manifest.

  But Wick didn’t care. He needed her. She wanted him. So fuck it. He would take her. Make her slick with need. Ride her long an
d hard. Let her love him blind in return. The future didn’t matter. Tomorrow could wait along with the consequences.

  Stripped to the skin, laid out in the middle of the gym, J. J. struggled to catch her breath. An impossibility. Wick refused to let up. Or give her a break. He pinned her to the exercise mat instead, driving her toward pleasure and the pinnacle waiting at its summit. As she gasped, begging for release, he growled her name. Showed her no mercy. Spread her thighs wider. Thrust deep only to retreat and come back, making her moan as he pushed her beyond reality into a world fueled by passion. By devastating delight and—

  Oh God. Ecstasy times a million.

  He moved like a dream. Felt unbelievable in her arms, and she wanted more. More of his scent on her skin. More of his taste on her tongue. More of the pleasure he fed her.

  But only if he let her come. Right now.

  “Wick…”

  “Mmm, baby.”

  “Now… please, now.”

  “Not yet.” Planting one hand beside her ear, he palmed her knee with the other, drew it up, pushed it out, opening her wider. He stroked even deeper. Her breath caught, bliss unfurling fast, the fury of it driving her closer to the edge. Wick raised his head. Shimmering gold eyes met hers. He snarled at her. She sobbed, so ready to come she clenched hard, the pleasure-pain making her writhe beneath him. “Not until I say.”

  “No fair.”

  “No one said it would be fair,” he rasped, chest brushing over hers. “No mercy, vanzäla.”

  “Why?”

  Dipping his head, he licked over her nipple. “I still smell him on you.”

  “What… oh Jesus,” she gasped, losing her mind as he sucked, drawing on the sensitive peak. He nipped the tip, then moved on, lavishing its mate with equal treatment. God help her. He was going to kill her… with rapture. Normally not a problem. She wanted to die happy, but as heat spread, setting a blaze beneath her skin, need turned to desperation. “W-who?”