Fury of Desire (-4

by Coreene Callahan

  Fury of Desire

  ( (Dragonfury - 4 )

  Coreene Callahan

  No warrior of the Nightfury pack is more complicated or damaged than Wick.

  Scarred from a childhood of slavery and torture, Wick cannot bear the touch of another person. But all bets are off when he meets J.J. Solares. When she is unjustly imprisoned, Wick agrees to help rescue and keep her from harm. But Wick lives a life of self-imposed isolation and venturing into the world to seek justice for J.J. may be more than he can bear.

  Brutalized by the harsh reality of prison, J.J thinks she is hallucinating when a majestic dark-haired god sweeps in to save her—and Wick is shaken to his core by the attraction he feels for J.J. But neither is out of harm's way yet. When they find themselves at the center of a Dragonkind war, they are forced to make the ultimate choice—surrender to their fears or accept each other’s love.

  Fury of Desire

  Dragonfury 4

  by

  Coreene Callahan

  For my readers—those of you who have waited so patiently for Wick’s story. It’s here, at long last.

  1

  The lair was quiet… for a fucking change.

  Combat boots planted shoulder-width apart, loaded down with an armful of architectural plans, Wick paused beneath the timber-beamed archway separating kitchen from dining room. Senses sharp, he listened, hunting for the smallest sound. No laughter. No rumble of male voices or the zing of good-natured insults. He glanced left along the short corridor that skirted the foundation of a stone fireplace and led into the family room beyond. The large plasma screen was dark. No click of billiard balls either. Barely any sound at all, only the soft crackle of flames in the double-faced hearth, along with the smell of wood smoke.

  Nothing and nobody.

  Excellent. It was official.

  Silence had descended, bringing with it the soothing rush of knowing he had nothing but alone time ahead of him. For the next few hours, anyway: that lovely stretch of quiet as late morning lengthened into early afternoon.

  After that, all hell would break loose. But until his brothers-in-arms rolled out of bed and got up for the day, he had Black Diamond—the home he shared with the other dragon-warriors—all to himself. Thank God. He needed the peace and quiet. Maybe even a little R & R to survive the radical changes to the Nightfury pack over the last couple of months. The lair used to be a sane place, a sanctuary after a night spent fighting the Razorback assholes he called enemies.

  Too bad all good things came to an end.

  Case in point? The female invasion.

  Jesus fucking Christ, it was insanity squared. Who knew three human women could cause so much upheaval? Or screw with a male’s head so easily? Not him. Then again, what the hell did he know? Wick avoided females whenever possible. He never knew what to say or how to act around them. And after watching the carnival ride called CRAZY his fellow warriors had been on for the last few months, he knew his strategy was straight-up brilliant.

  Avoiding females—especially high-energy ones—was the better bet. A necessary measure, self-preservation on a wide scale… whatever, ’cause yeah. No way would he end up like his brothers: twisted in knots and downgraded to pathetic while their females rode shotgun.

  The soles of his boots thudding on wooden floorboards, Wick crossed to the table dominating the center of the room. High polish made the mahogany gleam beneath the crystal-laden chandelier above its long length. It was a nice piece, eighteenth-century French, pilfered from a swanky palace in Paris. How it had ended up half a world away, a mere twenty minutes from downtown Seattle, was no mystery.

  Daimler. The Numbai—and the Nightfuries’ go-to guy—had good taste and exercised it on a regular basis.

  Which was perfect. A real seal-the-deal kind of thing.

  Without Daimler’s help, Wick would never have acquired his art collection, never mind gotten his hands on the Gauguin landscape hanging over the mantelpiece. The ever-present heaviness inside him lightened as he studied the painting. Colors swirled. Precise lines intersected. Bold brush strokes and balance reigned, completing the whole—artistry steeped in history, soothing in its entirety.

  Storytelling at its best, told by the hand of a master.

  Dumping the thick rolls on the tabletop, Wick dragged his gaze away. Later. He’d have time to lock his bedroom door and indulge in his passion, but… later. Right now required action, not losing himself in a dreamscape.

  With a flick, he flipped the elastic band off the first roll and spread the blueprint across the expanse of polished wood. He frowned. Wrong one. He needed the building layout first, not electrical and plumbing schematics. Grabbing the next plan, he repeated the process, opening each roll until the table disappeared beneath heavy paper and…

  Hell. Wouldn’t you know? The last roll contained the information he wanted, the updated version of the architect’s floor plan. Not that he needed all the information to break into the human facility—Swedish Medical was a hospital like any other—but thoroughness equaled preparedness, and no matter what the rest of the warriors thought, Wick always arrived prepared.

  He didn’t blame the Nightfuries for labeling him a loose cannon, though. Wick knew his fuck you attitude gave that impression. He should probably do something about that… take steps to clean up his reputation and reassure his brothers-in-arms he didn’t have a death wish. The problem? Giving a shit had never been his MO. Down and dirty—quick and clean—were more his style. The other warriors would either follow. Or not.

  Totally up to them.

  His eyes narrowed on the drawing in front of him, Wick trailed his fingertip along a hospital corridor inked in blue lines. With a “huh,” he flipped the wide paper back a page. The building’s rooftop came into focus. Tricked out with a helipad for incoming medical choppers, the roof was the best bet. Landing in the open space would not only be expedient, but more comfortable too. The more room he had to fly in, land, and fold his wings in dragon form, the better. Tight spaces weren’t his favorite thing. Confinement—the mere thought—made his skin crawl and—

  Wick suppressed a shiver and locked down the memory, stuffing it into the black hole in the back of his mind. Remembering was never a good idea. The past was the past. No sense dredging it up or reliving things best left alone.

  Refocusing on the human map, Wick charted the course, memorizing the layout, deciding on the most efficient path through the hospital’s labyrinth-like corridors. His target was the ICU. Or rather, the injured female who, at present, lay unconscious inside the critical care unit.

  Jamison Jordan Solares.

  The right side of Wick’s mouth tipped up. Jamison. Strange name for a female, but for some reason he liked it.

  “Jamison,” he murmured, lingering a little, testing the phonetics.

  Hmm… her name tasted good, tripping off his tongue just right, swirling in the silence, adding spice to his self-imposed solitude. Wick shook his head, his enjoyment morphing into self-mockery. Her name didn’t matter. Neither did she, at least not to him. His mission was simple: bust her out of the ICU, keep her safe on the journey to Black Diamond, and hand her off to Mac. All to repay the newest member of the Nightfury pack.

  Most males would’ve said screw it. Forgotten the favor done and the debt owed.

  Not him.

  Mac had saved Venom’s life, a male Wick valued above all others. Without him…

  Wick’s throat tightened. Shit. He didn’t want to think about what ifs. Venom was his best friend, the only male who accepted him for who and what he was, his savior in more ways than one. And like it or not, a gift of such magnitude couldn’t go unanswered. Honor demanded equal treatment, so… no question. He would repay the debt he
owed by giving the newest member of his pack a gift in return: provide what Mac’s chosen female wanted—needed above all else—her younger sister safe, sound, and in the family fold once more.

  The trick now would be getting the critically injured Jamison out of the human facility without the assholes guarding her any the wiser. A challenge. Finally. At last. Something complicated that needed a solid plan and brass balls to pull off. Wick hummed, anticipation rising as he angled his wrist and glanced at his MTM military watch.

  Seven hours until sundown.

  His mouth curved. Fuck him, but he could hardly wait for nightfall. Breaking her out while circumventing a bunch of clueless humans was going to be so much fun.

  Standing just inside Black Diamond’s dining room, Venom watched his best friend sleep. Ass planted in an armchair, Wick sat slumped over the table, crinkled paper beneath bent elbows, cheek pressed to forearms, dark hair gleaming in the low light. Stacked in uneven piles, tattered by dog-eared corners, rolls of architectural plans littered the tabletop. Organized chaos. Made sense. Everywhere Wick went things got messy. And by the looks of it, the male had been at it for hours, buried under paperwork, researching God only knew what.

  Why Wick was here, though—laid out in the dining room instead of in his usual spot locked behind his bedroom door—was a mystery.

  With a frown, Venom surveyed the untidy arrangement again, zeroing in on the pencil poised between his friend’s lax fingertips. He shook his head. Wicked strange. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Wick with his eyes closed.

  Or so relaxed.

  Not surprising, really. Wick possessed an ultrathick guard. Was the kind of male who mistrusted most and rarely showed weakness. Oh, it had been known to happen. Bringing Forge and Mac onside and into their pack was a prime example of Wick’s willingness to lay himself on the line. But when moments like that happened, his eyes were always wide open, a wary light in them, body, fists, and a load of lethal at the ready.

  Not that Venom blamed him for being so cautious.

  All of the Nightfuries were to a certain extent. War did that to a male. Made him suspicious of outsiders and ever watchful, always vigilant, in search of ambush and the enemy. Which was the way it had to be…

  At least, outside the lair.

  But inside Black Diamond? Their home served as a sanctuary, a place of comfort and acceptance, of safety and fun, where the Nightfury warriors could let loose and be themselves. The fact Wick didn’t feel that way—wasn’t comfortable anywhere—didn’t sit well with Venom. No male should live in isolation. Especially a valued member of a Dragonkind pack.

  Too bad old habits die hard. Mistrust was a bitch, caging Wick inside a prison of his own making.

  No steel bars or barbwire. No guards either. But the male was trapped all the same, brutal experience and past pain locking him up tight.

  His gaze still riveted on his best friend, Venom swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment. It was so much bullshit. No matter what he did—or how hard he tried—he couldn’t help. Or offer ease. Not if Wick continued to keep his distance.

  Always around—with him, but not really.

  The condition was a running theme with them. One that worried Venom. It was getting worse. The emotional chasm between them grew by the day. He sensed the distance, the lengthening stretch of a male in full retreat. Wick would raise a brow and brush him off. Tell him he imagined things, that the lair was a busier place with the addition of three females and he needed quiet, that was all. But Venom didn’t think so.

  Something had changed in recent days.

  His friend was pushing him away, setting up psychological roadblocks and emotional blockades. The kind he’d worked for years to drag Wick out from behind. A setback? To be sure. One that sucked? Absolutely. Particularly since it left Venom feeling alone. Isolated and out on a limb without the usual safety net for protection. A place he hadn’t been since he’d torn the collar from around Wick’s throat, pulled him out of the cage and away from that shithole all those years ago.

  The history shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did. Wick shutting him out—his refusal to talk about what bothered him—felt like betrayal. Like a boot to the balls. Like exile without the possibility of—

  Venom clenched his teeth. Hell, after all they’d survived, he deserved better from Wick. Which was… what? Inclusion. Information. Trust from a male who possessed every ounce of his. So, yeah. Here he went again. Hopping on a merry-go-round with heartbreak the main spin. A never-ending ride that revolved at the speed of light, stopping on “screwed up” every once in a while, spinning them both in dangerous directions.

  With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, and putting his combat boots to work, walked toward the end of the table. Time for a showdown. To dig in and turf the obstinate SOB he called best friend. Or kick his ass into reasonableness.

  Either scenario worked for Venom.

  No one, after all, fought as dirty as Wick. Great on every level. The smackdown held the promise of a double whammy: he’d get the fight he craved while making his point. And Wick? The knuckle-grind would relax his friend enough to facilitate a chat, the words Wick always struggled to find.

  Without making a sound, Venom skirted the row of upholstered chairs running along one side of the table. Lined up like soldiers, the square-backed Louis XVIs faced off with the wide expanse of mahogany and the chandelier above it. Dimmed down, light refracted through the antique crystal, sending color arcing across the high ceiling. Ignoring the rainbows, he slipped behind his friend’s chair. As he moved past, he reached out and, with a quick strike, flicked the edge of his buddy’s ear.

  Wick came awake with a snarl and jacked upright. He landed with a thump on the balls of his feet, big hands curled into twin fists, guard up, golden gaze aglow. His back to the double French doors, Venom retreated a step and got ready for—

  On a quick pivot, Wick lashed out. Venom blocked the first punch but missed the second. He grunted as Wick connected, ramming through his guard to reach his face. Knuckles slammed against his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side, brutal sound shredding the silence. The chandelier swayed and pain spiraled, sweeping round to hammer the back of his skull. With a growl, Venom slid left and unleashed an uppercut beneath his friend’s chin.

  Crack!

  Bull’s-eye. Center-of-the-ring accurate.

  Wick’s chin came up as his head whiplashed. He stumbled backward, sliding on the soles of his shitkickers. Regaining his balance, Venom reset his stance, expecting another go-around. Except…

  It never came.

  Silence and stillness arrived instead as Wick shook off the last remnants of sleep and paused to take stock. Venom blinked, surprise ambushing him. Weird. Abnormal in more ways than one. And so not his best friend’s usual MO. Wick never hesitated to lash out, but retreat? Man, that wasn’t even in the male’s playbook. But as one second faded into the next, and Venom waited for the sneak attack, his friend did just that. Backed off. Dropped his hands. Unfurled his fists to settle into a more relaxed stance.

  Straightening the twisted fabric of his muscle shirt, Wick scowled at him. “What the fuck, Ven?”

  “Ring-a-ling-ling,” he murmured, not knowing what to make of Wick and the sudden behavioral switch-up. Something to be alarmed about? Or rejoice in? Venom didn’t know. One thing for sure, though, the change in demeanor bode watching. “Evening wake-up call.”

  “Shit. Sun’s going down.”

  “Umm-hmm. We got about an hour.”

  Wick glanced at the double French doors. Blacked out by magic, the glass writhed, rippling like water, blocking out deadly UV rays. Same old, same old. The windows possessed a mind of their own. Good thing too. No Dragonkind male could withstand daylight—would go blind if he were foolish enough to try—so the magical shift was a necessary one, causing the spell that surrounded Black Diamond to react. The upside? Dark windows during the day—protection in its purest form—which allowed him and his co
mrades to move around without fear of getting fried by the sun. Soon, though, each pane would lighten, then clear completely, allowing moonlight to flood the aboveground lair.

  Flexing his bruised knuckles, Wick turned back toward the table.

  Venom followed, curiosity getting the better of him. As he stopped beside his buddy, his gaze wandered over a map of downtown Seattle, hunting for the reason behind Wick’s interest. The title atop one of the blueprints caught his eye. Well, well, well. Wasn’t that interesting? Wick… looking at hospital architectural plans. An inkling—a small whisper of an idea—sparked in his mind’s eye. Venom’s mouth curved as his focus narrowed on the notes scrawled across a yellow legal pad.

  Looked like a grocery list. One that leaned away from eats and tilted toward lethal.

  Glancing sideways at Wick, he raised a brow. “You gonna tell me what we’re into here?”

  “A prison break.”

  “Tania’s sister?”

  Wick nodded, nonverbal as always.

  Venom frowned. “What the hell, man?”

  “I owe Mac.” Expression set, eyes serious, Wick met his gaze. “He saved your life. Protected you when I couldn’t. I need to repay him for that.”

  “It’s my debt, not yours, so—”

  “Bullshit. You’re my friend… mine.” Wick rolled his shoulders as though uncomfortable in his own skin and glanced away. His attention settled back on the mountain of paper. “I owe, so I’ll pay.”

  The low murmur tore Venom wide open, messing with his head. It wasn’t the words so much, but the force behind them: the ownership in Wick’s tone, the concern and pain, the unmistakable acknowledgement of friendship. Of mutual need and the unbreakable bond of brotherhood. And in that moment, he got it… understood the reason Wick pushed him away, refusing to allow him close.

  Self-protection. Emotional ruin. Wick feared losing him.

  And no wonder. The night he’d been injured hadn’t been pretty. The Razorbacks had nearly killed him, slicing him open from stem to sternum. Wick’s quick thinking saved his life. Myst—the Nightfury commander’s female—had done the rest, sewing him up when Wick got him back to the lair. But it had been close, a real toss-up into touch’n go for a while and—