“Look, vanzäla. I know it’s hard to understand, but I want you to trust me a little longer.” Meeting her gaze, he stepped forward. Trapped by her injuries, hemmed in by him, she squirmed on the seat, retreating even though she had nowhere to go. He watched her a moment, feeling helpless, not knowing how to help her, then leaned in. Angling his body through the open door, he planted his hand on the center console. As she whimpered, he said, “I won’t hurt you.”
“Liar,” she rasped. “I saw you. I saw you change into a… a…”
“Dragon?”
Her small hands made an appearance between the lapels of his jacket. Curled into twin balls of fury, she leveled her white-knuckled fists at him. Amusement sparked. Respect for her followed. Jesus. What a spitfire, a female with courage and the chops to hold her own against him. So, time to change tactics.
Wick smoothed his expression. No sense pissing her off. Laugh at her, and he knew she’d pop him with a left jab. “You wanna see your sister?”
She blinked. “You have Tania?”
“Yes.” Short, sweet, and to the point… always the best strategy.
“If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”
“No need to threaten,” he murmured, his respect for her rising another notch. “She’s in good hands… mated to a friend of mine.”
The news flash made her mouth fall open. Wick took advantage of her momentary confusion and, tucking her fists away, tugged his jacket closed around her. Half a second, and he scooped her up, one arm supporting her back, the other beneath her knees. A quick reverse in course. A nifty shift to the left. A tight turn, and he walked away from the truck with her in his arms. All before she could protest.
She squirmed against him.
Wick secured his hold on her. “Relax, female. It’s all good.”
“Relax,” she said, her sarcastic tone all about “yeah, right.” Face half covered by the collar, she coughed into the leather, the sound raspy with pain. “You gotta be kidding me with that crap.”
His chin brushing the top of her head, Wick’s mouth curved. After a moment, he gave in to impulse and grinned. He couldn’t help it. He liked her moxie. Admired her for not crying like a baby too. All right, so a few tears had fallen. No big deal. Most females would be sobbing by now—be in postdragon freak-out mode or some shit. So, yeah. Jamison got full marks for keeping it together. He only hoped she continued on that track as he strode into the clearing toward his best friend.
Still in dragon form, Venom tipped his chin.
Wick nodded. Getting a load of Venom in all his scaly glory, Jamison gasped. He murmured, trying to reassure her, and called on his magic. Power sparked, warping the night air as she whispered “this isn’t happening… oh my God, this can’t be happening” against his shoulder. Careful to hold her gently, he shifted into dragon form. As he transferred her into his left talon, she winced, but settled fast, making him proud, slipping past his guard to touch a soft spot deep inside him.
Unprecedented. Not very smart either.
No matter how intriguing he found her, Wick refused to be lured. He wasn’t wet behind the ears, a green warrior without the sense God gave him. He didn’t want to feel anything for Jamison. Or be plagued by the need other males suffered for a female. He wasn’t built for connection. Didn’t want to experience closeness or yearn for another. He was a lone male, best suited to solitude, not to keeping a female happy.
Unfurling his wings, Wick nodded and leapt skyward. Exactly. Perfect. Excellent conclusion. A no-brainer, really. He didn’t want her. She clearly harbored no liking for him. Now only one job remained… reach Black Diamond. The sooner he handed Jamison over to her sister, the better it would be for both of them.
Hamersveld snarled as Ivar dragged him away from the female. Black eyes half-open, the tattoo bracketing his spine still glowing, the male fought the pull and reached for her again. With a muttered curse, Ivar tightened his grip and muscled the male to one side of the prison cell. Enough was enough. Tapped out already, she couldn’t afford to give another ounce of energy. And the warrior in his arms didn’t need anymore. But as she collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor, he shook his head.
Hell’s bells. He’d never seen anything like it. Hamersveld was voracious. So hungry, energy-greed drove him, propelling him toward female after female, KO’ing reason in favor of self-preservation.
Not surprising considering the Norwegian’s condition, never mind his crash landing in the backyard. Since then, he’d gone through three HE females, mainlining energy the way an addict injects heroin. All in between salt baths. In. Out. Lift, carry… dunk. He’d been doing it all night, hauling the warrior away from one female after another, lifting him in and out of the tub between feedings. But that was over now. The worst had passed. At least, Ivar hoped so, ’cause…
God, his arms were about to give out.
Muscles screaming with fatigue, Ivar slung his new friend’s arm around his shoulder. One hand gripping Hamersveld’s wrist, the other around his waist, he turned toward the front of the cell. Wet skin touched his. He ignored the slip ’n slide and half carried, half dragged the male toward the glass stretched wall-to-wall across the front of the cell. Satisfaction hummed as he admired the seamlessness. Perfection in application, a clear expanse of quadruple-paned glory instead of steel bars… more fishbowl than prison.
Modern. Contained. The perfect cage for his exotic collection of human birds.
Pleasure filled him as he glanced at the unconscious female. Curled up on the floor, blond hair in disarray around her head, the number three was branded on the back of her shoulder. A fitting mark, one that reinforced her purpose. She was livestock, captured for one reason… to breed the next generation of Dragonkind, and hopefully—if the serum he’d created proved successful—produce the first female offspring of his kind.
It was a lofty goal. A risky venture too. One he needed to work.
Science drove him. The thrill of discovery its twin as he hunted for the chromosomal sequence to unlock dragon DNA and lift the spell that cursed Dragonkind. No other outcome would be satisfactory. The promise of freedom burned deep inside him, driving him to do better. To find the answers and save his race from inevitable destruction. He’d seen the path long ago. With females of their own, Dragonkind would no longer rely on humans to survive.
And the moment that happened? He’d eliminate the inferior race. Wipe them from the face of the earth once and for all.
The pissants deserved no better. Only a horrible death would do. Why? It was simple, really. No matter how many times Mother Nature warned them, the humans refused to act responsibly. The proof lay in the pudding… or rather, the result. Global warming. Catastrophic weather patterns and extreme storms. Species all over the planet driven into extinction. Air pollution, ozone reduction, oil spills, and the poisoning of groundwater. The list went on and on… and on.
Each one when added to the next equaled one thing…
The rape of Planet Earth.
So, fuck ’em. He was through pulling political strings, hoping the assholes would do the right thing. The time for talking had come and gone. Nothing left to do now but find the perfect superbug. The incurable disease that would infect them one by one when released into the wilds of human society. Mass genocide via supervirus on a global scale. The perfect plan.
Flicking the lock with his mind, Ivar gave the cell exit a mental push. The glass panel slid out and to the side. Hauling Hamersveld with him, he crossed into the central corridor of cellblock A. The door closed behind him with a suctioning hiss. He barely noticed. Bare feet brushing over concrete, his focus was on one thing. The lab. He wanted to get back to his superbugs. With his pack out hunting—and his new friend practically asleep on his feet—he’d get in a few hours before dawn threatened and his soldiers arrived home.
If he hurried. And Hamersveld decided to cooperate.
Hoping beyond hope, he muscled the male through a complex series of doors. Steel dead
bolts clicked, releasing only to reengage behind him. Sharp sounds echoed, the clang of doors closing along deserted corridors. As he turned into the main hallway, the male he held up twitched.
“Ivar.”
“Yeah?”
“Want more.” Chin bobbling, Hamersveld tried to open his eyes. His blond lashes fluttered. Ivar glimpsed the blue rimming his black irises a second before the warrior gave up and let his lids fall again. “Give me another.”
“No chance of that, my friend. You’re already topped up.”
“Are we?”
Laboring under the Norwegian’s weight, Ivar frowned. “Are we what?”
“Friends.”
“After the last few hours? Hell, we’d better be,” he said, only half joking. “Otherwise I’ll KO your ass, scrape you into an ash bucket, and toss you into the nearest trash bin.”
Hamersveld snorted. “Nah. We’re friends now. Definitely. Kind of strange, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Never had a friend before.”
“You and me both,” Ivar said, even though it wasn’t true.
Lothair had been his friend—an impulsive one, sure—but a close companion nonetheless. Well, at least until his murder a few months ago. Ivar’s chest went tight as he muscled Hamersveld along the corridor. God, he missed the male. Much more than he ever expected. Missed the early morning bullshit sessions. Missed having someone who shared his goals and worked hard to see them realized. Even missed making the crazy-ass SOB sandwiches after coming home from a successful raid. The bigger problem, though? No matter what he tried, he couldn’t find a way around the grief. The pain remained, getting in his face, refusing to abate, damning him with each passing day.
Now, he hurt whenever he thought of Lothair.
Ivar shook his head. The result equaled a total mind-fuck. One he didn’t need, never mind want.
“You sure I can’t have another?”
Ivar’s lips twitched. Persistent with a slaphappy helping of “ah, come on,” the warrior clearly didn’t have an off switch. Three females in as many hours. A record by anyone’s standards, but unheard of inside the complex beneath 28 Walton Street. His new lair hadn’t seen that much action. Ivar liked it that way. Only males he trusted gained entrance to his new home, and even fewer to cellblock A, where he housed his HE captives.
“How about another salt bath, instead?”
Hamersveld grumbled but shook his head. “Bed. Sleep.”
Thank God. It was about time. “Just a bit farther. You can crash in my room until yours is ready.”
His new friend nodded, and Ivar upped the pace, turning right toward his bedroom suite and into the main corridor. Still under construction, bare lightbulbs cast shadows across walls marred by splotches of joint compound. Soon, though, his worker bees—the forty-odd humans he’d imprisoned—would complete the project, leaving glossy wood floors and no dust behind. A minute later, Ivar stopped in front of his door. Hamersveld sagged in his arms. With a grunt, he swung the door wide. The lights flicked on, illuminating the space Ivar called his own. A place of solace for him, he loved it here. The sea grass wallpaper and bamboo floor blissed him out, helping him relax in the arms of organic cotton and eco-friendly feather-down every day.
Crossing the threshold, he flipped the duvet back with his mind and settled Hamersveld on pale sheets. Belly down, the male sighed and threw his arms wide. Pillows went flying, rolling over the side of the king-size mattress as the warrior burrowed in. A quick flick of the coverlet and…
Fantastic. Mission accomplished.
The newest member of the Razorbacks was covered up, bare ass no longer waving in the breeze. Good thing too. With Hamersveld sleeping it off, he could get back to business. The next superbug waited inside his laboratory, its nastiness caged inside liquid nitrogen. Pressing his chin to his chest, Ivar rubbed the back of his neck. The knots left by tension and fatigue loosened as he turned toward the door. A couple of hours… that’s all he needed. Maybe if he played with the viral load—tweaked the dosage, upped the incubation-to-infection rate—virus number three would prove more—
A blue light flashed in his periphery.
Ivar glanced toward the flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite him. The video chat blinked on and then off, a name written in neon at its center.
“Ah, Christ.”
Lacing his fingers on top of his head, Ivar blew out a long breath. Just what he didn’t need. Rodin skyping in from Prague. He’d called every week for the past month, demanding an update. Denzeil usually fielded the calls, leaving Ivar to avoid the prick along with the fallout. But with his warrior out hunting, answering the phone fell to him.
Ivar sighed. First Hamersveld, now Rodin. The night kept going from bad to worse.
Annoyance mixing with dread, he skirted the end of the bed. His bare feet brushing over bamboo planks, Ivar crossed to the laptop sitting on the marble-topped bar. A quick flick opened the computer. He tapped on the mouse and…
Terrific. Rodin in all his glory.
“Ivar,” the male growled, dark eyes narrowed on him. “About time you answered my call. Denzeil and his trucker talk annoy me. Where have you been?”
Good to know. Another reason to keep his warrior around. “In the lab working out the viral load sequence.”
“Any progress?”
“Some. I’m still unsatisfied with the results. I’ll be testing another bug soon.”
“Good.” Fingering an expensive Mont Blanc, Rodin picked up the pen and turned it in his hand. “And the breeding program?”
“Underway on our end,” he said, watching the older male closely. Rodin was after more than just an update. Sure, he asked all the right questions, but something about the way he held himself warned Ivar. The leader of the Archguard might be an ally now, but one never knew about tomorrow. “Yours?”
“We’re on the hunt. I’ve got a dependable crew searching the city for HE females,” Rodin said, the pride in his tone telling. A dependable crew. Right. The word choice could only mean one thing… Zidane, Rodin’s firstborn son was involved. “So far, we’ve come up empty.”
“Keep looking,” Ivar murmured. “If you find one, you’ll find more. HEs gravitate toward one another. They tend to be related or live together.”
Rodin grunted and changed the subject. “How’s your cash flow?”
“I could use more.”
“You always want more.”
Ivar shrugged. “Science is an expensive sport.”
“A bloody one, I hear.”
“It’s better that way.”
The male huffed. “I knew there was a reason I like you.”
“Just working with what God gave me.”
A sparkle lit in Rodin’s eyes. Ivar narrowed his and unleashed what he did best. Analysis. Ferreting out facts. Putting each into context. Funny, but… huh. He swore the gleam in the older male’s eyes approached paternal pride. A strange thing considering Rodin was as cold-blooded as they came. Hell, the prick had never looked at Lothair that way, and his late XO had been Rodin’s youngest son.
Turning his head to one side, Rodin tapped his pen against the keyboard. “Check your accounts. I just wired you another half mill.”
“In exchange for?”
“Information and… your honesty.”
Weighing the pros and cons, Ivar examined the idea, searching for pitfalls. Truth, after all, was a tricky beast. It owned varying shades of gray. The kind a male could manipulate if he were smart enough to see the shift in color. “What is it you wish to know?”
“I hear there is a member of the Scottish pack in Seattle.”
Ivar frowned, not liking the implication in the inquiry. The intel was far too accurate. Forge, the only Scot he knew, had arrived a few months ago. The warrior had briefly danced to the Razorback tune before switching alliances to join the Nightfury pack. The loss still rankled, leaving a bad taste in Ivar’s mouth. Clenching his teeth, he bit down on a snarl.
The backstabbing Scot had promised one thing, but delivered quite another.
The lying bastard. Forge had screwed with his plans.
Not that it mattered now. The past belonged where it already sat… in the past. He couldn’t change it. The future, however? Hmm, that bad boy was up for grabs, which meant he must be careful. Rodin’s interest in Forge—and how he’d come by the information—raised his internal radar. Something was off. Way, way off, ’cause… shit. It sounded as though the leader of the Archguard had a spy inside the Razorback ranks.
Not surprising. But by no means good either.
In order to function well, Ivar needed less scrutiny, not more. So, what to do, what to do? Share the information or stonewall Rodin? Misdirection, after all, was his specialty. Ivar debated a moment, determining the course that would best service him and—
Why not? “His name is Forge. He is a member of the Nightfury pack.”
“One of Bastian’s warriors now,” Rodin said, his pallor turning ashen.
Ivar nodded, wondering at Rodin’s reaction. The male didn’t scare easily. He knew it firsthand. Had witnessed the older male wield his power while under the Archguard’s thumb. But something about the Bastian/Forge connection shook the male from his lofty perch.
Interesting. Maybe even fortuitous.
With Rodin shaken up, now might be the time to cut through all the bullshit, get straight to the point, and reveal Lothair’s death.
He’d held onto the information, hiding the truth for fear of Rodin’s wrath. Not against him. Ivar could handle whatever the asshole sent his way. What he didn’t want was the male in Seattle. He needed to avenge his best friend without any outside interference. And Rodin, with one of his death squads in tow, amounted to a serious disruption.
“One other thing you should know, Rodin.”
Dark eyes snapped back to his.
“Lothair is dead… murdered by the Nightfuries.”
Rodin snarled, baring his teeth as rage flamed in his gaze. Raising his hands, he slammed both fists against the desktop. Wood crackled. The computer jumped, jarring the image. With a roar of fury, the male exploded in a flurry of movement. Mouth hanging wide open, Ivar watched the leader of the Archguard lose control from halfway around the world. A blurry swipe of arms, a brutal thrust of a booted foot, and… slam-bang! Lift off. The desk toppled, sending the computer tumbling end over end. Pale walls whirled past in the frenzy. The screen slammed into something. Static came through the breach, replacing the picture as the connection shattered.
Fury of Desire (-4 Page 16
