His best friend was bang on. Dumb-ass move was right. Idiocy to the next power. Especially since what drove him had nothing to do with the mission.
Anger. Doubt. Despair. All those fit the bill, explaining the why behind the what, pushing him to the brink, sending him into the fray without thought to the consequences.
All because he needed a fight.
A ball-busting brawl to help him forget. To blot out the reality of what he must do when he got home. Let Jamison go. Send her away. Free her to live the life she was meant to, not the one he knew she would suffer with him.
The right thing to do. It was the best thing for her. But even as he faced the truth, he hated the outcome. He didn’t want to do it. Keeping her sounded better to him. And claiming her… in the way of his kind? Shit, that seemed like the best plan of all. A selfish male would do it. Say to hell with the consequences and take what he craved. Too bad egocentric wasn’t on his dance card.
And didn’t punch his ticket.
Despite his many faults, he refused to trap her. Jamison deserved more than he would ever be able to give her. So no matter how much it pained him, he would force himself to let her go. Push her away. Be honorable for once. Do whatever it took to make her leave Black Diamond and start a new life without him.
But first? He would get his fight.
With a snarl, he sideswiped a Razorback. As the male squawked, Wick flipped up, rotated over and… crack! A fast grab. A quicker twist snapped the enemy dragon’s neck. Leaving him to ash out in midair, he went after another. Senses sharp, he kept an eye on Ivar’s retreat. Not that he could go far. Forge and Mac were on their game, playing the trump card. Wick grinned as he cracked another skull. Score one for the wonder twins. The pair were right where they needed to be: cutting off Ivar’s retreat, hemming him in, making him fight instead of turn tail and run.
Speed supersonic, a rogue went wings vertical, rocketing along Wick’s right side. Sound warped. Dragon scales rattled. Claws gleaming in the moonlight, the bastard took a shot at him. Wick arched, torqueing into a sidewinding flip. Up. Over. Around and… oh yeah. The enemy caught nothing but air, missing him by inches.
He bared his fangs and hissed in satisfaction. Aerial acrobatics… his specialty.
One that worked like a charm as he twisted out of the spin. The move put him in prime position behind a trio of Razorbacks. In the strike zone, Wick lashed out. Claws met scales. He dug in. The razor-sharp tips punched through bone. His talon closed around the fucker’s beating heart. With a snarl, Wick yanked. Arterial spray splattered across the back of his paw. The smell of blood expanded, then disappeared as the enemy’s heart ashed in his palm. His wing-mates roared as their buddy disintegrated in midair, and Wick got ready.
Oh baby. Imminent attack. Not much better than that.
Wings spread wide, he banked hard as the other two rogues attacked. Timing it to perfection, Wick rolled into a somersault. Meathead number one tried to adjust. Too late. He was already in position, poised to strike above the male’s spine. Wick didn’t hesitate. Coming out of the tuck, he fisted the rogue’s horns. The enemy dragon screamed. He twisted, snapping the fucker’s neck, and swung around. His eyes narrowed on the last rogue. In full panic mode, the male wing flapped for a second, no doubt trying to decide. Take him on. Or run and hide. Wick banked wide right, hoping for the first, but…
No such luck. Wick growled in disgust. Aw, come on. Was the idiot really going to—
“Shit,” he muttered as the Razorback turned and fled in the opposite direction.
Increasing his wing speed, Wick chased after him, slicing between two skyscrapers. Glass rattled in steel frames. Refusing to lose the male, Wick banked around the bend, his wing tip inches from a building corner. His sonar pinged, narrowing his senses. Street lights blurred into streaks beneath him. He hummed as he came within range of his target.
Less than fifty feet away. Excellent. Right in the sweet spot.
A bull’s-eye locked on the rogue’s back, Wick drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. A fireball gathered at the back of his throat and… yum. He loved the taste. Couldn’t get enough of his arsenal’s cause and effect either.
Deadly. Efficient. Incendiary. The trifecta of nastiness was a gift that kept on giving.
One the Razorbacks underestimated all the time. The enemy never saw it coming. Not that Wick lamented the fact. The chemical complexities of his exhale elevated his game. Had all kind of layers: blue flame on the outside, the ooey-gooey goodness of lava on the inside, a layer of poisonous gas between the two.
Sweet and sour with a hit of hot sauce.
The rogue zigzagged, dodging between buildings. Wick hopscotched a smokestack. Time to head the asshole off at the pass. Magma splashed over his back molars. Whipping into a tight turn, Wick bared his fangs and started the countdown.
Three…
Fire licked over his tongue.
Two…
Lethal gases combined, rising up his throat.
One…
Wick pulled the trigger. The ravenous ball shot from his throat. Heat went cataclysmic. The inferno sucked the oxygen out of the air, hellish tail streaking behind it, hissing through the darkness, obliterating the chill. The Razorback yelled and scrambled, trying to get out of the way…
Boom!
The rogue screamed in agony. Wick dodged to avoid the splash-back of lava-infused fireball. Smoke billowed upward. The smell of burning scales and scorched bone putrefied the air, and—
Mission accomplished. One roasted Razorback plummeting out of the sky.
Wick watched him burn a second, then wheeled around, looking for his next target. Huh. None in sight. Which could only mean one thing. He’d flown far afield, chasing the rogue out of the kill zone… where his brothers-in-arms still fought. Leaving the rogue to dissolve into a pile of cinders, he stayed low and rocketed over an apartment complex.
The blow back from his wings rushed over the neighborhood. Treetops swayed. Vehicles rocked on their tires. Car alarms started to shriek. A few lights came on. Wick tightened the cloaking spell, strengthening his magic. Invisibility was an absolute must. Scaring the neighbors, after all, was never a good idea.
Neither was showing up on the evening news.
Night vision pinpoint sharp, Wick scanned the sky. Nada. No one in sight. He sent out an exploratory ping. “Venom.”
“What?”
Wick swallowed a snort. Wow. His friend sounded pissed off… and out of breath. Looked like he’d arrived just in time. “Four down. I’m free and clear.”
“Bully for you.” Scales rattled. Venom grunted. “I still got three on my tail.”
“Should be a walk in the park for you, Ven.”
“Screw off, Sloan,” Venom growled. “Get your ass over here and help me.”
Sloan huffed. “If you want my help, move the hell over. I’m coming in hot.”
“About frigging time.”
Following his buddies energy signal, Wick rocketed over a rooftop. A yellow Razorback came at him out of nowhere. Collision inevitable, Wick put the brakes on and ducked. The bastard streaked past, clipping him with a wing tip. The burn streaked over his shoulder. Holy shit. That had been close, and… he blinked, plucking the cause of the male’s hysteria out of thin air. Well, all right then. The enemy dragon had good reason to haul ass.
Right on the rogue’s tail, Rikar’s white scales flashed in the gloom. Frost swirling in his wake, the Nightfury XO glared at him. “Good of you to join us, hotshot.”
“I was a little busy.” His XO “uh-huhed.” Wick grinned, enjoying the artistic blast as Rikar blew by him.
“Wick,” Bastian said, a snarl in his voice. Wick’s focus snapped right. Scanning the horizon, he spotted B. Deep in combat, claws gleaming in the moonlight, his commander lashed out. A male screamed as B applied pressure, cracking the enemy’s spine in half. “Help Mac and Forge. Get an angle and take a shot. Down Ivar, but don’t incinerate him. We need h
im alive.”
Good plan. Ivar the Asshole had a nasty agenda. One that included a breeding program and a stable full of unwilling HE females. So yeah. Taking the rogue leader alive made a ton of sense. The problem? Ivar wasn’t stupid… or alone. He’d armored up and buttoned down, keeping a scaly wall of muscle between him and the wonder twins.
Which meant tactical advantage time. He needed a solid one. An approach the enemy wouldn’t see coming.
Eyes narrowed, Wick looked for an avenue. He needed a window just wide enough to slip through while Mac and Forge kept the rogues busy. Not a stretch by any means. The warriors were doing a good job of it already, hammering Ivar’s front line of defense. Wick hummed as Forge exhaled. Fire-acid shot between the male’s fangs, lighting up the night sky. Hamersveld countered, throwing up a wall of water. The stream of fire hit the barrier with a popping hiss, then flickered and went out like a lightbulb. Mac growled and unleashed his magic. The tidal wave evaporated, throwing mist toward the clouds like confetti.
“Heads up,” Wick murmured, keeping a low profile, slithering in like a snake. “Get ready to bug out.”
Elbowing a rogue, Mac spun around and fed him a mouthful of water spear. As the male went poof, he growled, “Line it up.”
“Say when.” Flipping sideways, Forge took out another sentry.
“Give me a second…”
Sneaking in from behind, Wick rolled in on a smooth glide. His gaze narrowed on Ivar, painting a target on red scales. Three hundred and fifty yards out. Not close enough yet. Just a little further. Just a little longer. Ten seconds tops before he entered the kill zone. The optimal distance to ensure he singed Ivar’s wings. The second his exhale reached Ivar, burning the vulnerable webbing, the bastard wouldn’t be able to fly. And once on the ground? He’d hit him hard. Make him hurt. Exact the toll, keeping him just alive enough to answer B’s line of inquiry.
Answers. Wick wanted them as much as his commander.
The enemy was hurting those most vulnerable. Females like his own. It didn’t matter that he refused to mate her. The claiming was irrelevant. He needed to know when he let her go, Jamison could walk out of Black Diamond into a safer world. One in which Ivar didn’t exist, and the code most of Dragonkind lived by held sway.
Preserve life. Protect the weak. Respect a female’s right to choose.
Drawing a deep breath, Wick let his magic roll. His exhale gathered, spilling into the back of his throat and—
The wren protecting Hamersveld whipped full circle. Yellow eyes met his, then widened. Baring his small fangs, the miniature dragon shrieked in warning. Thunderous sound erupted like a volcano, blowing sky-high, blasting Wick with debilitating shockwaves. Mind-bending pain hammered his temples. Pressure expanded, warping perception, ripping at his eardrums, making his head whiplash.
His vision dimmed.
The wren screamed again.
Auditory overload battered the inside of his skull. Wick roared in agony. His muscles spasmed. He lost control of the fireball. The blaze shot from his mouth and heat roared, eating through the frigid air. Mac cursed and dodged. Forge shouted as he got caught in the crossfire. But it was too late. The ravenous ball clipped him, hurling the Scot sideways. As his body whiplashed, the inferno slammed into a skyscraper behind him. A sonic boom rippled, spreading like poison over the cityscape. Lava splashed in a deadly arc. Glass and steel exploded. Shrapnel blew outward, ripping through Forge’s side.
Dragons—Razorback and Nightfury alike—screamed in pain.
The horror expanded, and Wick gave voice to his anguish, yelling his throat raw as he watched Forge fall from the sky.
24
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of a gym mat, J. J. flipped through another file. Worn by time, water stains dotted the dog-eared paper. Finished reading the page, she flipped it up, folding it over the top of the folder, and frowned. More gobbledegook. An equal amount of nothing special. Just like the last… hmm, let’s see. How many was that now? File number ten or eleven? She’s lost count a couple of hours ago.
Not that she was complaining. Busy was preferable to twiddling her thumbs.
Especially since Tania had abandoned her to the stacks. Probably a good idea, all things considered. Her sister’s mind wasn’t in the game. She was too busy dreaming big, drawing a new set of architectural plans. Ones that included an outdoor garden along with a swimming pool for Mac. Thumbing the corner of the page, J. J. smiled. Landscape design. The story of her sister’s life.
Well, that and being a worrywart.
An honorable pastime, really. Concern for another, after all, carried weight. Signaled caring… deep-seated love too. J. J. huffed. Ironic, wasn’t it? Before tonight she never would’ve qualified as a worrier. But over the last few hours? She’d done little else, so…
Bring it on. Pile on the paperwork. Make it last ’til morning.
Until Wick walked back through the door. Safe, sound, and into her arms once more.
Raking her hair behind her ears, J. J. shook her head. Such craziness. Her concern for him amounted to idiocy. He was a warrior: born strong, bred to fight, lethal beyond compare. She knew it. Had seen him in action and accepted the facts. Not that it mattered. Logic had nothing to do with it. Not while worry ruled, making her act like an idiot.
One with a terrible headache. And no sense.
Exhaling a pent-up breath, J. J. turned another page and scanned the typewritten text, seeing it, but not really. She didn’t understand it. The draw. The pull. The ridiculous yearning she felt every time she thought of him. Which, God help her, was a lot. She scowled at a dark smudge on the corner of the folder. Two days. A measly forty-eight hours of knowing him. Peanuts. A drop in the bucket on time’s sliding scale, and yet the bond she shared with him was irrefutable. Undeniable. So rock solid she couldn’t resist its tether. But the truly crazy part? As it tied her down and locked her in, she didn’t struggle. She submitted, allowing the magic to flow and the Meridian to have its way. Energy-fuse, love’s holy grail. A seductive elixir, the thing every woman searched for, but rarely found.
Hers. For the taking.
Just one problem. Fairy tales happened to other people, not her. Never her. Despite all the hoping and dreaming. Despite what she felt for Wick. Despite everything. It seemed too good to be true, and even though she wanted to believe, J. J. couldn’t help herself. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
With an audible sigh, she flipped another page.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Surprise made her flinch. J. J.’s focus snapped to her right. Her gaze traveled across a sea of blue exercise mats. Serious hazel eyes met hers. She blinked and… oh, right. She wasn’t alone. Angela sat just a few feet away. File boxes stacked like Lego blocks behind her, Angela raised a brow. Unease hit J. J. like a hurricane, blowing the roof off the house where confidence lived. As it escaped into the ether, she nibbled on her fingernail and looked down at the file in her lap.
Alone in a gymnasium with an ex-homicide detective. Oh goody. Every convicted felon’s wet dream.
“You know I don’t give a shit, right?” The question came out soft, the meaning behind it didn’t. Acceptance and more rang in Angela’s tone. Strange—more than a little baffling—considering J. J.’s history with SPD. “Wick’s not the only one who read your jacket, J. J. I know what happened. Your ex was an abusive jerk.”
Disbelief made her huff. Hope made her ask, “So you don’t mind that I shot him?”
“I understand the necessity.” Propped against a table leg, Angela rubbed her shoulder against the wooden corner. Done chasing the itch, she crossed one foot over the other and shrugged. “And I’m not judging you for it. Besides, you did your stretch.”
“Paid my debt to society?”
“Something like that.”
“Right,” J. J. whispered, not quite believing it. If only it were that simple. If only she could forget. If only the pain would leave her
alone, let her breathe, stop twisting the screws. Wishful thinking, she knew. Guilt didn’t work that way. It never went away. Like outstanding debt, it stayed until either it was paid off or forgiven. Two things that would never happen for her. “I still have nightmares about it sometimes.”
Angela threw her a startled look.
She didn’t blame her. Her admission surprised her too. Chewing on her bottom lip, J. J. frowned. What the heck was she doing? Bringing it up. Laying it out. Baring her soul. None of those things fit her usual MO. She never talked about it. Not even with Tania. But for some reason—instinct, the allure of sisterhood, and the need to be understood—J. J. wanted to tell her. Something told her the ex-cop would understand. Angela had seen things, been a part of that world… the one J. J. had inhabited the past five years.
Which, strange as it seemed, put them on equal footing.
Pressure banded around her chest. J. J. breathed through it. Go hard or go home. There were no in-betweens here. Just straight-up honesty or complete silence. Swallowing, she worked moisture back into her mouth. “Some nights, I wake up in a cold sweat unable to breathe. A scream locked in my throat. The feel of his hands around my neck… squeezing.”
“I’ve had a few of those too.”
And there it was. The detail intuition had told her was there. Unearthed. Deep in the vault. That place where secrets went to die. A shiver crawled down J. J.’s spine.
“I got caught in the crossfire a couple of months ago.” Haunted. No other word described Angela’s expression, and as J. J. met her gaze she tried not to flinch. To stay strong in the face of her pain. Her new friend wouldn’t accept pity. Didn’t want sympathy either, but… God. She recognized that look. Had seen it on her own face while looking in the mirror. “I was raped by a Razorback… imprisoned in one of their lairs. Rikar got me out.”
“Oh, Ange, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she said, the admission splitting her wide open. She knew what that felt like: to be cornered, held down, and… forced. That it had happened at the hands of her boyfriend didn’t make the experience any less horrific. Young. Stupid. Naive. She’d trusted him not to hurt her. Instead, he’d torn her apart, obliterating her confidence along with any sense of self. “How long were you there?”
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