Half dragging, half carrying Hamersveld, he manhandled him toward the entrance of 28 Walton Street. Halfway across the yard, sensation prickled up Ivar’s spine. He clenched his teeth, recognizing the tingle for what it was… or should he say who?
With a sigh, Ivar tightened his hold on the warrior in his arms and opened the connection.
He didn’t have time to screw around. Not now that he had Hamersveld right where he wanted the male. Gratitude, after all, was a powerful weapon. He planned to leverage the shit out of it. Crank it so hard, he earned the warrior’s trust. If he did it right, loyalty and commitment to the Razorbacks would follow, and he’d get what he needed: a powerful sea dragon in his corner. All he required to turn the tables on Bastian and move forward with his plans.
6
The holy shit factor dialed to fuck you, Wick staggered across the Gridiron toward the back exit. Humans squawked, giving him a wide berth and incredulous looks. He didn’t blame them. In control, he scared the hell out of most people. His size. The way he looked. The load of lethal he carried around like a bad attitude. All served to make others wary, and that was under optimal circumstances.
But right now… while on overload from the feeding and out of control?
Jesus, he was the Dragonkind equivalent of a wrecking ball, swinging on a thin cable of sanity, muscle and joints coming unhinged, coordination nonexistent as he plotted a trajectory toward the other side of the bar.
Wick wanted it to be different. Wished like hell female energy didn’t send him into a tailspin—every… single… frickin’… time. But hoping for something didn’t garner results. And wishing never made things so. A shame, really. He could’ve used a little hope right now. Especially since his vision was messed up, blinking off and on like a schizophrenic lightbulb.
Shit, he was in trouble.
He knew the door was over there… somewhere. A blurry collection comprised of posts and lintels, but—
Nausea churned, throwing stomach acid up his throat.
His brain went sideways, spinning into a death skid inside his skull. He lost his balance and stumbled, veering into oncoming traffic. The group of females squealed. Wobbling on three-inch heels, the trio hopped out of his way, threw him dirty looks, struggling to steady the drinks in their hands. Liquid sloshed over the rims of glass tumblers. The horrific stench of alcohol hit him like a body shot. Wick gagged and…
Fucking hell.
He needed out. Right now. Out of the heat of the club. Away from the stench. Into the alley and boatloads of fresh air. Otherwise, he’d end up flat on the floor, lying in pub scum while a bunch of humans turned him into a zoo exhibit.
Gritting his teeth, Wick forced one foot in front of the other. His shitkickers thudded against the hard floor. His heart kept time, determined to drill a hole in the center of his chest. The energy he’d swallowed didn’t help, humming in his veins, attacking his body until he felt like a spaghetti noodle instead of sinew and bone. The psychedelic laser show upped the ante, eating through the darkness. Pulse-pulse-flash. Pulse-pulse-flash. Colorful bursts of light set the pattern, making his head ache and his body hurt.
Another few feet. Just a couple more strides and he’d be free. Out the Gridiron’s back door.
A big hand landed on his shoulder.
Wick’s stomach heaved. Swallowing the burn, he twisted, fighting the lockdown.
Reeling inside his own head, Wick blinked. Boston accent. Kick-ass presence. A familiar hand fisted in his leather jacket. Relief streamed through him. Gratefulness came next, so much of it that Wick greeted his buddy with the usual.
Wick swallowed a harsh comeback, ’cause… yeah. The response on the tip of his tongue—the one that went something like, “No shit, Sherlock”—didn’t seem wise. If he lipped off, Mac might eighty-six his ass. Which, under the circumstances, constituted a bad plan. Especially given the fact Mac was straight-up awesome, helping him stay on his feet, manhandling him toward the exit, keeping his yap shut.
Thankfulness times a thousand slid through Wick.
His throat went tight. Thank God for family. His brothers-in-arms might not understand him—might even raze him from time to time—but they cared about him. Were 100 percent solid when it counted.
As if on cue, bile sloshed up the back of his throat. Wick forced it back down. Mac gave him a healthy shove, propelling him through the door and into the cramped foyer. Deep in shadow, the stairwell ascended on his right, heading toward the roof. The round handrail followed the rise, keeping time with each tread. Sweat dripped into Wick’s eyes. He wiped it away, and dragging his gaze from the stairs, focused on the exit door. Blood-red paint blisters bubbled on its surface, disrupting the smooth contours.
Five feet away. Now three. Almost there. Just a few more seconds and…
Shitkickers doing double time, Wick stumbled sideways. Mac’s grip on his jacket tightened. As his buddy hauled him upright, he hammered the steel bar locking the door in place with his knee. The portal swung wide and hit the brick wall behind it. The slam-bang echoed, cracking the quiet, rising to meet the night chill. Wick followed suit, bolting into the alleyway.
Cold air blasted him in the face.
His lungs screamed, demanding more oxygen.
He went palms to knees and, doubled over, answered the call. He inhaled hard, sounding like an asthmatic, wheeze after wheeze clawing his chest. A frosty swirl blew into the alleyway, lifting the hem of his jacket. Wick ignored the bluster, dismissing what made most fire dragons shiver in distaste. Contrary to his lava-loving nature, winter didn’t bother him. Not surprising considering his upbringing. Raised in devastation, denial and deprivation had been the norm, not the exception, for him.
Excellent training for a warrior. Disastrous emotional whiplash for an ordinary male.
Forcing his lungs to expand, Wick pushed away from his knees. As he stood upright, his muscles cramped, twisting him into knots. With a silent curse, he stomped his feet, then flexed his hands, working blood back into his extremities. Sensation flooded him, rushing back in, making his fingertips tingle, forcing a full-body shiver.
