Fury of Desire

Intent on covering their retreat, Venom circled around again. Flying east seemed like the best option. If he played his cards right, he could not only cover their retreat, but stay in between his boys and any inbound rogues.

“Ven… I’m airborne.” A dark-brown blur streaking through the gloom, Sloan flew in. Snow-white talons flashed as his buddy rotated into a flip, taking the wingman position on Venom’s right side. “You feel that?”

Goddamn, did he ever. No male worth his salt could ignore the static. The buzz hammered his temples, feeding him information. His sonar pinged, marrying instinct with experience. No mistaking the signs. Razorbacks. A shitload of them, rolling in hot.

Venom cursed under his breath. “No way we’ll outfly the bastards.”

“So what? You wanna play bait and switch?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Not a very good one, but… hell. Talk about a nasty twist.

Venom ground his fangs together. So much for getting away free and clear. He didn’t have much time. A minute—maybe two—before the rogues intercepted him. Wanting to be sure of the time frame, he mined the signal. Magic sparked and sensation spiraled, confirming his suspicions. The rogues had just broken through the three-mile barrier, allowing him to pinpoint their location. And if he could feel them? The bastards could track the magical trace he left in his wake too.

Sloan threw him a sideways glance.

He ignored the warning. Acknowledging it wouldn’t change anything. Neither would failing to make a plan.

Wheeling around a tall high-rise, Venom fired up mind-speak. “Wick… give me a grid.”

“Heading east on Jefferson. We’ll make a left on 23^rd and head for the bridge.”

“No good. The rogues are locked in now.” Following his trajectory, Sloan sliced between two apartment buildings. A quick flip took him up and over Venom’s spine. “Find a hole and disappear until we clear the sky.”

“Motherfuck.”

Ignoring Mac’s curse, Sloan inhaled, drawing deep to scent the air. “I count ten.”

Venom shook his head. “Fourteen… minimum.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Sloan said. “We need B and Rikar.”

No kidding. But that wouldn’t happen. Not in a hurry anyway.

Bastian and the Nightfury first in command were twenty minutes away, taking a night off, getting some well-deserved R & R with their chosen females at Black Diamond. A new occurrence for their pack. Until a month ago, none of them had ever taken a break. But some rules were meant to be broken. Now a new normal reigned. One that included the occasional night off—to rest, recharge, and recuperate.

Not a bad thing, just… different.

The bigger adjustment—at least for him—stemmed from another source altogether. The expansion of their pack.

At first, Venom resisted the change, not liking the paradigm shift, fearing the new members would get one of them killed. But after seeing what Forge and Mac could do… their special brand of kick-ass and how the warriors complimented one another? He’d changed his mind in a hurry. All right, so he still couldn’t resist busting Mac’s chops—razzing the resident water dragon was way too fun to ever stop—but neither could Venom deny that the wonder twins fit right in. The pair were viciousness squared. And honestly? Lethal with a heaping side order of brutal always got Venom jazzed.

Still, no matter how talented, the warriors couldn’t replace their commander.

Bastian had skills. Ones Venom needed right now. Without B in the mix—and his ability to read the enemies’ strengths and weaknesses from a distance—he was flying blind. Were there fourteen or more Razorbacks on the horizon? Experience told him multiple rogues of varying skill levels. But beyond that? He didn’t know. Worrisome. Nowhere near optimal heading into battle. Too bad beggars can’t be choosers. In order to protect his pack and J.? J., no other choice existed.

Increasing his wing speed, Venom glanced over his shoulder. He cursed. Rogues at six o’clock, flying in fighting formation, white frost curling from their wingtips… coming down the pipe, right on their asses.

“Listen up, boys.” Watching the circus unfold behind him, Venom assessed the situation. He indulged in a quick head count. Huh. Only eleven rogues on the horizon, three short of two full fighting units. Instinct whispered. Something about the numbers didn’t add up. Neither did their strategy. Frowning, Venom laid it out for his brothers. “The bastards are splitting up. Half are headed our way, but I’ve also got multiple males landing on the hospital roof.”

“Shite,” Forge said, Scottish accent rolling. “They know about J.? J.”

“Looks like it.”

Wick growled. “Stupid text message.”

“She sent a text?” Sloan asked.

“To Tania.”

“Motherfuck. Way too resourceful. Just like her sister,” Mac said, a growl in his undertone. As he dropped another f-bomb, the SUV’s engine snarled, the violent rumble coming through mind- speak as the ex-cop put his foot down. “Wick… put J.?J. down and get ready to take the wheel. Forge and I need to get airborne.”

Frigging right. Excellent plan. Mac’s strategy hit all the markers. Outnumbered three to one didn’t equal great odds in a firefight, but—

Venom blinked. Wait a minute. Back up a step.

What had Mac just said? Something about… put J.?J. down. Venom frowned so hard the space between his eyebrows stung. What the hell did that mean? Was Wick actually touching the female? Holding her in his lap or something? The thought seemed ridiculous. Way off base. His friend avoided physical contact like field mice did snakes. And given the fact J.?J. had been sitting in a wheelchair when he saw her last?

No need to inquire further.

Wick always took the path of least resistance. His friend would’ve wheeled the female out, then handed her over the moment he made contact with the wonder twins. Venom would bet his fangs on it.

“Heads up, lads,” Forge said. “We’re making a right onto —”

Yellow flame exploded across the night sky.

“Shit!” Mac hit the brakes.

Tires squealed, shrieking inside Venom’s head as an enemy dragon uncloaked. Wings spread wide, the bastard hung above the cityscape and exhaled. Fire hissed between the rogue’s fangs. And Venom knew they were screwed. The male was a Flame Thrower, able to exhale a continuous stream of fire for minutes on end.

The steady inferno roared, rocketing over building tops, flashing off dark windows, polluting the air with the smell of sulfur.

More cursing came from inside the SUV.

Rage twisted through Venom. No way. Not on his watch. The rogue might be a tricky bastard—flying around the perimeter to come in the backdoor—but that meant nothing with him in the mix. He was faster, stronger, more deadly, and now…

In the prime position.

Speed supersonic, Venom torqued into a full-body twist. His wingtip grazed the surface of a top-floor window. Glass rattled. He set his sights on the rogue, lining his enemy up for the kill shot. Bull’s-eye, right on the