him.
“Christ.” With a wince, Rikar grimaced. “Did I say nasty earlier?”
“You did,” Wick said, watching his friend’s free-for-all scramble.
Cursing a blue streak, Venom landed with a thud. Forward momentum made him slide. Wick winced as he collided with the stone wall. Rolling belly-up on the floor, Venom groaned, “Son of a bitch.”
“Whatcha think, Wick?”
“Eight out of ten. He didn’t stick the landing.”
“Nice,” Venom said, sarcasm out in full force. Looking ready to kill something, he pushed to his feet. As he dusted himself off, he grumbled, “How can I hate that thing, yet love it at the same time?”
Rikar laughed.
Wick fought an eye roll, but as he continued walking, the contrast wasn’t lost on him. Love and hate. Polar opposites that created one helluva combination. One he now owned when it came to Jamison. Not that he hated her. Far from it. The way she made him feel—confused, uptight… out of control—wasn’t her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. The defect belonged to him. He was the damaged one, not her.
And yet, he continued to feed her… even though he knew he shouldn’t. It would only bring him more grief in the end. Too bad his dragon didn’t care. Despite his will to control it, instinct won out over common sense, and he submitted, allowing her to take from him. Without ever putting up a fight. She needed him too much, and as strange as it seemed, he couldn’t deny her, increasing the flow of healing energy the moment she asked for more.
Awful. Complicated. Undesirable.
All three applied, turning him inside out.
Throat gone tight, Wick shook his head. He was in big trouble, the kind that came with a label… energy- fuse. The realization cracked him wide open, making him feel sick. But even as his stomach clenched, he rejected the truth. Impossible. The conclusion couldn’t be right. He was a soulless bastard, well past the point of saving. Intimacy wasn’t his thing. He didn’t want it to be either. Every ounce of kindness—along with the instinct that drove a Dragonkind male to mate—had been beaten out of him years ago.
And honestly? He liked it that way.
Detachment allowed him to do his job. Had shaped him into the kind of warrior his brothers valued, needed, and expected him to be—a natural born killer without conscience or mercy. He didn’t want what the other Nightfuries shared with their chosen females. Juggling a relationship and his responsibilities as a warrior didn’t belong in his lexicon. The first would distract him from the second, ensuring he failed at both.
It all came down to one thing…
Choice.
He’d made one years ago when he joined the Nightfury pack. His brothers—his vow to protect each—came before all else. Bewitching females included. So enough foolishness. His attraction to Jamison must die a swift, unholy death. No good would come from straying from a path already taken.
Air hissed as the glass door to the medical clinic slid open.
In a state of complete panic, Tania shot over the threshold. Time slowed as she pivoted toward him, spinning into an endless stretch. Horror darkened her brown eyes. Wick wiped his expression clean, preparing for the worst. Mac’s female didn’t like him. She’d made it clear that he frightened her… even though he hadn’t done a thing to make her fear him. He was who he was: quiet, reserved, so baffled by social situations he never knew what to say, never mind how to make someone like him. Wick understood the truth of it… accepted it too. Most females reacted to him the same way, but as tears pooled in Tania’s eyes, Wick suddenly wished he wasn’t so inept.
A few well-placed words would no doubt reassure her, but—
“Oh my God… oh God. Mac!” Her terror-filled rasp wrung Wick out, twisting his insides into knots as Tania froze in the middle of the corridor. Her gaze glued to him, both feet rooted to the floor, she shook her head. “She’s dead, isn’t she? You… you… oh God, you—”
Wick growled, cutting her off mid-accusation. How typical. Tania thought he’d killed her fucking sister. Her reaction pissed him off, even though it shouldn’t have. The conclusion wasn’t a bad one considering his reputation and temperament. Toss in his propensity for violence, and…
Ah, hell. Her assumption made a certain amount of sense.
“She’s isn’t dead, female.”
Tania blinked. “But—”
“Motherfuck.” Mac growled, stepping out of the clinic behind his female. “Tania, I told you to stay put.”
“I can’t… I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Why isn’t she moving? Why does he have her? You promised… you said she was okay.”
“She is, honey. Your sister’s been injured. She’s exhausted… sleeping hard, that’s all.” Throwing him an apologetic look, Mac cupped her shoulders and tugged Tania into his arms. As her back met his chest, he wrapped her tight against him. “Wick saved J.?J.’s life tonight. He’s taken good care of her. You owe him an—”
“Thank you,” she said, cutting off her mate mid-scold. Eyes still huge in her small face, she met his gaze, and Wick blinked. Wow, would you look at that? Tania had never looked at him before, never mind spoken to him. Both were huge firsts, and she didn’t stop there. “I’m sorry, Wick. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to… it’s just I’ve been so worried and…” Tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing her home.”
“You’re welcome,” he murmured, reciprocating for once, giving Tania her due. It was only fair. Courage, after all, deserved acknowledgement. “She’s all right, Tania. A little banged up, but it’s nothing time won’t heal.”
A lie. Boldly told and beautifully delivered.
No one knew better than him that time didn’t heal all wounds. Jamison would heal from the physical trauma, no question. The healing energy he shared with her would see to that, but five years spent in prison damaged a person. Readjusting to being on the outside—to the real world and her newfound freedom—would take more than just time. Pile on surviving a vicious knife attack and witnessing a dragon battle on top of that and… yeah.
D-day. Detonation inevitable. Psychological scarring times ten.
Movement flashed in his periphery.
Glancing through the open door, he spotted Myst inside the clinic. Snapping her rubber gloves in place, B’s female tilted her head, inviting him inside. “I’m ready. Bring her in.”
With a nod, Wick crossed the threshold. Shitkickers rasping across the industrial-grade hospital floor, he eyed the examination table. Warrior-sized, the surface stretched beneath the bright overhead lights. Stainless steel cabinets rose beyond the setup, hugging the back wall, framing the female who now stood alongside the stretch of cabinetry. The scent of antiseptic soap added to the medical ambiance, making his nose twitch and his heart hammer.
Different night. Same story.
Except that wasn’t quite true.
The medical supplies laid out in tidy rows on the rollaway cart weren’t for him. Or one of his brothers. Not right now. Tonight, each plastic-wrapped package—all those metal tools along with the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff—belonged to Jamison. The thought bored a hole through his breastbone, piercing his heart. All of a sudden, Wick couldn’t breathe. Jesus. He didn’t want to put her down… or leave her here all by herself.
Totally ridiculous, considering who stood in the room.
Myst would take good care of her. Treat her with kid gloves and gentle hands, ensure Jamison received all she needed to heal. But as Wick stopped beside the table—seeing all the bandages and other packages up close —something snapped deep inside him. He felt the splintering shock wave. Heard the roar of denial along with the blood rush in his ears. The throb hammered his temples. Wick shook his head, fighting the buzzing surge of awareness, and waged an internal war. Logic told him to put her down. The territorial bastard inside him overrode the system, unleashing a torrent of possessiveness.
Shit. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t relinquish—
“Wick.”
The sharpness of Myst’s tone brought his chin up. She nailed him with serious violet eyes. “I need you to put her down.”
