Fury of Desire

Holding onto Jamison like a greedy two-year-old, he shook his head.

“Trust me… I know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” he rasped, not doubting her skill for a moment. The female possessed a shitload of know-how. She sewed up the Nightfury warriors on a regular basis. Hell, Venom owed his life to Myst and her talent with a needle. But relinquishing Jamison wasn’t about that. It was about something more. Duty, maybe. Honor, certainly. A strange sense of entitlement too, ’cause… God. After caring for her the last couple of hours, abandoning her to another’s care seemed, well… wrong. “I’m just…”

“I get it. I really do, but I need to examine her. Make sure the hospital did their job, and she wasn’t reinjured on the way here.” Reaching out, she patted the top of the examination table. The sheet rustled, crinkling under the gentle pressure, ratcheting his tension up another notch. His dragon urged him to hold on. Myst wanted him to let go, and as Tania stopped at the head of the table, backing up her friend, denial rose on a violent wave. “One of us will come get you if she needs you. Deal?”

Wick hesitated. A big hand landed on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. Thank God. Venom. Trust his best friend to arrive in the nick of time. The male always helped him pull his head out of his ass.

Exhaling hard, he unlocked his muscles. The cage he made with his embrace opened, and just like that, it was done. His arms were empty. Jamison lay on the table: his leather jacket half covering her face, the blanket twisted around her hips, plaster cast sticking out to expose her bare toes. The sight tipped the balance. Pressure banded around his rib cage, making it hard to breathe. So fragile… too many bruises… beyond vulnerable without him to protect her.

Venom pumped his shoulder again.

He shrugged, throwing off the hold, and cleared his throat. “I’ll come back later.”

“Good. She’ll need you,” Myst said, somehow managing to reassure and praise him at the same time. How the hell she did that, Wick didn’t know, but he said a silent “thank you” anyway. Her no-nonsense tone eased his worry, smoothed down the ragged edges of concern. “We’ll put her in recovery room one.”

Wick nodded and, flexing his fist, cut the cord with a vicious mental swipe. As much as he yearned to stay, watching wasn’t an option. He’d go ape-shit crazy as her wounds were revealed. He didn’t need to see it to believe it… or understand the brutality of what had been done to her. So instead, he dragged his gaze away and pivoted toward the exit. A distraction. He needed one. Right now. Before he did something stupid, like turn into a first-class pansy and refuse to leave her side.

13

From his position at the back of the room, Wick watched the other Nightfury warriors file into the com- center. Heavy footfalls bounced off pale walls, making the room’s generous portions shrink and his head pound. The sting slid around to hammer the base of his skull. Rolling his shoulders, he resisted the urge to rub his temples. Fuck the pain. The frustration and confusion too. All he wanted was out. Out of a space filled with males who took up too much room. Away from the hustle ’n bustle and all the chitchat. Into the silence of his room and the comfort it brought him.

Too bad that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

His gaze narrowed on the male responsible for screwing up his plans. Or rather messing with his escape route.

Boots planted beside the desk across the lab, Bastian stood alongside their resident computer genius. Seated in his uglier-than-shit chair, Sloan nodded at B, his eyes on the wall-mounted screens, fingers flying over the keyboard, making his supercomputer sing in the predawn hours. Watching the byplay, Wick flexed his fists, trying to alleviate the tension. It didn’t work. He was too far gone. On edge. On the brink of exploding into aggression-laced agitation. In need of space and a shitload of alone time to power down. But as his comrades fanned out, taking up most of the available real estate, stealing all the air in the room, the harder he worked to keep his cool.

It was nothing but an act. A game of cover-up he’d played for years.

Not even Venom understood the depths of his emotion. He was good at keeping it contained and out of the spotlight. He understood the coping mechanism. Crossing his arms over his chest, Wick growled. He should too. He’d read every book the field of psychology had to offer—Jung, Freud, fucking Alfred Adler. He knew them all, every single one of their theories. It was all so much bullshit. None had helped him get past his problem. Or cured his phobia.

The thought twisted his stomach into knots.

Wick swallowed the burn and tossed his commander another nasty look. “All right, already. Get the fucking show on the road.”

The low grumble brought Bastian’s head around. Piercing green eyes met his. Wick tensed. His commander left Sloan’s side, coming toward him from the other side of the room. Ah, hell. Here it came… the inevitable question and answer routine the second B reached him.

Stopping beside him, B propped his shoulder against the wall and raised a brow. “You okay?”

“Never better.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Wick snorted, the sound full of amusement. He couldn’t help it. He liked B. Respected the male too. A step up for Wick. Sentiment wasn’t his thing, after all. But after years spent fighting side by side with the warrior, proximity had turned to friendship… and loyalty to love. Now, he trusted Bastian with his life. The male was solid: stout of heart, whipcord smart, with a wicked amount of lethal on top. Always a good combination. But that didn’t mean he wanted to share what had gone down in Seattle a few hours ago.

The upheaval was still too fresh. Way too raw to get into with B.

So only one thing left to do… deflect his commander’s concern.

Crossing his arms, Wick bent one knee and planted his boot against the wall. “You gonna get this party started or what?”

“Nice try, my brother, but…” As B trailed off, Wick tensed. Jesus, he was in for it now. His commander refused to let it go, which put him in the hot seat. Lovely. Just what he wanted to avoid—an in-depth examination with Bastian in the driver’s seat. “You wanna explain what happened out there, or would you prefer I take a guess?”

“Fuck off, B.” The fail-safe response acted like a shield, deflecting inquiry, shutting down conversation with the added bonus of forcing others to keep their distance. Per usual, Bastian wasn’t fooled, and as a muscle twitched along his jaw, Wick relented. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

“Fair enough.” Bastian nodded and backed down. At least, in the metaphorical sense. The male was still close enough to nail him with a no-nonsense look. “But when you are, come to me. I’ll talk you through it.”

A prickle of discomfort rippled through him. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever. Wick dipped his chin anyway, agreeing without words… if only to get B off his back.

“Energy-fuse is serious shit, Wick. You can’t fight it,” he said, his voice low to prevent the others from overhearing. “My advice? Don’t try. Embrace it. Thank God you found her. Give your female what she needs, and you’ll end up with more than you can imagine.”

Your female. Holy fuck. Bastian thought Jamison belonged to him.

Denial clogged his throat. Wick shoved the emotion down deep, combating the sting. It couldn’t be true. He didn’t deserve good fortune or a female of his own. Could barely take care of himself, never mind someone else. B was wrong—was talking out his ass if he thought Wick capable of forming a lasting bond with a female. Fairy tales existed in human nursery rhymes, not in his world.

Uncomfortable with the topic, Wick broke eye contact and changed tack. “Venom tell you about what happened at Swedish Medical?”

“Not yet. Fill me in.”

With a nod, Wick laid it out, describing his encounter with Azrad in detail.

Bastian frowned. “He targeted the female to force a sit-down with me?”

“Yeah.”