good cover story, Azrad.”
“No cover. Just the truth.”
His brow furrowed, Bastian glanced his way. As Venom met his gaze, his commander held out his hand. Relinquishing the prize, he tossed B the bloody shirt. Fingers shifting through the folds, Bastian brushed his thumb over one of the stains. “It can’t be.”
“I don’t think he’s lying,” Wick murmured, breaking formation. Footfalls joining the quiet buzz of overhead lights, he brushed shoulders with Venom, then swung wide to pace a circle around the male who claimed the impossible. Golden eyes alight, Wick breathed deep, filtering scent through keen senses, and ran a critical eye over Azrad. “He carries a variation of your scent… the same magical signature in his veins. I smelled it the second I made him bleed.”
Silence met that pronouncement.
Venom huffed. Well, that explained the switch-up. Wick had backed off, delivering a cordial beat down to make his point instead of an agonizing death. And yet, even given his friend’s certainty, Venom remained skeptical. It was a good story, one that nudged at the truth and smacked of sincerity. But then, wasn’t that what made a lie believable? Give just enough verifiable detail. Provide a smattering of veracity, an equal amount of honesty and…
Poof.
Everyone believed. Everyone got fooled. Everyone ended up dead.
No mistakes could be made. Not with the Razorbacks angling to take out the entire Nightfury pack: his family, the males he loved and valued above all others.
Ivar would stop at nothing to win. And planting a spy inside the Nightfury camp—one who claimed to be Bastian’s long-lost brother? Hell, that qualified as a major coup. Would be a real victory for the son of a bitch, so… yeah. Brother or not, Venom wanted to know everything. Down to the last digit and decimal point. Only after Azrad was vetted would he decide which way to jump. Into belief and acceptance. Or death and destruction as he split the male in half to protect his pack.
16
Tension spread like nuclear fallout, clouding the air inside the coffee shop with suspicion. Wick didn’t mind. Uncomfortable and tense worked for him. Caution kept a male alive. And with the proverbial plutonium planted and the timer set, vigilance seemed like a good idea right now.
Then again, when didn’t it?
The thud of his boots soft in the quiet, Wick paced another circle around Azrad. The males he commanded shifted with unease. He didn’t blame them. No one messed with him—or his brothers-in-arms—unless forced, and these two? The pair looked smarter than most, recognized that a ticking time bomb was about to go off. Wick could practically hear the countdown. The snick of the clock as the second hand ground down to blastoff.
Which meant he needed to do something.
Lickety-split. As in, right fucking now. Otherwise the situation would detonate, leaving his pack with a crater full of speculation and no real answers, so… no question. Diffusing the situation sounded like a plan. A good one, except for one thing.
Meditation wasn’t his strength. His expertise lay in other areas—namely, killing things—but that didn’t change the facts. Nor the urgency. With Bastian set to go off, he figured he had a minute tops before his commander lost his patience and went nuclear. The resulting fallout wouldn’t be pretty. Neither would the cleanup. And scraping what was left of Azrad and his boys off the floor? Not on his list of things to do tonight. He had other plans. A strategy that included discovering if he was right about Azrad.
Like, after all, recognized like. An undisputable fact.
Now suspicion gave rise to certainty, grabbing Wick by the balls. Azrad carried all the markers. The truth of it—of who and what he was—went more than skin deep. It was embedded in the male’s bones. Was present in the way he moved, smelled, and thought. Wick could practically hear the mental wheels turning inside Azrad’s head, so…
Not a chance. He wouldn’t be leaving B to his own devices until he knew for sure, one way or the other.
Hooking a chair leg on the flyby, Wick kicked it into the center of the room. Metal screeched against wood. The nails-on-chalkboard racket shattered the silence, doing what he intended… making the other warriors in the room flinch. The ripple of muscle widened the gap, unlocking the stalemate as everyone glanced his way. Venom frowned at him. Wick met his gaze and tipped his chin, the move all about one thing. Trust. He needed Venom to back him up if things got critical, and Bastian went sideways. As his buddy nodded back, Wick grabbed another chair and shoved it in Azrad’s direction.
The male stopped the sliding invitation with his foot.
Not bothering to explain what he wanted, Wick showed him instead. Flipping his own chair backward, he straddled the seat and stacked his forearms on the backrest. He forced tense muscles to relax, playing it cool to put Azrad at ease. The body language sent a clear message–it was all about the chat. No one needed to die here.
Wick stifled a snort. Jesus. His move beat the shit out of irony. Him… receptive to conversation. What a fucking joke. But hey, dialing down the boom-boom factor required a certain amount of finesse. And if giving diplomacy a shot got the job done—relaxed Azrad enough to acquire the information Wick wanted? Well then, taking patience and tactfulness to the next level seemed like the best way to go.
“Got a few questions.” His gaze riveted on the male standing a few feet away, Wick pointed to the second chair. “You in a talking frame of mind?”
The nice guy approach triggered a chain reaction. Surprise spread like the plague, killing silence in the room. Murmurs full of “WTF” fogged the air. Wick ignored the incredulous looks his comrades threw his way. He didn’t care what the other Nightfuries thought. Didn’t have time for the usual BS either. Not if what he suspected about Azrad turned out to be true.
“Depends.” Mistrust in his eyes, Azrad grabbed the chair. Rotating it into a 180-degree turn, he mirrored Wick’s move, adopting the same position.
“On what?” Wick asked, raising a brow.
Azrad frowned. Light winked off his eyebrow stud. “What you want to know.”
Everything. But he’d get to that. “Show me the inside of your forearm.”
Blondie and Eye Patch shifted, covering their leader’s six.
The warning was subtle. The show of muscle was not. Wick’s mouth curved. The pair were devoted to Azrad. Good. Solidarity equaled strength. An excellent sign. It said a lot about the male seated across from him. A leader who instilled loyalty and love instead of fear was admirable. Maybe even ally worthy.
His expression closed, Azrad shook his head.
Wick held the line. “I need to see it.”
“Fuck,” the male growled under his breath. A moment later, he complied. Unlacing his fingers, he turned his wrist out. A muscle jumped along his jaw as he glared at Wick. “Satisfied?”
Not even close.
Wick nodded anyway, his gaze on the scar that marred the inside of Azrad’s forearm. Fucking hell. Never mind suspicion, instinct made a better bedmate. His had been right. Then again, having graduated from the same hellhole, calling Azrad out hadn’t been all that difficult. Even so, the sight of the brand drove revulsion to the surface, making Wick remember and his stomach churn. He swallowed the burn, unable to look away from the proof of the Archguard’s cruelty.
So obscene. So barbaric. So completely unnecessary.
And yet, the depravity of the mark remained.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Wick dropped it behind him. As the leather hit the floor, he rolled up his sleeve. An inch below his elbow joint, the Dragonese symbols—seven digits strong—marred the skin on the inside of his own forearm.
