Fury of Desire

Bastian knew how to operate, and as much as it chafed Nian to admit it, he admired the warrior for it. “I’m almost positive Rodin and Ivar are in league together. All the income from the fight clubs and slave auctions… and there is a lot of it… isn’t hitting his personal accounts. It’s being funneled elsewhere.”

“You tracking it?” the blond male asked.

Nian nodded. “Trying to, but he’s clever. Good at hiding his illegal holdings along with the money trail. But that’s not the most immediate problem.”

Bastian raised a brow. “How do you figure?”

“Rodin is calling a special meeting of the high counsel. He wants Lothair’s death ruled illegal… treated as murder. Charges will be levied against a member of your pack.”

“Who?”

“Forge.”

Bastian cursed. The Nightfury warriors standing behind him backed the sentiment. As f-bombs dropped, clouding the airwaves, Nian dished the rest. “He will demand you deliver Forge to Prague for trial.”

“And execution,” Bastian said, quick on the uptake. The trial would be nothing more than a ruse. A sham conducted behind closed doors. Oh, Rodin would make it look good. Court favor among Dragonkind by playing make-believe—using sleight of hand and rumor to establish the male’s guilt—when in reality, Forge would never see the inside of the Archguard’s tribunal courtroom. “Why Forge?”

“I don’t know, but…” Nian trailed off, then let his suspicions loose. “Rodin is rattled, scrambling to cover up something… afraid of Forge for some reason. But he has no proof of his involvement in Lothair’s death, of that I am certain.”

Bastian snorted. “He’ll manufacture what he needs.”

“Probably, but here’s the kicker.” Plucking his lighter from its perch beside the laptop, Nian flicked at the top. The snap echoed, sounding loud in the quiet. “When you fail to produce Forge, the entire Nightfury pack will fall under suspicion. Rodin will then have reason to reinstate the old laws and—”

“Jesus,” Bastian growled. “Xzinile.”

“Exile.” The blond snarled, showing a row of straight white teeth. “And a bull’s-eye on our backs for every bounty hunter around.”

“It’s a power play, Rikar.” Twisting in his seat, the Nightfury commander glanced over his shoulder. He met his warrior’s gaze and shook his head. “Hell, the bastard’s after me.”

As Nian nodded, another round of low curses came through the speakers.

Facing forward once more, Bastian pushed to his feet. Both hands curled into fists, he walked closer to the camera and plugged Nian with an intense look. “When’s the vote?”

“Night after tomorrow.”

“Can you stall it?”

“Maybe.” Nian frowned, mind churning over viable options. The best ones lay in the letter of the law. If he put up too many roadblocks, suspicion would fall on him, and Rodin would guess his game. Turning the lighter over in his hand, he brushed his thumb over the crest engraved in the gold. “There are certain criteria Rodin must follow to reinstate Xzinile. If I make him jump through all the hoops, it’ll take more time.”

“Good,” Bastian said with a nod. “Keep me in the loop.”

Nian leaned forward in his chair. “Can I count on you to keep me in yours?”

A bold inquiry with potentially disastrous consequences. A wise male didn’t tweak a powerful dragon’s tail. Nian knew it but didn’t care… couldn’t pass up the opportunity to secure Bastian’s support. He’d waited months for a face-to-face with the Nightfury commander—to acquire what he needed to move forward with his plans for the Archguard. Now that he’d done his part and given Bastian valuable intel along with his trust? Nian wanted something in return. The warrior’s stamp of approval. Something that wouldn’t cost Bastian much up front, but held the potential to yield vast returns for years to come.

Green eyes narrowed on him. “Excuse me?”

“I scratch your back… you scratch mine.” Holding the lethal male’s gaze, Nian pushed his agenda. “I want what you want, Bastian… Rodin’s head on a platter. I can’t achieve that without your backing. Do I have it?”

Silence met his question. Terrible and effective, the quiet spread, filling the void, slithering in like a poisonous snake—silent, venomous, deadly. Cranked tight by uncertainty, tension wrung him dry as pressure banded around his chest. Smothering his reaction, Nian breathed around the knot in his throat and stayed true, refusing to back down. The outcome was too important. Everything hinged on the next few moments. On Bastian’s decision and—

“You have it,” Bastian murmured. “But Nian?”

“Yes?”

“Disappoint me, and you die.”

A promise in his eyes, Bastian warned him with a look, then turned and walked away. Unease picked up his heart, making it slam against his breastbone as Nian watched the Nightfury commander stride toward the door across the room. A second later, the computer screen went black, severing the connection, leaving him in the dark and without the reassurance he craved. Nor the triumphant moment he’d expected.

Christ help him. After months of planning, he’d finally gotten what he wanted, so… Nian frowned. Why wasn’t he celebrating? He should be. Should be relieved, thankful he now had the powerful male’s backing, but…

He wasn’t grateful at all. Not happy either. Instead, he felt wary. Out on the tip of a very thin limb. Uncomfortable in his own skin, ’cause… no doubt about it. He had a bad, bad feeling. One that suggested he’d just allowed a shark into shallow water, inviting him to swim in his private wading pool.

17

Still perched on the examination table after her checkup, J.?J. pulled a T-shirt over her head and eyed her fancy new walking cast, although it looked more like a boot than anything else. A royal blue one with ugly Velcro straps and no fashion sense. She refused to complain. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and given the fact she’d just been given a clean bill of health, ungratefulness seemed like a stretch.

A big one, considering she was still breathing.

Alive and well. An excellent state of grace.

Wiggling her toes, J.?J. shifted on the tabletop. Paper crinkled beneath her as a faint ache ghosted up her calf. She huffed. Well all right, clean bill of health might be a bit of an exaggeration. Her broken ankle still hurt, and her side? Even though Myst had removed the neat row of sutures—declaring her almost healed—it still ached like the devil, nailing her with a sharp jab if she moved too fast. But other than that? She was good to go.

All thanks to Wick. The guy packed one heck of a punch on the healing front. Miraculous? Sure. A welcome turn of events? Absolutely. Especially since she’d come out of surgery just under forty-eight hours ago.

Another round of thankfulness sank deep.

Lucky. She was so damned lucky. Evidence of it lay in the way he’d treated her, but also across the room.

J.?J. glanced toward the bank of stainless steel cabinets and the two women who’d served as her lifeline over the last hour. Busy stowing medical tools and extra supplies, the pair stood side by side in front of the countertop. A pretty picture. One J.?J. knew well. She’d grown up watching them. Best friends forever. Most girls said that at some point but then let it go, drifting away from each other as life pulled them in different directions. Not these two. Myst and her sister were rock solid. Had been since the third grade, and as J.?J. listened to her sister laugh—the sound lightening her heart by the second—she marveled at the irony.

Such different life paths. Prison for her. Career and community for them. Two completely different roads, and yet, here she sat…

Sharing the same space inside Black Diamond’s medical clinic.