Fury of Desire

stifling his reaction. Jesus. He should’ve known Venom would react like this. He knew the male better than anyone. Understood his best friend’s desire to protect. Venom needed to be needed. It was written in his DNA. Put the major savior complex Venom carried around like luggage together with the history they shared and… yeah. It was only natural that his friend react to the shifting landscape—the one in which he cleaved to Jamison instead of Venom.

Sixty years was a long time to look after someone else. To be relied upon. To sacrifice for another without a thought to the toll it took on yourself. Wick understood. He felt the same way about Venom. They were brothers —by choice, if not by blood—but time didn’t heal all wounds, and habits had a way of becoming chains.

Maybe it was time he freed Venom of the burden.

Blowing out a breath, Wick opened his mouth to do just that.

Venom cut him off. “Are you going to keep her?”

“No,” he said, his gaze seeking and finding Jamison. She laughed at something Angela said. His heart lightened at the sound, then sank again, making dread pool in the pit of his stomach. “I’m going to set her free instead.”

Venom frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to—”

“Lads,” Forge said, Scottish accent drifting across the rotunda.

Meeting the Scot’s gaze, Wick assessed the damage. The shadows in Forge’s eyes told the tale. He’d already been cornered by Bastian, information the name of the game. Everyone wanted to know what the male knew—the why behind Rodin’s sudden fixation, the reason behind the call to arms. Or rather, the planned assassination. Not that B would tell them. At least, not yet. His commander was good like that, respecting a male’s privacy, keeping a lid on secrets until no other option existed but to share the intel with the rest of the pack.

Wick admired B for his tactics. Most days anyway. But as Forge approached, the hem of the navy-blue ceremonial robe brushing over his bare feet, he ached for his comrade. Whatever the sins of his past, the Scot didn’t deserve to be singled out by the Archguard. Or carry the guilt of putting the entire Nightfury pack in the limelight, a giant bull’s-eye on each one of their backs.

A frown furrowing his brows, Forge adjusted his hold on his son, holding him against his shoulder as he came abreast of him and Venom. Eyes the same deep purple as his sire’s locked onto Wick. Giving him a stern look, the baby babbled an incomprehensible string of syllables. Wick’s lips twitched. Man, the kid was talkative… and kind of funny looking with the dark mohawk sticking up in the center of his head.

Brushing past him, Forge headed for one of the archways. “Meeting in the living room, lads. We got five minutes. After that the wedding feast goes on the table and—”

The kid squawked again, eyeballing Wick from over his father’s shoulder.

“Daimler kicks our asses,” Wick said, finishing the Scot’s sentence as he smiled at the kid. He couldn’t help it. G. M. might be pint-size, but he was opinionated. Not to mention cute as hell.

Kissing the top of his son’s head, Forge nodded. “Pretty much verbatim.”

With a tug, Venom tightened the belt on his robe. “Better get a move on then.”

No kidding. Only an idiot crossed Daimler. One who didn’t care if he ever ate well again.

Following the Scot’s lead, Wick trotted down the steps into the living room. The epitome of casual, the space invited a male to sit down and stay a while. A usual occurrence considering the size of the couch. Kitted out in leather, the custom sectional took up all the real estate in front of the double-sided stone fireplace separating living from dining room. Floor-to-ceiling windows marched along one side, giving moonlight a frame as it peeked from behind the roll of thunderclouds. Throw in the foosball and twin pool tables. Kick up the comfort with fifteen deep-seated armchairs set up theater-style in front of the huge flat screen TV complete with a high-tech video game console. A catchall, the room functioned as a hangout, drawing the Nightfury warriors into the play zone most afternoons.

Heading for his usual spot, Wick strode in behind the couch… and the Nightfury resident computer genius. Ass-planted on the back of the sectional, combat boots on the seat cushions, computer in his lap, Sloan frowned at the screen. Wick glanced over the male’s shoulder, getting a quick snapshot on the flyby. E-mail up and running. Video conference software blinking. A map of Prague on-screen.

“Anything?”

Sloan shook his head. “No word yet.”

Fuck. Not good. Where the hell were Gage and Haider hiding? “B know?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, sending a furtive glance in Bastian’s direction. A scowl on his face, their commander sat down opposite Sloan and set his size fourteens on the glass-topped coffee table. “He ain’t happy about it.”

“I can see that,” Wick said, getting the lay of the land with a quick scan.

All the boys were in attendance. Still dressed in their ceremonial robes. Bare feet sticking out from beneath each hem. Looking like a bunch of thuggish monks. Wick swallowed a snort. Monks. Right. The sex-crazed lot he called his brothers had never come close to the distinction. He’d been the only one who qualified for the title. But after a day spent with Jamison, the official report was in. There wasn’t a monkish thing about him.

Not anymore.

Thank fuck.

His eyes narrowed, Wick swept the interior again. AWOL. His female was no longer in the room. Ears tuned, he shut out the low rumble of masculine voices to listen for female ones. He picked out a trio of them as he skirted one of the pool tables. The vantage point gave him a clear view into the dining room. Ah, and there she was, standing beside the table, chatting with her sister and Myst, looking incredible in an off-the-shoulder gown. The amber silk complemented her coloring, making her skin glow and her dark hair seem more black than brown. Accepting a lighter from Daimler, she flicked it, no doubt planning to light the candles in front of the place settings.

A single flame sparked to life.

Wick snuffed it out.

As she frowned and shook the lighter, he sent his magic swirling. Fire flared, attacking individual wicks, setting candles aglow. With a soft indrawn breath, Jamison glanced his way. He tipped his chin. Gifting him with a slow, sexy smile, she mouthed “thank you,” making him feel ten feet tall.

“Yo, Wick. You with us, laddie?”

The comment brought Wick’s head around. Forge raised a brow, the look sending a clear message. One that sounded like “hello, anybody home?” Wick killed the need to cringe. Shit. He really needed to pay better attention. Not the easiest thing to do at the moment. Jamison distracted the hell out of him.

“I’m good,” he said, getting back with the program. A couple of strides put him even with the fireplace. Settling into his usual spot, Wick propped his shoulder against the timber-beamed mantelpiece. “Lay it out.”

Shifting in his seat, Bastian glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up, Ange.”

“Like I was saying… we’ve got a lead. I found a couple of interesting references in a financial statement.” Decked out in an ice-blue gown, the ex-cop held up a red file folder. A sharp gleam in her hazel eyes, she skimmed over the crowd in the room. “Any of you ever heard of Deuce’s?”

“I have. It’s a private club downtown. BDSM, I think. Very exclusive. Very expensive.” Stepping alongside his best friend, Mac plucked the folder out of Angela’s hand. As he flipped it open and scanned the contents, he whistled long and low. “Wasn’t Vice looking into this when you worked with that squad, Ange?”

“Yeah,” she said. “We knew lots of illegal crap was going down inside. Drugs. Prostitution. Illegal gambling too. Problem was—”

Bastian cursed. “You couldn’t prove it.”

“Exactly. It was like trying to hit a moving target with a peashooter. Totally impossible to get a line on, never mind make anything stick.”

“Stands to reason,” Rikar said, lacing his fingers with Angela’s. Treating his mate to a heated look, the Nightfury XO pressed his mouth to the back of her hand… against the mating mark that matched his own. As Wick watched, his throat went tight. Deep-seated sorrow followed, surprising him even as he accepted it. He would never do that… never treat Jamison with such open affection. “If the club is a Dragonkind asset—”

“It’ll be surrounded by powerful magic,” Bastian murmured, interrupting his best friend. “A smoke screen to keep the humans off the trail. One worthy of Ivar.”

Wick hummed, excitement sinking deep. Finally. A viable lead. Something to stick a target on. “Could be his