Claws snicked as Mac and Forge took flight from their hidey-hole.
But it was too late.
Ivar was already on the wire, sending out a distress call, rousing the rogues inside the club. As Venom felt them rise and head for the exits, he shifted into dragon form. Hands and feet turning to talons, he zeroed in on Wick and… ah, hell. No way would he catch him now. His friend was already out of range. Exploding over the roof edge. Black amber-tipped scales flashing, golden gaze aglow as he painted a target on Ivar’s chest. With a muttered curse, Venom bared his fangs and leapt after him. Goddamn it. So much for the element of surprise. Wick had destroyed their advantage with one clean swipe. A dumb-ass move. One that might get his friend killed if Venom didn’t move fast.
As a squadron of Razorbacks took flight from Deuce’s roof, Wick called himself an idiot. Straight up, stone- cold, dead to rights, he’d just earned the Boy Scout’s imbecile badge by breaking cover too soon. Shit… shit… and triple
Not his usual MO.
Mistakes didn’t happen around him. Ever. Then again, there was a first time for everything. Now happened to be a perfect example. Had he used the sense God gave him, he’d still be hunkered down, waiting for Ivar and his posse to land. The trio would’ve made one hell of a target sitting on Deuce’s rooftop. Instead, the rogue leader was in full flight, hauling ass in the opposite direction with his new buddies—the river-rat and company—while enemy soldiers closed ranks around him.
Fucking hell. Had he said idiot earlier? Well, strike that. Asshole made way more sense.
Tucking his wings, he rocketed into a spiral, threading the needle between two rogues. The pair snarled and lashed out. Enemy claws raked his side. Blood welled on his rib cage. Wick embraced the pain, let it expand, knowing he deserved it. For not thinking straight. For making a mistake. For dragging his brothers-in-arms into his fuck up. And as his pack flew in behind him to engage the enemy, Wick wanted to kick his own ass. Or ask Venom to do it for him.
His best friend was bang on. Dumb-ass move was right. Idiocy to the next power. Especially since what drove him had nothing to do with the mission.
Anger. Doubt. Despair. All those fit the bill, explaining the
All because he needed a fight.
A ball-busting brawl to help him forget. To blot out the reality of what he must do when he got home. Let Jamison go. Send her away. Free her to live the life she was meant to, not the one he knew she would suffer with him.
The right thing to do. It was the best thing for her. But even as he faced the truth, he hated the outcome. He didn’t want to do it. Keeping her sounded better to him. And claiming her… in the way of his kind? Shit, that seemed like the best plan of all. A selfish male would do it. Say to hell with the consequences and take what he craved. Too bad egocentric wasn’t on his dance card.
And didn’t punch his ticket.
Despite his many faults, he refused to trap her. Jamison deserved more than he would ever be able to give her. So no matter how much it pained him, he would force himself to let her go. Push her away. Be honorable for once. Do whatever it took to make her leave Black Diamond and start a new life without him.
But first? He would get his fight.
With a snarl, he sideswiped a Razorback. As the male squawked, Wick flipped up, rotated over and… crack! A fast grab. A quicker twist snapped the enemy dragon’s neck. Leaving him to ash out in midair, he went after another. Senses sharp, he kept an eye on Ivar’s retreat. Not that he could go far. Forge and Mac were on their game, playing the trump card. Wick grinned as he cracked another skull. Score one for the wonder twins. The pair were right where they needed to be: cutting off Ivar’s retreat, hemming him in, making him fight instead of turn tail and run.
Speed supersonic, a rogue went wings vertical, rocketing along Wick’s right side. Sound warped. Dragon scales rattled. Claws gleaming in the moonlight, the bastard took a shot at him. Wick arched, torqueing into a sidewinding flip. Up. Over. Around and… oh yeah. The enemy caught nothing but air, missing him by inches.
He bared his fangs and hissed in satisfaction. Aerial acrobatics… his specialty.
One that worked like a charm as he twisted out of the spin. The move put him in prime position behind a trio of Razorbacks. In the strike zone, Wick lashed out. Claws met scales. He dug in. The razor-sharp tips punched through bone. His talon closed around the fucker’s beating heart. With a snarl, Wick yanked. Arterial spray splattered across the back of his paw. The smell of blood expanded, then disappeared as the enemy’s heart ashed in his palm. His wing-mates roared as their buddy disintegrated in midair, and Wick got ready.
Oh baby. Imminent attack. Not much better than that.
Wings spread wide, he banked hard as the other two rogues attacked. Timing it to perfection, Wick rolled into a somersault. Meathead number one tried to adjust. Too late. He was already in position, poised to strike above the male’s spine. Wick didn’t hesitate. Coming out of the tuck, he fisted the rogue’s horns. The enemy dragon screamed. He twisted, snapping the fucker’s neck, and swung around. His eyes narrowed on the last rogue. In full panic mode, the male wing flapped for a second, no doubt trying to decide. Take him on. Or run and hide. Wick banked wide right, hoping for the first, but…
No such luck. Wick growled in disgust. Aw, come on. Was the idiot really going to—
“Shit,” he muttered as the Razorback turned and fled in the opposite direction.
Increasing his wing speed, Wick chased after him, slicing between two skyscrapers. Glass rattled in steel frames. Refusing to lose the male, Wick banked around the bend, his wing tip inches from a building corner. His sonar pinged, narrowing his senses. Street lights blurred into streaks beneath him. He hummed as he came within range of his target.
Less than fifty feet away. Excellent. Right in the sweet spot.
A bull’s-eye locked on the rogue’s back, Wick drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. A fireball gathered at the back of his throat and… yum. He loved the taste. Couldn’t get enough of his arsenal’s cause and effect either.
Deadly. Efficient. Incendiary. The trifecta of nastiness was a gift that kept on giving.
One the Razorbacks underestimated all the time. The enemy never saw it coming. Not that Wick lamented the fact. The chemical complexities of his exhale elevated his game. Had all kind of layers: blue flame on the outside, the ooey-gooey goodness of lava on the inside, a layer of poisonous gas between the two.
Sweet and sour with a hit of hot sauce.
The rogue zigzagged, dodging between buildings. Wick hopscotched a smokestack. Time to head the asshole off at the pass. Magma splashed over his back molars. Whipping into a tight turn, Wick bared his fangs and started the countdown.
Three…
Fire licked over his tongue.
Two…
Lethal gases combined, rising up his throat.
One…
Wick pulled the trigger. The ravenous ball shot from his throat. Heat went cataclysmic. The inferno sucked the oxygen out of the air, hellish tail streaking behind it, hissing through the darkness, obliterating the chill. The Razorback yelled and scrambled, trying to get out of the way…
Boom!
The rogue screamed in agony. Wick dodged to avoid the splash-back of lava-infused fireball. Smoke billowed upward. The smell of burning scales and scorched bone putrefied the air, and—
Mission accomplished. One roasted Razorback plummeting out of the sky.
Wick watched him burn a second, then wheeled around, looking for his next target. Huh. None in sight. Which could only mean one thing. He’d flown far afield, chasing the rogue out of the kill zone… where his
