Fury of Desire

fighting and killing… that first day when he’d balked, and that awful man had tied a knife to his hand, then thrust him into the ring. God. The images made her ache from the inside out. For the little boy with the golden eyes, looking so lost and afraid. For the young man as Wick struggled against chains, screaming in agony as the red-hot poker seared his skin.

Leaving the terrible brand behind on his forearm.

Goddamn sons of bitches. The bastards had hurt him so badly.

Tears stung her eyes as sorrow invaded her heart. J.?J. willed them away. Crying would only make Angela ask questions. Ones she refused to answer. Wick deserved his privacy. His past was his own to share. Or not. The decision belonged to him and—

“My lady!” The bellow echoed down the corridor.

Sharing a look with Angela, J.?J. vaulted to her feet. Something was wrong. She could hear it in Daimler’s voice. Heard it in the rapid thump of footfalls outside the gymnasium door. Felt it in every beat as her heart picked up the vibe, hammering the inside of her breastbone.

“My lady, where are you?” Daimler yelled, his tone so panic-filled it raised the fine hair on J.?J.’s nape. “Myst!”

“In the clinic, Daimler,” she shouted even though she couldn’t see the butler yet. Ahead of Angela, J.?J. sprinted across the gym. As she reached the door, Daimler sped past, tuxedo tails flapping, arms and legs pumping. Oh no. Oh shit… shit, shit, shit. Not good. The elf seemed an unflappable sort, but right now? Calm was history, leaving nothing but alarm in its wake. “She’s in the clinic!”

“What’s wrong?” Shoving past her, Angela skidded to a stop in the middle of the hall. Breathing hard, her eyes glued to the elf, she watched him run toward the clinic. “Who’s injured?”

Dark eyes wide with fear, Daimler glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride. “I don’t know, my lady, but it’s bad and—”

The wall dead-ending the corridor wavered.

Rooted to the floor, J.?J. held her breath. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

“Please, God,” Angela whispered, gaze riveted to the magical entrance. “Not Rikar. Please don’t let it be…”

A dull roar in her ears, J.?J. didn’t hear her friend say the last word, but filled in the blank, erasing Rikar’s name to insert Wick’s. Please, don’t let it be Wick. As the words bounced around inside her head, J.?J. understood true desperation, and how very awful she could be. God, how depraved. How completely bent… to wish harm on another so that the man she loved stayed whole. But she couldn’t help it. The thought of Wick injured sent her into a tailspin. Did terrible things to her sense of right and wrong. To her sense of fair play. All she wanted in that moment was for it to be anyone but him.

Selfish. Twisted. Beyond terrible, considering she stood beside a woman mated to a Nightfury warrior. One who would die the instant he did.

Her throat closed as ancient stone rippled, undulating in the low light. The portal expanded to form a doorway, allowing her to see into the cavern beyond. A trio came into view. Three dark heads bent, two warriors bookended one, half carrying, half dragging the injured party. Her gaze riveted to the group, J.?J. shook her head. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as one of them looked her way. Fierce golden eyes met hers. J.?J.’s knees went weak. Oh, thank God. Not Wick. It wasn’t Wick. He wasn’t hurt, but…

Jesus be merciful. Forge.

The warrior was in bad shape. Worse than bad. He looked dead: unconscious, toes of his boots dragging on the ground, blood covering his torso—as Mac and Wick carried him into the clinic, leaving bloody streaks on the floor in their wake.

Head pounding like a motherfucker, Wick lifted his injured comrade onto the examination table. Injured. Fuck, what an understatement. Forge was torn wide open, still bleeding like a sieve, so close to death Wick didn’t know what to do. Scream in agony for his fallen comrade. Or pick up a scalpel and gut himself for hurting his friend.

Death seemed preferable. To the pain. To the shame. To the guilt.

Fisting his hands in his hair, he stepped back from the table, but refused to look away. From the blood. From the gaping wounds. From the certain knowledge he’d put Forge at death’s door. Fucking hell. He’d done this. Was the cause and effect. The one responsible for all the chaos and pain. Had he done his job and stuck to the plan, instead of jumping the gun—going off half-cocked into battle, dragging his pack with him—his comrade wouldn’t be laid out on the table. A heartbeat away from losing his life.

His fault. It was all his fault.

“Jesus,” he rasped, glancing down at his hands. Smeared with blood, he watched them tremble. His throat clogged as remorse and self-loathing collided. The sound of ripping fabric brought his head back up. An intense expression on her face, Myst cut Forge’s blood-soaked shirt away, revealing the extent of the wounds. His eyes stung as he met her gaze. “You have to save him. Please save him, Myst. What can I do? Tell me what to—”

“Get out of the way,” she said, her tone so calm it jolted him. In control. In command of her domain. In her element. The realization gave Wick hope. He took a step back. And then another, giving her space, doing what she asked, praying hard as his shoulder blades collided with the back wall. “And get Sloan. I need another set of hands.”

Pacing the floor in front of him, Mac spun toward the exit.

The glass doors slid open.

“I’m here.” Sloan sprinted into the room, cutting Mac off. “Talk to me.”

Her hand rose, then fell as Myst sewed another suture. “Get an IV going.”

“On it.” Boots thumping, Sloan rounded the end of the table. He slid to a stop next to a rolling table. Grabbing a bag filled with clear liquid, he prepped the kit, and working around Myst, pierced Forge’s vein. Tape hissed as Sloan peeled it from the roll. As he secured the IV, he treated Wick to a worried look. “Get Angela and J.?J. in here. Myst can’t feed him because of her pregnancy, and he needs an infusion of energy. And Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“Go get Tania. We may need her too.”

Mac nodded. Wick cringed as his buddy ran for the exit. Shit. Jamison feeding Forge. The idea struck him as dangerous. Particularly since the thought made his dragon half rise with aggression. A bonded male didn’t share his female. Ever. But as he watched Myst work, Wick knew no other option existed. Nothing else would work. Forge needed to feed. If he didn’t, the warrior would die. Wouldn’t survive the hour, never mind last the day. Even with the energy-fuse, he might not make it anyway, but—

The airlock hissed, opening the door into the corridor.

Out of breath, Jamison jogged into the clinic. “Mac said you needed us.”

“What can we do?” Angela asked.

“A lot.” Eyeballing Jamison, Sloan waved her over. “J.?J., you first. Come here. I’ll talk you through it.”

With a nod, his female headed toward the table. A growl rolled up Wick’s throat. Primitive. Possessive. Predatory. The soft snarl curled through the quiet. Like razor-sharp dragon claws, warning gouged at the underbelly of sanity, taking Wick out of his head into another place. A space where instinct ruled and logic didn’t live. His gaze on his female, he bared his teeth. Magic thundered through him, rumbling in his veins, making him twitch with the need to possess her.

His hands curled into fists, Wick took a step toward her.

Seeing his expression, Jamison sucked in a quick breath, and halfway across the clinic, stopped short. Her gaze locked on him, she whispered his name. In welcome. With need. With so much heat, Wick lost all sense of himself and his surroundings.

He wanted her. Right now. He needed to dominate. Prove his dominion and show everyone that Jamison belonged to him. She was his.

All his. No one else’s.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Dark eyes shimmering, Sloan fired up mind-speak. “Venom, get your ass in here. Bring B and Rikar with you. Wick’s losing it.”

Staring at him, Jamison licked her bottom lip. Lust spiraled deep, igniting a longing so profound Wick couldn’t contain it. Another growl rolled out of him. Venom skidded to a stop in front of the clinic with B and Rikar