“No one deserves to die, Wick.”
“Not true,” he said, conviction in his tone. “I kill males who deserve it all the time.”
J. J. blinked. All the time? Oh boy, that didn’t sound good.
“Like, ah…” J. J. swallowed, wondering whether or not to ask. She didn’t want to piss him off, but safety required a certain amount of due diligence. Despite her reservations, she needed to know. “The dragons in the clearing?”
Watching her with predatory interest, he nodded and rolled his shoulders. Muscle reacted, rippling under his T-shirt, tightening over his biceps, sending shockwaves through her. Wow, he was strong. Way out of her league. Far too dangerous, and yet, intriguing too. A puzzle in need of solving. One she found difficult to resist.
Which posed a huge problem.
She didn’t need any more trouble. Didn’t want to feel the fascination either, but denying the pull wouldn’t make it go away. Wick owned her attention… and something else too. Her interest. Not good. Or even close to smart. He was a Dragonkind guy. She was a damaged girl. Nothing good would come from setting herself up for a fall. Now if only she could stop the questions whirling inside her head.
And her love of a good mystery.
Easier said than done.
Wick presented a fascinating conundrum. Quiet. Reserved. Yet willing to sit with her. She saw the dichotomy. Recognized its ilk and labeled it within seconds. Wick carried the mark of the exiled. Was branded by pain and the past… just like her.
“So you killed them because…” Flipping her hands palm up, she paused, playing fill in the blanks.
“We’re at war.”
“Why?”
“Long story and—”
“I’ve got time.”
“I’m more interested in you.” Boots flat on the floor, he planted his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her.
A stranglehold on the sheets, she shuffled on the mattress. Silly, she knew, but no matter how much he interested her, she didn’t want him to come any closer. Not yet. Maybe not ever. A death grip on her urge to turn tail and run, J. J. bit the inside of her cheek. Her reaction bordered on irrational, but knowing it didn’t stop the pit of her stomach from churning. Or her relief when he straightened and pushed back another foot, making the stool squawk, giving her space, making her wonder…
Could he feel her apprehension? J. J. frowned, rolling the assumption over in her mind. Logic said no. Instinct countered, throwing a big, fat yes into the ring.
His expression unreadable, he ran his gaze over her. “How are you feeling?”
“About what… the scary dragon stuff? Or in general?”
His lips twitched. “In general.”
“Okay, I guess. A lot better than before, but then…” Dropping her gaze to the bandage on her forearm, she picked at the tape and peeled the gauze away. J. J. sucked in a soft breath. Holy moly, that was weird. Blood on the bandage, but no cut in sight. No scar either. A little freaked out but mostly grateful, she rubbed the smooth skin, then held her arm out for Wick’s inspection. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Hoping and knowing are two different things, vanzäla.”
Vanzäla? An endearment of some kind?
J. J. smiled, enjoying the possibility. No one had ever given her a pet name before. The idea struck a chord, making her insides warm with appreciation. Why? She had no godly idea. It was a stupid, knee-jerk response to the deep timbre of his voice, but… ah, hell. He sounded so good, like coffee ice cream smothered in dark chocolate sauce. Her absolute favorite. And foolish or not, she couldn’t deny she liked the sound of him.
“How did you do it?”
“The healing?” When she nodded, he said, “I’m half dragon, remember?”
Right. Of course. Dumb question, considering she’d spent the last hour watching him sleep, trying to come to terms with that fact. “So it’s magic or something?”
“Or something.”
“Well, aren’t you a wealth of information,” she said, reacting to his deflection. Or his unwillingness to share. Whatever the case, he preferred short answers. Four words or less seemed to be the norm for Wick. “All right, I’ll leave that one alone… for now… but—”
He snorted.
“But,” she said, a warning in her tone. Not that he cared. He was too busy laughing at her. Okay, not out loud or anything—he was too smart for that—but she could see the amusement in his eyes. Which honestly? Rubbed her the wrong way. “You can at least answer the next one.”
“What’s that?”
Sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she sat sideways on the mattress, allowing her cast to dangle alongside her bare foot. She twirled her hand in the air, the gesture encompassing the room. “Where did you bring me?”
“Black Diamond. My home.” Tilting his head to one side, he glanced toward the door. “Your sister’s now too.”
Hope hammered her, punching through to her heart. “Tania’s here?”
With a nod, he pushed to his feet. Footfalls thumping, he rounded the end of the bed, his trajectory a straight shot to the door. “She was with you until dawn.”
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“You were out of it, but—”
“Where is she?” she asked, anticipation making her twitch. Unable to stay still, she hopped off the bed. Balanced on her good leg, she hobbled alongside the metal frame, following Wick’s retreat. “Can you take me to her?”
“No need, vanzäla.” Already across the room, he cranked down on the handle and shoved the door wide. A second later, he crossed the threshold into the corridor beyond. His deep voice drifted over his shoulder, sliding between the door and its frame. “She’s already here.”
She frowned, not understanding. What did he mean? She couldn’t see a—
The door started to swing shut.
A silhouette appeared in the hallway.
A death grip on the footboard, she sucked in a quick breath. Long hair pulled into a ponytail, Tania raced into the room. Feet doing double time, her sister yelled her name. Tears pooled in J. J.’s eyes. She couldn’t help it. Could hardly believe it was real, never mind happening.
Freedom. A reunion with her sister. Both of them safe at long last.
Three things J. J. knew never to take for granted.
And as she met Tania in the middle of the room and hugged her tight, J. J. knew who to thank. Wick. He’d made it possible. Had not only saved her life, but given her back the only thing she regretted losing… her family. For that, she owed him a debt of gratitude. One she would never be able to repay. But she would try, give him every ounce of appreciation he deserved… just as soon as she managed to let go of her sister.
Wings spread in flight, Nian descended through thick cloud cover. As cold wind gusts blew the last wisp away, rushing over his scales, he tightened the cloaking spell. Magic spiraled around his torso, making him disappear into thin air. With a low growl, he bared his fangs on a smile.
Perfect. Per usual. The humans wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Exactly the outcome he wanted.
He didn’t have time to fool around. Or to play memory scrub with inferior human minds. Not tonight. Not with the meeting less than two hours away. Sensation curled in the pit of his stomach. Nerves? Anticipation? Probably a bit of both considering the high stakes… and even more dangerous circumstances. Playing both ends against the middle took patience, and steering Dragonkind in a new direction—one rooted in honor, instead of depravity—incredible skill.
Good thing he possessed both. Now all he needed was an ace in the hole.
Only one male fit the bill. Bastian.
The Nightfury commander was a formidable leader. The kind Nian required in his corner. An unequaled strategist, Bastian saw the whole board, moving each piece with skill and unbending commitment. A warrior’s warrior. A male’s male. Which explained his caution… along with his failures. He’d tried the polite way first, appr
oaching Haider and Gage in the hopes of gaining their trust and cooperation. Too smart by half, the Metallics played the game with a precision that he admired. But he couldn’t continue to be diplomatic. Or wait any longer. Actions spoke louder than words, so tonight he planned to roust the chess master and convince the Nightfury commander to knock Rodin off the board for good.
Not a bad plan, all things considered.
As long as he survived to see it put into motion.
Nian banked east toward the city center. Awash in the glitter of moonlight, the Vltava River snaked through Prague, leading him over red-tiled rooftops and cobblestone streets. Nestled at the heart of Old Town, the Emblem Club held down one corner of Main Street, a fixture along an avenue noted for them. Of the many establishments he owned, the Emblem was his favorite. Old school. Distinguished. A gentlemen’s cigar club steeped in tradition.
The perfect venue for his conference call with Bastian.
Night vision sharp, he circled overhead. Seeing nothing but deserted, fog-soaked streets, he folded his wings. Gravity took hold. With a hum, he dropped like stone between rooftops, paws thumping down on cracked pavement. The spikes along his spine rattled, clicking together a moment before he shifted to human form and conjured his clothes, opting for casual instead of his usual fare. A suit and tie wouldn’t impress the Nightfury commander. From what he knew, the male preferred rough around the edges, so… why the hell not? Might as well do the unexpected, dress like a warrior instead of a pampered aristocrat.
The gold lighter, though, Nian couldn’t forgo.
He never left home without it. And as he turned toward the Emblem’s back entrance, disengaged the alarm and swung the door wide, habit took hold. Or maybe it was compulsion. Nian didn’t know. Didn’t want to examine the need too closely either. Instead, he slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled the lighter into the open air, and thumped the top.
Click-click-snap. Click-click-snap. Click-click-snap.
The sound centered him. The repetitive motion soothed him. And the cool metal against his palm? Well now, that brought clarity, sharpening his focus as he strode out of the damp alley and into the open foyer. Glancing to his left, his gaze skimmed the staircase leading to the upper floor and another of his nightclubs. Nothing and nobody. Excellent. All the patrons had gone home. His employees had done their jobs, locking up before doing the same. Another mental twist opened the security door, and the Emblem Club beckoned. Sharp and pungent, the scent of cigar smoke mixed with a hint of alcohol, the combo welcoming him into his home away from home.
Nian smiled as he crossed into the club. Dark but for a single light behind the long wooden bar, his night vision sparked. He scanned the space like a businessman, ensuring everything was in its proper place. Details jumped out at him: chairs upended on tabletops, the wide-planked floors shined to a polish, the green-and-gold damask curtains tied back while the tasseled edges—
A tingle slid over the nape of his neck. The muscles bracketing his spine tightened as Nian swallowed a curse and glanced toward the rear of the club. Clad in shadow, a male stared out from the midst of darkness.
“About time you got here, Nian.” The voice slithered out from a corner booth, cracking through the quiet, a slight slur in the intonation. Ice clinked against glass. “Where the hell have you been all night?”
Nian bit down on another curse. Accustomed to ambushes, he smoothed his expression. No sense giving away the game before it began. But as he met his nemesis’s gaze, he nearly slipped off the I’m-in-control wagon. Hellfire and brimstone. Rodin. The tiresome bastard had the worst timing.
“With my accountant.” Not a lie, exactly. A half-truth at best. Moving farther into the club, Nian skirted a couple of tables.
Dark eyes glittering, Rodin raised his half-empty glass in salute. “Responsible of you.”
“I run a tight ship,” he said, running a critical eye over the leader of the Archguard.
Rodin didn’t look good. Tie askew. Brown hair disheveled. Face drawn and blurry-eyed, the male slumped in the back corner of the booth. Nian frowned and shifted focus to the bottles of booze sitting on the table. Glenlivet single malt whiskey… one empty, the other magnum halfway there. Drunk and disorderly. Rodin epitomized the first and was about to land face first in the second.
Caution yanked his chain. Something was wrong… very, very wrong.
Grabbing a chair from the tabletop, Nian dropped its legs to the floor. Wood scraped against wood. A soft thump echoed as he flipped the chair backward and, folding his arms over the backrest, sat directly across from one of the most powerful males of his kind. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”
Aw, come on. Were they really going to play this game? He didn’t have time for the sideshow. Only an hour remained until showtime, for Silfer’s sake. Gritting his teeth, Nian resisted the urge to glance at his Rolex. He raised a brow instead, asking without words. Patience, after all, was the better part of valor. And right now, silence seemed like the best policy. He couldn’t afford to turn the older male away. He needed Rodin’s trust. Had worked hard to make inroads these last few months, and the fact Rodin now sat inside his club instead of halfway across the city in his pleasure pavilion was a good sign.
Breaking eye contact, Rodin frowned into his drink. “Lothair is dead.”
“How?”
“Murdered by the Nightfury pack.”
“Ah, hell, Rodin… I’m sorry,” he said, even though he didn’t mean it. Lothair. The male didn’t deserve to be mourned. Rodin’s second son represented everything Nian wanted to change about Dragonkind. And as far as he was concerned? Bastian had done the world a favor by taking the bastard out. Not that he would ever admit it. “But Lothair knew what he was signing up for when he joined Ivar’s camp. Any male involved in that war is—”
“Bullshit!” With a snarl, Rodin slammed his fist against the tabletop. The whiskey bottle jumped, skittering across the wooden surface. Teeth bared and dark eyes aglow, he leaned forward in his seat, violent intent throbbing at his temple. “He was my son. Mine! Immune from death. Do you know how this reflects upon me? I am the leader of the Archguard… the most powerful Dragonkind male in a sea of them. No one touches what belongs to me.”
And there it was—the real reason behind the rage. Rodin didn’t care that his son was dead. His concern centered on his own reputation.
“And your plan is…?”
“To kill them all.”
The announcement sent Nian back a step. The conviction he saw in Rodin’s eyes gave him pause. The bastard might be drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d thought it through. Had a plan in mind. Which meant the ball was already rolling… in nasty directions.
“How?” he asked, needing more info. Intel, after all, amounted to power. The right information fed to the right male at the right time could make all the difference. To him, at least. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Rodin. “The Nightfuries are a warrior pack… one of the strongest and most lethal. Bastian is well loved. Many follow him… are begging him to serve as High Chancellor over the Archguard as his sire did before him. You try and assassinate him, and packs will choose sides. Dragonkind will splinter. You will start a war, Rodin.”
“Not if I reinstate Xzinile.”
Nian blinked. Oh Christ. Not good. Xzinile was an ancient state of law, a legal way to label someone a traitor. Once invoked and voted upon by the high council, the male—or pack of males—became outcasts, fair game for legalized assassination. Sanctioned execution by the Archguard put a bounty on the warrior, making him an attractive target for any Dragonkind male in need of money, prestige… or simply a way into the Archguard’s good graces.
Dangerous. Foolhardy. Brilliant in a sick kind of way.
It also endangered Nian’s agenda. He needed Bastian to support his hostile takeover of the high council. But if the Nightfury pack came under threat of Xzinile? He’d be screwed. Stuck waiting for another
opportunity to strike at the upper echelon and take the power for himself.
“Who is responsible for Lothair’s murder?”
“A Scottish warrior,” Rodin said. “Goes by the name Forge.”
Uh-huh. Not even close to accurate.
The bastard lied. Nian recognized the slither in his tone. Rodin didn’t have a clue who’d killed his son. Which begged a question, didn’t it? Why pin the murder on an individual member of Bastian’s pack? His eyes narrowed. The entire thing stunk. Not surprising. Nothing Rodin ever handled came out smelling like roses. The leader of the Archguard targeted Forge for a reason. A very specific one. One Nian would bet his fangs had more to do with Rodin covering his own ass than the truth.
Shifting in his seat, Nian stared at the wallpaper above Rodin’s head. As he pretended to consider all the angles, he shook his head. “It’ll be a hard sell.”
“Not if you’re behind me.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, the bastard smirked, making Nian want to take his head off… just for the fun of it. “The other members of the high council will follow our lead.”
“You want my word I’ll vote with you.”
“I want your loyalty and support.”
Two things Rodin would never possess, but what else could he do? If he said no, he jeopardized his position. If he said yes, he condemned an innocent pack to death.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, refusing to lie down like a fifty-dollar whore. Strength respected strength. It was time he showed Rodin some. “When’s the vote?”
“Night after tomorrow, just before the festival’s closing ceremony… if I call it.”
Nian nodded. “Call it.”
“Can I count on you?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Downing the rest of the whiskey, Rodin slid out of the booth and pushed to his feet. Heavy-handed, the bastard slapped him on the shoulder, then turned toward the door. “In the meantime, see that Gage and Haider are rounded up, will you?”
Alarm bells went off inside his head. “To what end?”
Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4) Page 21