Fury of Seduction

by Coreene Callahan

  “Doesn’t sound like me.”

  Myst snorted.

  Trying his vision again, Venom opened his eyes. His focus wavered a second and then sharpened. Eyes the color of violets met his, anchoring him in the here and now. Myst’s domain. He was safe, laid up inside one of Black Diamond’s recovery rooms. The white walls, glossy cabinets, and stainless steel countertops were a dead giveaway. The only sure thing that pierced through the mind-fog. Except...

  After a moment that cleared too. Memory rushed in, replaying the battle over Gig Harbor, the brutal hit he’d taken and—

  Holy Christ. Wick. Where the hell was his best friend?

  Worry spun him into action, giving him strength. With a groan, he propped himself on his elbow and looked around. Nothing but medical equipment, Bastian’s female, and...Sloan. Oh thank God. The male would know if Wick was AWOL or okay.

  He pegged his buddy with a glare. “Where is he?”

  “Around.” Dark eyes collided with his. Sloan rounded the end of the bed and unloaded his weight, making the mattress dip as he sat down. With a grunt, he swung his legs up, planted his big-ass boots on the coverlet, and crossed one over the other. “He brought you in, stuck around while Myst sewed you up, then fucked off.”

  “Smart guy,” Myst said. “I wanted to do the same near the end.”

  “Gave you a hard time, did I?”

  “You’re a freaking pain in the butt to patch up, Venom. Swearing. Kicking. Being a regular pansy about getting stitched up.” Picking up a role of tape, she tore off three strips and, smoothing his bandage down, taped it in place. “So now you owe me one.”

  Ah, hell. That didn’t sound good. “My penance?”

  “You stay off your feet for two days. No sudden movements, which means...” Holding up one of her hands, she ticked off her fingers with the other. “No wrestling. No fighting. No active play video games. Or—”

  “Ah, come on,” he said, sounding like a whiny brat.

  “—hall hockey, either. In fact, go back to sleep for a while. It’ll help you heal.” He opened his mouth to object. She nailed him with one of her no-nonsense looks. “If you don’t listen to me, I’ll sic Bastian on you.”

  All right, then. Game over. No way he wanted B riding his ass. About anything, but especially not for upsetting Myst. Nothing but a serious beat down lay in that direction, and...goddamn it. No video games? Seriously? What the hell did she expect him to do all day?

  Oh, right...sleep.

  Terrific advice. Too bad he didn’t feel like taking it. He was wide-awake now, nowhere ready to go back to la-la land. He wanted to move, stretch his sore muscles, and test his strength. Not lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. He was already bored, and he’d only just opened his eyes.

  Myst’s eyes narrowed on him. “I mean it, Venom.”

  Venom grumbled but settled back against the sheets. No sense arguing with her. He was a fast learner, and watching Bastian the last couple of weeks had taught him plenty...like females rarely—if ever—lost an argument. Hell, Myst would eat him alive if he tried. Just KO his ass before he even got out of the gate.

  “Good boy.” Myst patted him on the shoulder.

  Sloan snorted in amusement.

  Which, naturally, made Venom want to kill something. And since it couldn’t be B’s female, Sloan jumped to the top of his hit list. “Traitor.”

  “You’d do the same for me,” Sloan said.

  Myst rolled her eyes. Giving him one last love tap, she tossed the tape on the side table and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on you. Behave while I’m gone.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, glaring at his buddy.

  Grinning, Sloan watched Myst retreat. As the door opened then closed behind her, his buddy’s gaze settled back on him. “You hungry?”

  No, he wasn’t. But if it meant getting rid of Sloan? He was 100 percent on board with that plan. “I could eat.”

  “I’ll grab you something.”

  A “thanks,” twenty seconds later, and—

  The door to the recovery room closed. Silence descended, and Venom sighed in relief. Alone at last. With time and plenty to disobey a direct order. Myst wouldn’t be happy, but that was too flipping bad. He refused to stay flat on his back in the recovery room. Not while his own bed awaited in the aboveground lair. At least there he had books to read and...yeah, an Xbox to keep him busy while he waited for the dragon DNA to get with the program and heal him up tight.

  Looking forward to a round of Halo, Venom conjured a pair of track pants. An instant later, he flipped the covers back and pushed himself upright. Weak from blood loss, his arms shook as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Pain spiraled around his rib cage, then took a side trip up his spine. With a muttered curse, he gripped the edge of the mattress, searching for steady in a sea of topsy-turvy. It didn’t go well. His brain kept sloshing around inside his skull, making the room spin. Round and round. One revolution after another. A mental roller coaster without end.

  His stomach heaved, trying to crawl up his throat. Tasting bile, Venom swallowed the burn, refusing to throw up. He was tougher than that. Was warrior strong. Would sooner punch himself in the balls than surrender to the knifelike pressure in his belly or to the—

  Ah, hell.

  Venom lunged for the trash can next to the bed. The second his hands curled around the lip, he gagged, dry heaving over the basket. Then groaned. His belly wound squawked, elevating agony to new levels. Sweat beaded on his skin, sliding between his shoulder blades as his brain turned into an Olympic gymnast, doing cartwheels inside his head. And his stomach? The frigging SOB was in full revolt, trampling his esophagus, evacuating a load of bile...and nothing else. But then, there wasn’t much else the bastard could do, considering he hadn’t eaten in a while.

  On his knees, one hand planted flat on the wall, he hugged the round can and hung his head over the lip. He dry heaved again. This time, though, he breathed through it, pulling air in through his nose before exhaling out his mouth. Better. He continued with the in-and-out routine, enriching his body with oxygen. After a minute or ten, his stomach settled enough for him to push to his feet. Which, of course, made the gash across his abdomen holler even louder. Propping his shoulder against the wall, he peeled back the bandage and—

  Holy God.

  The wound started at the underside of his rib cage, then slashed across, bisecting his entire torso to reach the top of his right hip. Venom grimaced. Jeez, talk about a close call. Good thing the Razorbacks didn’t have good aim. A few inches lower and his days of pleasing females would’ve been over.

  Folding the gauze back into place, Venom set the trash can on the floor. As he stood upright, he swayed a little, weakness attacking his thigh muscles, making him quiver. He steadied himself and turned toward the door. Bare feet silent, he made his way out of the recovery area, ignoring the utilitarian white walls and green hospital-grade floor, and walked into the underground lair’s medical clinic. More bright light hammered him. He squinted against the glare, scanning the space. Empty. Excellent. Nothing but a bank of wall cabinets, medical equipment pushed up against the back wall, and a stainless steel operating table.

  One hand pressed to his belly wound, Venom stared at the table a moment, then frowned. He remembered being up on the thing last night, getting held down as Myst stitched him up. A twinge of embarrassment rolled through him. He owed her an apology. He’d said some things; been too pissed off, in too much pain to censor himself, and—

  Yeah. No doubt about it. She’d gotten an earful. And wasn’t that something to be proud of?

  Raking his hair back, he shuffled across the clinic, careful to keep each stride short. The last thing he wanted was any more trouble. And if he tore the stitches, Myst would scold him, and he’d get the eye evil from B. So not on his list of things to do tonight. Neither was finding something to eat, but that wouldn’t fly. Despite the rot-gut he had going on, he needed the fuel. Food equaled en
ergy. And energy equaled fast healing, so, yeah, it looked like he’d be eating whatever Sloan brought him.

  The motion sensor above the sliding glass door went active. As the thing opened wide, Venom gimped his way into the corridor. The main point of passage in the underground lair, the double-wide hallway saw a lot of traffic every day. Good thing it was quiet now, though. Otherwise he would get turfed, tossed back into the recovery room while Myst padlocked the door.

  Tucking his left elbow into his side, Venom spread his hand across his belly and, reaching out, used the wall as a crutch. The solid support along with the added push helped propel him up the slight incline toward Sloan’s computer lab.

  The cool tones of a sexy saxophone drifted toward him.

  Venom’s brows collided. Nowhere near Sloan’s style. The male never played stuff like that. Hard-core rap. Heavy-duty death metal. Not...

  What was that? A little R & B in the evening. Sade maybe?

  Coming even with the doorframe, he glanced inside the com center. Ah. It all made sense now. Rikar’s female had set up shop. Red hair bright beneath the overhead lights, file folders spread out on the conference table behind her, Angela stared at the opposite wall. His focus shifted, taking in the photos of five missing females...the ones she suspected had been imprisoned by the Razorbacks. The sight made him sick all over again.

  Asshole rogues. Heartless bastards. Ivar needed his head ripped off in a big way.

  Leaning on the jamb, he cleared his throat to avoid startling her. She glanced over her shoulder, and he got nailed by intelligent hazel eyes. “Whatcha doing down here, Detective? Daimler kick you out of the dining room?”

  “I left my gun on the dining room table again.” She fingered the Glock strapped to her thigh. “He wasn’t happy.”

  “The M25?” A gift from her mate, the sniper rifle was a beautiful piece. More so for what Angela could do with the thing. A crack shot, she took out moving targets from eight hundred to one thousand yards away. Astonishing by any standards. Kick-ass useful by his. “You scratch the table?”

  Angela grimaced, then held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A little bit.”

  “Ah,” he said, fighting a grin. Made sense. Their resident go-to guy was picky about stuff like that. A real neat freak, Daimler liked rules and woe betide anyone who didn’t toe the line. Guess Angela had just found that out the hard way.

  Venom’s focus jumped back to the wall behind her. Glossy eight-by-ten pictures glinted in the low light. He tipped his chin. “How’s it going? You find anything yet?”

  The questions put Angela on high alert. Her eyes narrowed on him, and Venom saw her mental wheels turning. She was trying to decide whether to share the information or hold on to her grudge against him.

  Venom didn’t blame her.

  He hadn’t made it easy for her to like him. She loved Mac, backed the male up at every turn. And as far as the newest Nightfury was concerned? Venom was the Antichrist, so...no question. It was only natural for Angela to resent him. He and Mac had issues; calling each other names wasn’t the least of them. They were like oil and water...constantly divided. Although after last night’s performance—the one in which Mac saved his noodle...goddamn it—Venom knew he needed to cut the fledgling some slack.

  Holding her gaze, Venom gave in to the urge to explain. “You know the thing between me and Mac?”

  “The thing being...what? You acting like an ass?”

  His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. Rikar’s female was strong, as direct as a sledgehammer to the head.

  “Maybe,” he said, conceding the point. “It isn’t personal. This is my pack. Has been for the better part of sixty years. Rikar and the others are my family...mine to protect and keep safe. I take that vow seriously. A weak male in the mix will get one of us killed. I can’t allow that.”

  “You haven’t given him a chance, Venom.” Adjusting her gun, she leaned back against the lip of the table. “How long did it take you to get your crap together after your change?”

  Venom flinched, not liking the reminder. Or his sire’s role in the memory. “A while.”

  “Mac’s been Dragonkind for just over a month. Add that to the fact his transition was anything but normal and—”

  “We’re at war, Angela. I don’t have time to coddle a male,” he said. “He’s either an asset to our pack or he isn’t. No leeway there.”

  “So stop being a naysayer and”—giving him the stink eye, she pointed at him with her pen—“help Forge get him up to speed.”

  Flexing his hands, Venom examined his bruised knuckles, vacillating, wondering whether he should give in and back off. Capitulation wasn’t his favorite thing. Once he decided something...he decided. But when Angela stood strong, refusing to retreat, he folded like a dirty shirt. Pleading hazel eyes could do that to a male. And Angela...God love her...wasn’t above playing dirty.

  “All right,” he said, the words tasting sour. Venom swallowed the burn. Giving in was the right thing to do, no matter how much it stung his pride. “You win, Detective. I’ll lay off.”

  “And help him too. Teach him a few tricks along the way.”

  Okay. Now she was just pushing it. “Maybe.”

  Nowhere near humble in victory, she grinned at him. “Truce, then.”

  Thank God. It was about frigging time.

  He needed to take a load off. And standing around arguing with her wasn’t helping him. Pushing away from the doorframe, he limped into the room. He glanced at Sloan’s ugly purple chair. Ugh. What a travesty. The thing belonged in a dumpster, but it looked solid enough, so...

  Steel groaned as he gripped the armrests and lowered himself into the seat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Never better,” he murmured, lying through his teeth, pain twisting his muscles into knots. Venom bit down on a grunt. Shifting in the chair, he tried to get comfortable. But comfort wasn’t in the cards. Not tonight anyway.

  Boots scuffed the floor. “I’ll get Myst.”

  “Don’t bother.” Agony settled into a throb, beating against his abdomen. Venom released a pent-up breath and shook his head. “It’s nothing time won’t heal. And painkillers don’t work on me, so...no point.”

  “So last night?”

  “No anesthesia.” Just straight-up surgery without the relief of drug-fueled oblivion. Hell on earth.

  “Ouch.” Angela grimaced. “Why doesn’t it work on you?”

  “I’m a poison breather. Full of toxins in and out of dragon form. Anything foreign enters my bloodstream, it gets killed. Instantly.”

  “Guess that makes flu season a breeze for you, huh?”

  Venom snorted, then cursed under his breath. He pressed his hand to his side. Frigging hell. Laughing with a belly wound...not a good idea.

  “Pretty much. But forget about me.” Sliding into a slouch, his nape touched down on the seat back. He pointed to the white board screwed into the wall—and the collection of pictures taped to it. “Whatcha working on?”

  “The missing women.” Her attention snapped back to her handiwork. In red marker on one side of the board, she’d written a name, the date, and time of abduction under each female’s picture. On the other side, she’d tacked newspaper clippings, all kinds of notes, and a dog-eared map of Seattle. “These women fit the pattern. All in their early to midtwenties. All highly intelligent. Huge overachievers.”

  She paused to chew on her bottom lip.

  Venom murmured, encouraging her to continue.

  “Every single one, without exception, was abducted from or close to Seattle U’s campus.” Her pen jogged in midair, pointing to each female in turn. “The victimology suggests they’re all high-energy females.”

  “Young. Bright. Good candidates for the Razorbacks’ breeding program.”

  “Exactly,” she whispered, the strain in her voice unmistakable.

  But when she turned to look at him, the shadows in her eyes almost killed him. Goddamned Razorback
s. The bastards had hurt Angela so badly, and for that alone, Venom wanted to rip every single one of their heads off. Losing his temper, though, wouldn’t help her. Not now. Not ever, really. Only time and Rikar’s love would heal that wound. Still, as he watched her struggle to contain the pain, the compulsion to help her lit a fire inside him. A slow burn. A dangerous one that would fuel him when he went back out to hunt the enemy.

  Slice and dice. Torture time with a rogue, here he came.

  Angela cleared her throat. “All were taken about the same time...just before midnight. I’ve read through the reports...all the eyewitness accounts, hoping to find something...anything...that might tell me where to start looking for—”

  “Ivar’s lair.”

  She nodded, then turned toward him. “Venom, we need to get those women out of there.”

  The hitch in her voice cracked him wide open. His predatory instincts flared, dragging his need to protect up front and center. Not surprising, really. Female or not, she belonged to his pack now. Was his to protect and safeguard. And family always looked after and shielded their own. No matter what.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Surprise at his offer winged across her face. “How?”

  “Wick and I busted into one of the rogues’ old lairs a while ago. About the same time Mac went through the change.” Frowning, Venom thought back, doing some mental inventory. “We were chasing their XO, so we didn’t stop to look around, but...I saw other stuff there.”

  Angela perked up. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Boxes. Things left behind in a hurry. There could be information...a paper trail...maybe some clue as to—”

  “I need to go there. Walk the scene.”

  Venom hesitated, wanting to help without putting his own life on the line. No way could he take Angela outside the lair without Rikar’s consent. The energy-fuse/mating stuff was serious business, and that kind of interference would get him squished faster than an ant under a boot heel. Well, that, or his balls handed to him on the end of a blade. Either way, he refused to step into that powder keg...with a frigging frost dragon. He’d end up in a cryogenic ice block.