Jeez. No doubt about it. He’d scared his best friend, sending the ever-steady Wick into a tailspin. It was a good theory. Made a lot of sense even as it surprised the hell out of him, ’cause… yeah. Emotion from Wick? The realization his friend felt that deeply? Total mind-twist territory.
“Hey, Wick?”
“What?”
“You know I love you, right?”
“Fuck off.” Leaning to one side, Wick bumped shoulders with him.
Venom swayed on his feet but grinned at the contact. The gentle collision was as good as any love tap. Sure, Wick might not be able to express his feelings with words, but the male could show them. Which at the end of the day was all that mattered.
“So…” Venom trailed off, changing course, bringing the conversation back to its origin. “We’re going after the sister.”
“Yeah.”
“We gonna clue Mac and Forge in?”
“Sloan too.” Snagging the pencil off the legal pad, Wick leaned forward and planted his hands, palms flat, against the tabletop. “We’ll need backup. She’s injured.”
“So flying her home in dragon form is out.”
Wick shook his head. “Mac and Forge’ll secure us a vehicle for transport.”
“Why not take an ambulance?”
“Too obvious… the humans will notice its theft too fast. Call the cops on us.” Wick’s eyes narrowed on the city map once more. “Too risky. No… we move her in an SUV. A cube van maybe, depending on if we need the hospital bed or not.”
“And Sloan?”
“Hospital computers.” Wick tapped the pencil against the surface of the notepad. Soft sound echoed, laying out a soundtrack of tap-a-rap-tap. Tap-a-rap-tap. “We may need info on the fly.”
“Her medical records too. Hard copies of X-rays, tests, and shit. Myst’ll want to see them.”
“Exactly.”
The word—and the enthusiasm behind it—tickled Venom’s funny bone. His lips twitched. Unprecedented. The excitement, sure, but also the fact Wick was talking to him. For a frigging change. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Come on, Ven,” Wick said, the “duh” in his tone unmistakable. A second later, he pushed away from the table, devilry in his eyes. “How often do we get to bust somebody out of jail?”
Venom snorted. How often, indeed.
Grinning like an idiot, he allowed his own excitement free rein. And why not? With Wick jazzed, the night promised to be a good one. Hell, forget good. Goddamn fantastic was more like it, except…
For one itty-bitty problem.
“So,” he said, tone cautious, starting the conversation off slow. Wick wouldn’t like what he said next, but hell, it couldn’t be helped. No way could they go after the female without setting a few ground rules first. Which meant getting a face full of flack from his best friend. “We’ll need to make a pit stop before hitting the hospital.”
Wick’s brows collided. “What for?”
“I need to feed.” Venom took a deep breath, preparing for the fallout. “And so do you.”
A growl slithered through the room, killing the quiet. Tension followed, jacking Wick so tight the muscles roping his arms flickered in protest. Avoiding his gaze, Wick looked away, shook his head, then retreated a step.
“Wick…”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.” A quick grab and Venom fisted his hand in the front of Wick’s shirt. His friend leaned away, searching for an out. Goddamn. Here they went again. Forcing Wick to feed always started and ended the same way. Wick disliked being touched, and although Venom understood the panic that drove him, he couldn’t allow the evasion. The male must feed on female energy, connect to the Meridian or die. No getting around that fact. Or the curse of their kind. So he held firm, preventing Wick’s retreat. “I can feel the energy drain in you. You haven’t fed in so long, you’re slipping into energy-greed.”
“Ven—”
“You can’t retrieve the female if you’re hungry. Tania is high-energy, which means her younger sister probably is too.” Knuckles pressed to his best friend’s chest, Venom jostled him, hoping to shake some sense into the male, then uncurled his hand and let go. “She’s hurt, Wick. You get anywhere near her in this condition… touch her while you’re hungry? You might lose control, tap into the Meridian without thought, and kill her. Helluva way to repay Mac, don’t yah think?”
“Fuck.”
A poignant reply with a nasty aftertaste. And the understatement of the century.
But no matter how much Wick fought, he would do right by his best friend. Life or death. Commitment or abandonment. Two choices, only one viable option. Provide what Wick needed to keep breathing or die trying.
2
Every time she drifted off, Jamison Jordan Solares woke up in a different location. Musical chairs for the injured and sleep deprived. Not exactly reassuring. Unfamiliar places and strange people had never been her favorite thing. Here, though, surrounded by pale walls, the hum of low-pitched voices and the sharp smell of antiseptic, foreign took on a whole new meaning. She didn’t recognize anything or anyone and yet knew exactly where she’d landed.
Inside Swedish Medical.
Or more precisely… a hospital bed now moving at a steady clip down another ordinary hallway. Such a smooth ride. Too bad she didn’t want to be a passenger.
Fluorescent lights gleamed overhead. Each light-filled flash rushed her along, acting like strips on a runway in the long stretch of corridor. Then again, what did she know? She couldn’t see straight. Not with one eye half-swollen shut and agony thumping on her skull. Add that to all the stitches, bruises, and… God. She didn’t have a chance in hell of controlling the pain.
Or saving herself from what came next.
J. J. tried anyway, turning her face away, seeking refuge in her pillow, desperate to block out the glare and get her bearings. A no-go. Pain tightened its grip, making her bones ache and muscles cramp. She shifted on the mattress, but… tough luck. Movement didn’t help. It hurt instead, and as nausea came calling, brutality twisted the screw. An awful taste flooded her mouth. Swallowing in compulsive desperation, she worked moisture into her dry mouth, past her sore throat, and fisted her hands in the sheet. The tape holding the IV in place pulled, jarring the needle pumping fluids into her vein.
Another round of stomach-churning anguish rolled in. Fighting a bad case of the shakes, J. J. bit down on a moan and prayed for oblivion. Numbness. The mind melt of unconsciousness. It didn’t come. Neither did relief. To be expected, she guessed. Agony was the only reasonable outcome after surviving the beat down Daisy had delivered. A badge of honor in many ways. Other inmates hadn’t been so lucky. Or lived to tell the tale.
She only wished the honor didn’t involve bruises, split skin, and the throb of a broken ankle encased in a plaster cast. Those injuries, though, were nothing compared to the stab wounds… as in multiple. One sliced across her right forearm. A second slashed over her collarbone on the way to meeting the curve of her shoulder. While the third? That gash was the real kicker. A true testament to Daisy’s skill with a blade.
A shiver worked its way down her spine.
God, it had been close. Way too close. Had she hesitated at all—been a millisecond slower—she would be dead. Stabbed through the heart. Laid out in an autopsy room. Not alive to feel the burn of the knife wound running along her right side. As violent as the woman who’d inflicted it, the gash dipped beneath her breast before cutting inward over her rib cage. A terrible injury, every last inch courtesy of a homemade prison shank wielded by a homicidal manic. Now sutures held her together, train-tracking over her skin, a testament to the surgeon’s skill and her will to live.
J. J. let her eyes drift closed. Lucky. She’d been so damned lucky.
Strange to think of it that way. Especially after being attacked. But despite the stitches, all the bruises and broken bones, she couldn’t help but be thankful. She’d survived. Beaten the odds and ma
de it out alive. So forget crying. Screw the circumstances along with the pain. The fact she felt anything at all was a blessing.
A straight-up miracle when she considered who wanted her dead.
Officer Griggs. Prison guard extraordinaire. Nothing but a thug with a badge at the Washington State Corrections Center she called home.
Ignoring the pulse of pain, she shook her head. Oh, the irony. Four and a half years on the inside. A total of fifty-four months without so much as a paper cut, and now, here she lay… bashed up and hurting. Another casualty in one of Griggs’s nasty power plays.
One called obsession.
Had his infatuation been with her, J. J. could’ve found a way around him. Outsmarted him at his own game. Screwed with his head. Manipulated without mercy to save her own skin. Too bad it wasn’t that simple. It never was with her sister in the mix. Tania meant the world to her. Was the only person she called family and cared about, so… no question. The second Griggs fixated on Tania—harassing her when she visited her at prison, trying to use J. J. as leverage to force Tania to sleep with him—he’d gone from just another prison guard to inmate enemy number one.
All that, though, had been about to change. Griggs had known it. So had she and Tania.
It started and ended with one thing… the arrival of a letter. One issued by Washington State Corrections and stamped with parole board letterhead. Call it karma. Call it luck. Call it a reward for good behavior and time served. But whatever the universe labeled it, hope was the principal message. J. J.’s throat tightened. God, freedom. A second chance at a real life. The opportunity to make amends, to help others and give back somehow. Maybe even ensure other girls didn’t make the same mistakes she had.
All she’d needed was a month.
A measly thirty-one days and she would’ve been safe. But oh no, that had been too much to ask. A pie-in-the-sky dream with Griggs breathing down her neck. The weasel liked to snoop, and the instant he found the letter in her file? Game over. He’d come after her with both barrels, sending Daisy and her crew to corner her in the library. His objective had been simple: hurt her, hurt Tania. An excellent strategy… with nasty consequences. Ones that left her with the obvious—life-threatening injuries and a truckload of pain. But worse, at least for her? No one else knew about his part in her attack. And she couldn’t prove it.
Daisy wouldn’t talk. A lifer doing time for triple homicide, she’d kept a lid on things. Refusing to cooperate, after all, was an inmate’s specialty. The less the warden and guards knew, the better. Which meant the truth about Griggs would never get out. Not while he played favorites: promising inmates perks on the inside, threatening those who didn’t toe the line, manipulating the system without mercy. And what did that make J. J.? Screwed six ways to Sunday, that’s what.
No proof. No credibility. No way out.
Twenty-four hours ago, she might’ve had a shot. But oh my, how the tides turned and fortune shifted. J. J’s throat tightened, making her chest ache. It wasn’t fair. She’d been so close. So very close. Now the chances of her walking out the prison gates a free woman were slim to none. The warden didn’t tolerate fighting. Was no doubt in investigation mode already, putting J. J.’s appointment with the board on hold as she decided who to blame for the incident. And whether charges would be levied.
All without J. J. there to defend herself.
Sorrow circled deep, making her eyes sting. Even knowing the warden wasn’t an idiot didn’t help. Logic—and the reality that drove the corrections system—dictated the path and required a certain amount of pragmatism. Hope wasn’t something she could afford. And luck? She huffed. Right. Fortune was as fickle as fate. J. J. never knew which way either would throw her—into something good or straight into the middle of a whole lot of bad.
The latter seemed more plausible. Especially after what she’d done.
Murderers didn’t go free. Society believed in the principle, and so did she. Second chances belonged to other people, not her. Never her. And as regret circled and guilt piled on, J. J. recognized the futility. Damned if she did. Damned if she didn’t. Her abusive ex-boyfriend had put her in that position, forcing her to choose between her life and his. A no-brainer all things considered. Self-preservation didn’t negotiate and always won out in the end. Truth stacked upon truth. From the moment he threatened to kill her if she didn’t stay, the choice became simple and the path clear…
Pull the trigger. Take him out of the equation or end up in a body bag.
Unfair? Certainly. A necessary evil? Absolutely. Her fault? Without a doubt.
She’d dug her own grave. Made one bad decision after another. Trusted him too quickly and gotten involved with a violent man willing to use his fists to keep her in line. Her mistake. A heavy cross to bear. Absolution would forever remain out of reach. God would never forgive her. J. J. didn’t blame him. She’d never forgive herself, so—
A sharp pop sounded above her.
Startled, J. J. flinched. Sore muscles protested, jabbing her with invisible needles as she glanced up. She sucked in a breath. Different guy. Not the same soft-spoken orderly who pushed her out of the recovery room a while ago. And in his place? A tall stranger with broad shoulders and big hands planted on the head of her bed.
Rimmed by black liner, blue eyes met hers. “Hey, you’re awake.”
She blinked. Her injured eye squawked, tearing up as pain jabbed her temple. Squinting, she forced her vision into focus and… holy moly. A spiderweb tattoo with an ugly red spider at its center was inked on the side of his neck. Her gaze bounced back up, landing on the metal stud piercing his nostril. The black steel glinted beneath the overhead light, winking at its twin just above it, the one calling the guy’s eyebrow home.
A chorus of “what the hell” made the rounds inside her head.
“I know, I know,” he said, sounding bored. Long bangs with burgundy highlights hung over his forehead, playing keep-away from the buzz cut gracing the sides of his head. “I don’t look like an orderly, but trust me… no worries, I’ll getcha there. Faster than fast too.”
Trust him? A Goth guy with crazy spider ink? J. J. opened her mouth to… well, quite frankly, she wasn’t sure. Object to the no worries comment maybe? Asking his name was another option. Too bad neither went well. Her brain was in neutral, parked somewhere between confused and quick-witted. Not fun by any stretch, but neither was it priority one. At least, not right now. Why? Goth Guy was picking up speed. Snapping his wad of chewing gum, he wheeled her, bed and all, around a sharp corner. Which… oh Jesus, help her… prompted a question. What the heck did he mean by “faster than fast too”?
Alarm bells clanged inside her head, making her temples buzz. Her vision wavered, fading in then out. “W-where…?”
He raised a brow. “Where we going?”
Seemed like an important question to ask. An absolutely vital one considering he looked like a vampire. Or an axe murderer. Then again, maybe she should indulge in a combo, a two for one kind of deal, ’cause… holy crap. Vampire axe murderer fit like a foot in a shoe when it came to him.
He opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver the all-important answer.
“No m-more tests,” she said, beating him to the punch. She couldn’t go another round with a doctor. No more poking, prodding, or needles. Nothing that included a scope of any kind either. “No more—”
“Nah, you’re good. The CAT scan was the last one.” Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he leaned over the headboard and grinned, looking funny upside down. “Doctor says you’re lucky. Gotta pretty hard noggin on you, that’s for sure. You only got a mild concussion.”
Only. Such an idiotic word. “Super.”
Her sarcastic reply made him laugh. A second later, he snapped the wad of bubble gum, blowing a pink bubble. “We’re headed two floors up. They got your room ready.”
The bed’s wheels thumped over an uneven patch of floor. Unfazed by the speed bump, Goth Guy pushed her towar
d a set of double doors. Collision inevitable, J. J. braced for impact. The foot of her bed thunked, steel and metal rattled, making the mattress vibrate beneath her and…
That was all it took. Sensation clawed over frayed nerve endings. J. J. bit down on a moan. Oh God, that hurt. She was beyond raw and into debilitating. And as pain sang her a toxic lullaby, pressure spiraled around her rib cage, stealing her air, compressing her lungs, making her want to throw up. Such a bad idea. Puking wouldn’t do her any favors, never mind make her any friends.
Baring down, J. J. clenched her teeth and double-fisted the sheets. The IV zigged then zagged, pinching her skin, tearing at the tape. Blood welled on the back of her hand, and the tube connecting her to the medical cocktail pinged against the bed rail.
Stomach acid churned, sloshing up her windpipe.
With a silent curse, J. J. swallowed the burn and, uncurling her fists, pressed her palms flat against the sheet to ground herself. Little by little, the world stopped spinning, allowing her to take a much-needed breath. The black spots peppering her vision faded and—
Goth Guy snapped his gum again.
Battling her gag reflex, J. J. thanked God when he slowed, bringing her to a rolling stop in front of a bank of elevators. With a soft ping, a set of double doors slid open. Wheels hissed as he swung her bed around and put them in reverse, backing into the elevator. He hit the button for the fifth floor with the side of his fist. With a quiet bump, the doors closed. The floor dipped, then rebounded, slingshotting them into an upward glide. Her stomach gurgled, not liking the shift. J. J. whispered a heartfelt prayer, offering God her services in the prison chapel if she survived the transfer from one room to the next without getting sick.
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