Unexpected in every regard, considering her injuries.
Some of the bruises he could see. Others he couldn’t. But even battered by circumstance, her energy glowed, lighting her up from the inside out.
As his reaction to her went cataclysmic, Wick sucked in a quick breath. High-energy, his ass. She was a Meridian-infused inferno, burning bright, the deep oranges and reds of her aura flickering like firelight. Urgency thrummed through him, making him want to get closer. Reach out. Maybe even… he swallowed a mouthful of saliva… touch her to see if she zapped him with energy shards. The resulting jolt would no doubt be one for the record books and—
Wick’s brows collided.
Holy fuck. What the hell was his problem? Reach out and touch her? God be merciful, he’d lost his mind. Nothing else explained the sudden urge. Or the undeniable tug he felt when he looked at her. Something about her tempted him to a dangerous degree, shaking his foundation, waking his dragon half, cutting through to shred his well-used rule book. The one that housed the no-touch, no-talk, make-very-little-eye-contact edict by which he lived.
Unable to help himself, he looked her over anyway. Not that he wanted to—really he didn’t—but he needed the intel. Assessing her injuries would determine the best way forward and…
So what?
He enjoyed the way she looked. Big deal. But as sleepy blue eyes met his and his dragon growled, liking what it saw, Wick abandoned his excuses. He wanted her. For the first time in his life, he wanted a female. The admission damned him. His dragon didn’t care, fixating on her as though she were manna sent from the sky. She blinked, a slow up and down. Wick frowned. Something about her response was all wrong. She was too sluggish. The realization reset his internal barometer in a hurry. Dilated pupils. Lax muscles. Blank expression. His gaze cut to the IV plugged into her arm. Comprehension struck like a sledgehammer.
Drugged.
The male holding her prisoner had cranked up the volume. Now Jamison sat in murky mental shadows. Compliant in the face of danger. Relaxed when she should be fighting. A sitting duck, vulnerable in every sense of the word.
“Venom…”
Primed for a fight, Venom growled in answer. “How dead do you want him?”
“Alive enough to talk.”
A good strategy considering the male’s interference. Something about the warrior didn’t sit right. The scent he wore—his magical vibe—was all wrong… decidedly un-roguelike. So, yeah. No doubt about it. Figuring out what the asshole wanted—the why behind the hostage taking—needed doing before he took the bastard down for touching Jamison.
“Half-dead it is,” Venom said, tone full of anticipation. “You deal with her.”
He intended to.
With his dragon half riveted on her, no other option existed. Primal need had taken hold. Now compulsion ruled, rousing instinct, shoving intellect and reason out of the way. No time to think or ask why. The how was more important. He needed to span the distance between them to become her shield. ASAP. Before the clock ticked down and time ran out. Before the tatted bastard used her as leverage. Before the fighting started, and the female he’d sworn to protect got caught in the crossfire.
J. J. couldn’t believe her eyes. Both were playing tricks on her, making her see things that couldn’t be there. Impossible things. Beautiful things. Things like oh, say… a sexy as sin dark-haired stranger. Squinting hard, she leaned forward in the wheelchair. Her get-a-little-closer idea didn’t help clarify matters. Her vision was shot, wavering in and out of focus, shading everything in an ethereal light… making him glow around the edges.
Otherworldly. He must be an alien or something. Nothing else explained the glow. Or the fact his eyes shimmered in the dim light. The golden glimmer drew her deep, held her aloft in the mind-fog and…
Huh. Weird, but she recognized him somehow, from somewhere, for some reason.
Which didn’t make a lick of sense.
The idea that she knew him was, well… far-fetched. Inaccurate. Way off base. Especially since J. J. knew she’d never met him. A girl didn’t forget a guy who looked like that. One encounter would sear him into a woman’s brain. And that kind of imprint? It never faded or got lost in mental debris. It endured for all time. Logic told her so, gathering evidence, refuting fact, and yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling. He felt too familiar, safe in the same way a bunker would while a tornado raged, ripping apart the landscape overhead.
Raising her hand, J. J. rubbed her eye. Bad idea. The movement turned her head. Her mind sloshed, sliding sideways inside her skull. As clear thinking went by the wayside, she frowned at Mr. Gorgeous. Where, oh where, had she seen him before? Was he another for the moment friend or something better? Both excellent questions. Neither of which she could answer. A shame, really, ’cause… yup. The answers seemed important, but as J. J. leaned toward the blunter side of dull, she struggled to care.
Another bad decision no doubt.
The thought tickled her funny bone. Weird, she knew, but… God. For some reason that was funny.
Unable to stop herself, she huffed, the sound half-laugh, half-snort. The wheelchair creaked beneath her. Rubber tires rolled forward, and J. J. forced herself to refocus. Hmm, lucky her. He was still there. Boots planted at the opposite end of the corridor, Mr. Gorgeous looked good enough to eat. She ran her gaze over him again and sighed. Wow… just, well, wow. Power personified, he exuded a lethal amount of confidence. Big. Strong. And badass. Too handsome for words, never mind reality.
Ah, and there it was… bingo, a conclusion that fit.
He wasn’t real. Her drug-addled mind was in overdrive. The result? She’d conjured the golden-eyed god out of thin air.
“Shoo,” she whispered, hoping the sound of her voice would make the apparition disappear. She craved clarity. Wanted a shot at regaining some semblance of control. Which meant the dark stranger—vision extraordinaire—needed to go… and go quickly. No way could she think straight with him standing there, looking beautiful, cluttering up her visual field. “Time for you to go.”
Mr. Gorgeous frowned at her.
Azrad shifted behind her. “What did you say?”
“Oh, shut up, Azrad. This is all your fault. Dumb drugs are making me see things. Now I’m imagining him.”
“Hate to tell you this, sunshine, but—”
“I’m real.” The low growl hung in the air, sounding soft, landing hard.
She blinked. “You are?”
“He is, female.” A big blond man moved in behind Mr. Gorgeous. “And so am I.”
Azrad cursed under his breath.
“Oh,” she said, trying to make sense of the news flash.
A useless endeavor. She couldn’t… wasn’t able to…
Good lord, he was real? Beyond a shadow of doubt real? J. J. frowned. How was that even possible?
Confusion circled, whacking her with a stick full of “holy crap.” He shifted—widening his stance, blocking the corridor, cranking his hands into twin fists—and J. J. stared at him, forcing herself to reevaluate. Okay, no need to panic. So he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. So he looked like death come calling. So the guy next to him didn’t look any less lethal. So…
Oh, baby Jesus in a bread basket. Someone help her. He was on the move.
Shoulders rolling, long legs eating the distance, he strode up the corridor toward her. Leather creaked and time faded, warping awareness until all she saw was him. Her heart paused mid-thump, then rebounded, throbbing in time with his footfalls. Boom-boom-pause. Boom-boom-throb. Each beat spiraled out, filling her head until static buzzed between her temples. Soft, intense, beyond strange, an electric current flowed on supercharged wings. Her skin prickled, making the fine hairs at her nape stand on end. One instant merged with the next as his heart beat a drum inside her own veins.
Only then did she understand. He was more than real. He was a force of nature: confident in his approach, commanding in the moment, all his focus on
her.
A man from another world. The angel of death. He was… he was…
Oh crap. That’s why she recognized him. Anyone would. Death took all forms, after all. And his? The glamour and beauty—his otherworldly quality—made perfect sense. Her time was up. He’d come to punch her ticket. Now she would be made to pay for her mistakes. Be taken to the one place J. J. knew she deserved to go. She’d known the price for pulling the trigger. For becoming judge and jury. For taking another’s life.
Eternal restitution in hell.
Murderers, after all, didn’t deserve second chances, but… God. She wasn’t ready to go. Not right now. Too much had been left unsaid. So much undone. All of her wrongs yet to be righted.
Tears welled, burning her throat.
“No.” Shaking her head, she met the dark angel’s gaze, a desperate plea in her own. Maybe if she begged, Mr. Gorgeous-Death-Angel would show her mercy, come back some other night… take her another time. After she’d made amends, gotten to say all the sorrys she owed, starting with the biggest one of all. Her sister. Tania deserved an apology. The words, sure, but also the remorse and closure behind them. She needed one last hug. One more shared meal. A night spent talking, the privilege of contact and a proper good-bye. “I’m not ready to go. Not yet. I’ll go quietly, I promise, just… please come back later.”
Bafflement winged across the dark angel’s face.
“Just a little more time. That’s all I need. Please, I—”
“Easy.” A large hand landed on her shoulder. With a gentle tug, Azrad drew her back, resettling her in the wheelchair. “Apologies, Nightfury. Too much Demerol. She’s a little loopy.”
“Back away from her,” the dark angel said, his voice soft yet somehow deadly. “And I’ll let you live.”
“You’re a bad liar. Tell you what though…” Azrad paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’ll relinquish her without a fight… for a price.”
“Name it,” the blond guy said.
J. J. frowned, her gaze ping-ponging between the two. Huh. Two death angels for the price of one. And the blond one? He was beautiful too, although not in the same way. His dark-haired companion appealed to her more. Sexy vibe. Gorgeous face. Incredible body. A thirteen and a half out of ten on her yum-o-meter, which…
Was just plain wrong. In major ways.
Dear God, what was the matter with her? No way should she be admiring him. The guy planned to kill her, for pity’s sake. Take her straight to hell, and what was she doing? Scoping him out. Singing his praises. Imagining what notes he might make her hit in bed.
“A meet and greet.” Rubber tires humming against hospital floor, Azrad walked her backward. As he retreated, the death angels advanced. “Bastian’s presence is required.”
“Not going to happen,” the dark angel said, an underlying snarl in his voice.
“Two choices, Nightfury.” With a quick shift, Azrad slipped his hand over her shoulder. J. J. flinched, shock spinning a sticky web as he palmed the front of her throat. Pressing his thumb against her jugular, he brought her chin up and tilted her head back. “You agree or I snap her neck.”
Immobilized, J. J. jerked in her seat to break his hold. Too little, too late. She got nowhere. Azrad was too strong. Her injuries made her weak. And with her reflexes obliterated by drugs, her chances of breaking free landed somewhere south of zero. She swallowed against the hand gripping her throat. A sitting duck. Out of her league. Bait for Mr. Gorgeous. All of which Azrad had intended from the beginning.
Golden eyes aglow, Mr. Gorgeous growled.
The blond bared his teeth on a curse.
J. J. gasped, the sound panicked as helplessness swamped her. She tried anyway. Fighting the lockdown, she grabbed Azrad’s forearm. Her nails bit deep to gouge his skin. With a “fuck,” Azrad tightened his grip, and she wheezed, struggling to draw air into her lungs. A tremor rolled through her. Fear followed, diving deep to unearth self-preservation. But it was too late. She knew it. So did Azrad. The jerk had played her to perfection.
And fool that she was, she’d let her guard down. Had ignored instinct—every lesson she’d learned in prison, surrounded by violent offenders—allowing Azrad to slip under her radar. Now she would pay the ultimate price.
Azrad wasn’t playing. She felt it in the strength of his grip. Recognized it in the flex and release of his muscled arm. Heard the warning in the intensity of his tone.
J. J.’s breath hitched on a sob. Life or death. He now held hers in the palm of his hand.
“Azrad?”
“Stay very still, sunshine,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.
“You’re hurting me,” she rasped, pulling at his wrist. “Please let go.”
He grumbled something. J. J. wanted to believe it was “sorry,” but she wasn’t that naïve. He had her by the throat, so… no. Only a fool would believe he felt remorse for holding her prisoner.
Mr. Gorgeous took another step toward her.
“Half a second, that’s all it’ll take.” Azrad tensed. J. J. winced as his big hand pressed against her windpipe. “Not enough time for you to reach her, Nightfury. So you decide… a dead female or a friendly chat with your commander. What’s it gonna be?”
He didn’t answer, just kept coming, moving closer in small increments.
The blond guy’s gaze narrowed. “You’re no rogue. What pack do you call home?”
“Your answer, warrior,” Azrad said, a lethal edge in his tone.
“Where and when?”
“Starbucks… 1st Avenue and Pike. Tomorrow at midnight.”
The blond nodded. “Done.”
“Excellent,” Azrad murmured. “She’s a lovely female. I would have hated to hurt her.”
“Let her go.” Chilled by violence, the dark angel’s voice slithered through the quiet. Goosebumps erupted, spreading like frost across J. J.’s skin.
“With pleasure.” With a quick hand, Azrad released the death grip. As she sucked in a quick breath, he grasped the back of her wheelchair. “Hold on tight, Jamison Jordan. He’ll catch you… I promise.”
The lilt of his tone warned her. Intuition spiked. Comprehension followed, laying out Goth Guy’s plan like tracks on a runway. “Don’t! Azrad… don’t!”
Too late.
With a hard shove, he sent her rolling. Rubber wheels hummed as she rocketed down the middle of the hallway. Horror shoved shock out of the way. J. J. yelled. Both angels cursed. The IV bag bounced off the metal pole stand, and the speed increased. Careening out of control, J. J. curled her hands around the steel armrests. As her knuckles turned white, each breath came hard, ramping into hyperventilation. Oh God. Oh no. Jesus help her. She was headed for a fall, a serious bone-cracking tumble.
The slam-bang of combat boots echoed down the corridor.
Perception warped and time stretched, spinning everything into slow motion. Fierce golden eyes met hers. She watched him run, arms and legs pumping, a prayer locked in her throat. But even as she sent her entreaty heavenward, hope making her heart throb, pain loomed like a promise at the end of a short trip. And J. J. knew, without a shadow of doubt, Mr. Gorgeous would never catch her in time.
8
Venom sprinted down the corridor, chasing the idiot with the spider tattoo. Wick barely noticed. He was too busy hauling ass, all his focus on the female. Bad odds. Even less time. He ran like a motherfucker anyway, the slam-bang of his boots matching the chaotic rhythm of his heart. Lungs burning, legs and arms pumping, he bared his teeth and pushed hard. He needed to reach her, to stop the furious roll of the wheelchair before…
Jesus. He was so fucked. Still too far away. Twenty feet from his target and not closing fast enough. And as each second whirled past, victory slid in the wrong direction. God help him. Any moment now, the chair would destabilize, come apart and send her reeling into a fall. One that would reopen her wounds. Make her bleed. Inflict so much pain she would scream in agony.
None o
f which Wick could prevent from happening.
The tatted bastard was just that smart.
Azrad cast one hell of an encryption spell. Now Jamison sat wrapped in magic, surrounded by an invisible force field that propelled the wheelchair at breakneck speed. Reaching out with his mind, Wick tore at the enchantment. Powerful and complex, the energy shield whiplashed, holding firm, denying his will to control it. Her bio-energy flared. His concern for her spiked as he registered the extent of her fear. She was in full panic mode, so amped up he felt each painful throb of her heart, saw the flare of her aura and the dread inside her mind.
Her heartbeat drove his, making each breath saw against the back of his throat. Wick pushed past physical limits and hammered the shield again. The structure flexed. Spotting a weakness, his dragon half growled, and Wick sank deep, connecting to the source of his power. Magic exploded through his veins, taking up all the space inside his head. He held it close a moment, then wound up and let it go, hurling the decryption spell like a hardball pitch in a softball game.
Rubber tires whined, picking up speed.
The pitch and sway rocked Jamison in the seat. Her knuckles turned white against the dark padding of the armrest. As the steel frame shuddered with catalytic rage, the chair veered, hurtling toward a pair of double doors. Oh shit. Not good. The chair wasn’t holding up beneath the strain and—
Metal groaned, threatening to buckle at the joints.
Wide-eyed, Jamison met his gaze. Wick bared his teeth. Already taut muscles tightened over his bones, and fury gave his magic more strength. The cosmic web around the wheelchair shuddered. He hammered it again. The bastard’s hold trembled, then crumbled, dissipating like vapor in dry air.
Triumph roared through him.
Wick didn’t pause to admire his handiwork. Without breaking stride, he reached out with his mind and grabbed the chair. He issued a mental command. The velocity downgraded, slowing little by little. Almost there. A few more seconds, and he’d—
In a panic, she grasped one of the wheels.
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