Fury of Desire (-4

by Coreene Callahan

  Unable to resist, he pressed his hands into the coverlet on either side of her. As he leaned in and touched his mouth to her temple, she reached out. Her palm slid across his pillow. A frown marring her brow, she murmured his name.

  He kissed her softly again. “Sleep, vanzäla. I’ll be back soon.”

  The moment she settled, he pushed away from the mattress and, conjuring his clothes, rounded the end of the bed. Worn jeans and a faded T-shirt brushed his skin. He didn’t bother with boots. He wouldn’t be that long. Would slip right back into the bed next to his female the second he finished his errand.

  Which… shit… wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  To be expected. Apologizing, no matter the circumstances, sucked.

  Bare feet silent against the hospital-grade floor, Wick crossed the recovery room. His choice of beds furthered his goals. Had been purely strategic, for a number of reasons. First, he hadn’t been able to wait to make love to Jamison again after the mating ceremony, and—fuck him, but his own bedroom had seemed too far away at the time. And second? Forge. Laid out one room over, the male was passed out, recovering from brutal injury and sleeping like the dead.

  Or had been until a few minutes ago.

  Dragon senses keen, he heard the voices. Uh-huh. No doubt. The wonder twins were up and at ’em. Not surprising, considering the lateness of the hour. Walking past a round table with a pair of chairs, Wick glanced at the clock above the bank of stainless steel cabinets. Each ticktock sounded loud in the quiet, skinny hands walking around its wide face, speeding time along. 2:43 P.M. Mid-afternoon, prime wake-up time for the Nightfury warriors. So no time like the present. He needed to get a move on and the conversation over before B and the others rolled in to check on Forge.

  Unleashing magic, Wick flicked the handle and shoved. The connecting door swung wide. Strides even and sure, he crossed over the threshold and—

  “Bloody hell.” Propped up in bed, looking like a thundercloud, Forge scowled at his apprentice. A deck of cards between them, amethyst gaze narrowed, he studied his cards as Mac tossed his hand down on the mattress. The Scot cursed under his breath. “You wanker.”

  “You wanna win?” Seated in a chair next to the bed, Mac reached for the pot. Colorful poker chips rattled as he raked them in. “Beat me fair and square.”

  “Fucking Irish,” Forge grumbled, tossing his own cards. Spades and diamonds slid against the bedspread, triple sixes bumping into a pair of jacks. A sliver of pleasure thrummed through Wick. Straight Up Texas Hold ’Em, his favorite game. “Bone-headed brats, every last one of you.”

  With a snort, Mac flipped his buddy the bird, then gathered up the deck and started shuffling.

  Standing just inside the room, Wick closed the door behind him. The soft click joined the quiet buzz of halogens. Two pairs of eyes swung his way. Only one, though, concerned him. He met Forge’s gaze. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I want tae beat the shite out of Mac.”

  Their resident water dragon rolled his eyes.

  Wick’s lips twitched. “Better then.”

  “Aye.”

  The male’s low tone drew Wick further into the room. He stopped at the end of bed and, planting his forearms on the lip of the footboard, leaned in. He frowned at the individual stitches dotting the top of the handmade quilt, then cleared his throat. Jesus. How to start? What to say? Where to begin? He didn’t know. Remorse never entered his equation, but as he looked up and saw the thick bandage crisscrossing Forge’s chest, regret hit him hard. God, he’d almost killed one of his brothers.

  The thought made him sick to his stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at his hands, his throat so tight the words came hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know.” Shifting against a pile of pillows, Forge sat up a little straighter. “Friendly fire, lad. It happens.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Tae every male, if he lives long enough.”

  He shook his head. Despite Forge’s willingness to forgive, Wick couldn’t let it go. A mistake had been made. He must pay for his part in it. “I owe you restitution. A blood debt of—”

  “Bullshite. You owe me nothing,” Forge growled. “’Tis the other way around. You shared your female. Saved my life by letting J. J. feed me.”

  Let her? What a big, fat lie. “I wasn’t exactly willing.”

  “Neither was I.” Expression serious, Mac split the deck with one hand. A pro move. Not surprising. The newest member of the Nightfury pack excelled at the poker table. Was a regular card shark, even by Wick’s lofty standards. “Venom and the others held me down too when Tania took her turn. And Rikar?”

  Wick raised a brow, waiting for the punch line.

  “The corridor turned into a winter wonderland. Total Frostville the second Ange entered the fray. We couldn’t hold him back, so Bastian hammered him. Knocked him out cold.” Mac huffed, cards moving rapid-fire, a silent shuffle in his hands. “You should see the shiner he’s sporting. Ange is still babying him.”

  “Seems tae be going around,” Forge said, gesturing to the back of Wick’s hand. “You’ve gotten some of the same.”

  “More than just some.” He flexed his fingers, making the mating mark move across his knuckles. Pride settled deep. A swirl of happiness followed. “Didn’t think I had the balls to claim her, did you?”

  “Courage isn’t your problem, Wick.” Picking up a poker chip, Forge flicked it at him. He caught it in midair and, running his thumb over the ridged edge, turned the piece over in his hand. Mischief in his eyes, the Scot smirked. “People skills, on the other hand?”

  “Fuck off, Forge,” he said, unleashing his favorite phrase.

  As intended, the comeback made both males laugh. And just like that, the tension eased, and it was over. Apology accepted. Back to normal. Forgiveness sent and accepted. Fantastic. But as relief took away the burden, another worry popped up to replace it. A big one that had nothing to do with the warriors already safe inside the lair.

  Skirting the end of the bed, Wick unloaded on the mattress. His back against the footboard, he stretched his legs out on top of the quilt and crossed his feet at the ankles. Gaze ping-ponging between his comrades, he asked, “Any word from Gage and Haider?”

  Mac shook his head. “Nothing. B’s worried.”

  Wick was too. The Metallics never went this long without checking in. The fact they’d gone radio silent wasn’t a good sign. “What about Nian?”

  “Sloan’s sending him messages, but so far he hasn’t answered.”

  “Shite.”

  “No kidding.” Sliding into a slouch, Mac leaned back in his chair. Plastic creaked as he lifted his legs and set his shitkickers down beside Wick’s bare feet. “We got another option, though.”

  “Azrad,” Wick murmured, picking up his buddy’s line of thought.

  Forge hummed. “A good bet, considering his connection tae Nian. The male might know something.”

  Fingers crossed. Information was step one. Action would come next. “Is Bastian setting up another meeting?”

  “Yeah. Not sure when it’ll go down,” Mac said. “He wants Forge on his feet first.”

  Wick nodded. Made sense. “All hands on deck.”

  “Bloody well better be.” A sour look on his puss, Forge glared a warning. “You leave me at home, I’ll kick your arses from here tae Saint Paddy’s Day.”

  “Could be worse.” Flashing pearly whites, Mac grinned, half devil, all eager. “At least, there’ll be lots of beer to drink.”

  “Green ale,” Wick said, joining in on the fun.

  “Total wankers… the pair of you.”

  Mac laughed.

  Wick shook his head, even as appreciation for his fellow warriors sank deep. Despite their newness to the pack, Mac and Forge fit like marrow inside bone. They belonged. Were family in every way that counted. Which meant he should be able to ask them anything. He frowned. Right? After a moment spent thinking it
over, the answer came to him. No question. Both males were solid, safe, smart as hell too, so… yeah. Asking for their advice seemed like the thing to do.

  But for one small problem.

  He’d never asked anyone for help before. Wasn’t sure how to go about it either. Should he jump right in? Was there a protocol he needed to follow? A code of etiquette of some kind? Shit, he didn’t know, so…

  Fuck it. He might as well wade in. “Hey, Forge?”

  “Aye, lad?”

  “I hear you’re good with a hammer.”

  An understatement. A huge one. Particularly since Wick had seen his work. A master carpenter, Forge owned serious tools and a shitload of skill. Ones he put to good use every afternoon, carving out a spot for his collection of fine wines and aged whiskies. The passion fueled his project, keeping the male happy as he built a wine cellar in one corner of the underground lair. Barely begun, the space reeked of style and sophistication, with exotic woods taken from foreign lands, and a sense of tradition brought over from the old country.

  From a Highland heritage and a history that endured.

  Rapt interest in his eyes, Forge perked up. “What are you building?”

  “A gift for Jamison.”

  Chasing an itch, Mac rubbed his shoulder against the seat back. “Lay it out.”

  Simple as that, the conversation began. Amazing, really. Something as basic as a question could give birth to camaraderie. The kind he’d only ever experienced with Venom. But as Wick shared his idea, his brothers accepted him without question: helping him shape his vision, hashing out the details, and making a list of materials. Extraordinary. Wicked fun too, and as he listened to Forge and Mac argue about the best wood screws to use, his excitement lit off like a rocket. Watch out world. He was headed into the great unknown, about to attempt something he never had before with his friends’ help. The fine art of pleasing a female. And oh baby, he couldn’t wait to get started. Couldn’t wait to see Jamison’s face when he unveiled his gift and surprised the hell out of her.

  Perched on a stool at the kitchen island, J. J. rapped the end of her pencil against the notepad and frowned at the cake in front of her. The eraser bounced against paper, punishing a curlicue treble clef and the adjoining lines containing a flurry of music notes. Two birds with one stone. Musical composition while baking… a happy accident. One she’d discovered with Daimler’s help. A pastime she would be enjoying, but for one simple thing.

  Her design wasn’t working.

  Oh, not the song. The melody was taking shape just right, the up-tempo chorus flowing into each verse like a river into the sea. On cue. Perfect rhythm keeping time. No problems on the musical front at all. It was the dragon cake she worried about. The legs were too fat, the neck too skinny, and the head? Gosh darn it all. The thing looked more like a triangle than the smooth, sculpted contours she wanted. Chewing on her lip, she added another string of notes to the music staff, then dropped the pencil to pick up the baker’s knife. She drummed its tip against the marble countertop. The rat-ta-ta-tat barely registered. She was too busy figuring out where she’d gone wrong.

  Not in the actual baking. The white cake looked okay. So no, it couldn’t be that. Tilting her head one way and then the other, she pursed her lips, hoping a different angle would help, but…

  No such luck. The head still looked awful.

  She scowled at it. Dumb thing. Who knew baking a fancy cake could be so difficult? Not her. Not after decorating the cupcakes had gone so well. Nudging the base, she pushed the notepad aside and turned her crappy-looking dragon full circle, studying it from each side, then glanced at the knife in her hand. Maybe if she scalped it a little more. Trimmed down the body. Reinforced the neck. Added the horns, scales, and spikes with colorful marzipan. J. J. grimaced. Maybe she should just start over. Much as she hated to admit it, that seemed like the best option.

  “Frick’n frack,” her sister grumbled. Seated across from her, Tania chewed on the end of her own pencil. A sketch pad bobbing in her other hand, she cursed under her breath. “It still doesn’t look right.”

  “Join the club.”

  Startled from her own creative dilemma, Tania’s head came up. “What?”

  J. J. poked the dragon head with the tip of her knife. “Well, just look at it. Catastrophe central. It looks like something out of a bad horror flick.”

  Tania snorted in laughter. “The neck’s too skinny.”

  “Thanks for the news flash,” she muttered, tossing her sister a perturbed look. Tania grinned. J. J. rolled her eyes. Ah, snap… she might as well admit it. She’d bitten off more than she could chew. And with Daimler out of the lair—off on some secret mission for Wick—she didn’t have a chance in hell of heading the baking disaster off at the pass. “What’s your problem?”

  “The waterfall.”

  J. J. raised a brow.

  With a sigh, her sister flipped the sketch pad in her direction. J. J. blinked. Wow. Get a load of that. The three dimensional drawing practically leapt off the page, depicting a moonlit lagoon surrounded by lush forest and smooth stone. Staring at the picture, Tania shook her head. “I want the water to flow down the rock face and into the pool, but… I don’t know… the perspective’s off or something. I can’t figure out why it’s not working.”

  “You got me.” Eyes narrowed, J. J. studied the design. “I don’t know the first thing about—”

  A warm tingle swept over the nape of her neck.

  She drew in a soft breath as the soft sensation buzzed down her spine. Well, well, well, it was about time. Wick was headed her way, and after pulling a disappearing act all afternoon? She was ready to see him. Ready to ask him again too: poke, prod, beg, borrow, and plead for a clue. He was up to something. She felt it in her bones. Saw it in the knowing gleam in his eyes. Smelled it on him too. But the cherry on top… the proof in her pudding? He’d been AWOL from lunch until dinner for the last three days.

  Along with the other Nightfury warriors.

  Suspicious much? Uh-huh. Beyond mysterious, a puzzle worth solving.

  Anticipation running hot, J. J. slid off the stool. As her bare feet touched warm tile, she glanced at her sister. “See yah.”

  “Rah, rah, sis-boom-bah,” Tania said, mischief in her eyes. “Go get him, tiger.”

  Laughing, J. J. rounded the end of the island. All her senses locked on Wick, she turned into the corridor and… oh man. There he was, halfway down the hallway, looking good enough to eat as his long legs carried him forward. Getting a move on, she walked toward him, heart pounding, body humming, her desire for him rising like a heat wave. Golden eyes shimmering, a slow grin spread across his face. Her stomach flip-flopped. A buzz of happiness followed. God, she loved it when he looked at her that way: with a hunger born of passion and need, and so much love it took her breath away.

  “Hey,” she said, getting up close and personal as she stepped into him. Hard muscle rippled as he wrapped his arms around her. Hmm, he always smelled so darn good, like wood smoke and male spice. Breathing him in, she pressed a kiss to his T-shirt-clad chest and, tipping her chin, offered him her mouth. He didn’t hesitate. Dipping his head, he brushed his lips against hers. She smiled against his mouth, running her hands down his back, loving the feel of him, then got back on track. Curiosity demanded an answer, and she wanted to know. “So, you gonna tell me now?”

  He shook his head. “How about I show you instead?”

  Oh, yes, please. Especially if the showing included getting horizontal with him in bed. “Where we going?”

  Wick didn’t answer. He grabbed her hand instead and, lacing their fingers together, led her down the corridor. Away from her sister and the kitchen. Past the bedroom J. J. now shared with him. The thump of his boots sounding loud in the quiet, she followed without question. Where to… where to? The question heightened her anticipation until she couldn’t stand it.

  She wanted to know. Right now.

  All part of his pla
n, she knew.

  Sneak that he was, Wick had played her to perfection, letting her know something was up without giving the game away. He’d even shut her down in the mental sphere, refusing to allow her to read him via the bond they shared. Which, naturally, sent her need to know into orbit. Grinning like an idiot, she wrapped both of her hands around his and hopped like an excited five year old. She couldn’t help it. Whatever he had planned must be big. Huger than huge, ’cause…

  He stopped in front of a set of double doors. Eyes alight with anticipation, he met her gaze. “Ready?”

  So eager her voice vanished, she squeezed his hand and nodded.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Taking a deep breath, J. J. obeyed. He shifted beside her. The doorknob clicked, the soft snick echoing inside her head. With a gentle tug, Wick drew her forward, guiding her over the threshold, walking her deep into the room. It felt large, open concept, high ceilinged, more like a living area than a bedroom. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air too, along with a hint of sawdust. But the floor felt smooth, like hardwood and… oh, wait. Soft fringe touched her bare toes. She’d just stepped onto an area rug, a big one judging by the distance she traveled before Wick stopped walking.

  Untangling their fingers, he released her hand.

  J. J. squirmed, curling her toes into plush carpet. “Now?”

  “Yes,” he murmured, his mouth brushing the side of her throat. A shiver erupted, raising goose bumps on her skin as he nipped the shell of her ear. “Now. Open your eyes, Jamison.”

  She did and…

  Holy God. J. J. blinked. A baby grand piano. A freaking baby grand piano sat across the room. Glossy black paint shining. Ivory-white keys glowing. Padded bench seat calling her name. And beside it, standing proud in a guitar stand, a brand new Bedell… honey-colored wood gleaming in the low light. Disbelief warred with overwhelming emotion. Without mercy, it punched through to grab her heart, squeezing so hard she struggled to breathe. Her hands started to shake. Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision, making her throat close, kicking shock up a notch.