Coreene Callahan: Fury of Desire

Not him. A lifetime of deprivation had set the pace.

Now, he simply followed the curve, flying out to meet the enemy no matter the weather. Rikar, a frost dragon and the Nightfuries’ first in command, loved him for it. Freezing rain. Snowstorms. Whiteout conditions. It didn’t matter. Wick never missed an opportunity to play hunt-and-kill with the Razorbacks. Which meant while the other warriors hunkered down to wait out a bad squall, he served as Rikar’s wingman. Good all the way around. The arrangement gave them both what they needed—a ball-busting fight—while adhering to the rules. Bastian didn’t fuck around or tolerate insubordination. No one flew out of the lair without backup.

And if a male was foolish enough to try? B would hand the warrior his ass on a stick.

Not advisable… or even close to fun. The rules existed for a reason, one that kept the Nightfury pack healthy and its members breathing. And as much as Wick enjoyed chaos, he liked his brothers-in-arms too much to risk them in the pursuit of foolishness. Smart was always welcome. Dumb-ass stupid, however?

Not so much.

Which meant he couldn’t bust a move or go AWOL. Not with Venom and the rest of the boys flying in his wake. Wick ground his fangs together. Fuck him, but he wanted to make a break for it. Fly to his favorite spot deep inside Mount Rainier and curl up next to a river of lava flow while his comrades found suitable females and fed. He snorted in disgust. Droplets of magma swirled from his nostrils, ghosting over his horns as he shook his head. All hail his upbringing. Brutality at the hands of his captor had left him phobic, not wanting to be touched, never mind touch in return.

A bad taste washed into his mouth. Wick swallowed, combating his unease. God. He was a pansy, a lily-livered chicken, for his aversion. Most males relished time with the opposite sex. Enjoyed the slap and tickle. Craved the contact and mutual pleasure. Not him. He dreaded it, feeling inadequate, unprepared, unable to give the bliss-fueled ecstasy a female demanded while males of his kind fed. Shit. He didn’t even know what that meant. Had never experienced true pleasure, never mind provided any for another living soul.

Too bad compulsion and hunger didn’t care.

He was a slave to his nature and the energy his kind needed to survive. The Goddess of All Things had seen to that, cursing his race long ago. Some said she’d cast the spell to exact revenge. Others thought her methods a judicial righting of wrongs. Wick didn’t give a shit either way. All he cared about was the outcome, and Dragonkind’s utter dependence on human females—to not only procreate but also connect to the Meridian, the electrostatic current that fed his kind. Ringing the planet, the energy source nurtured plant and animal alike. The process was an automatic one for all living things, with the exception of Dragonkind. Thanks to the goddess—and her colossal snit—the direct link between the Meridian and his kind lay shattered. Now, a male needed a female to survive. Which entailed connecting to the Meridian’s energy stream through her. Getting up close and personal, so close skin touched skin and…

Wick stifled a shiver. Brutal punishment with sharp teeth and a big-ass bite. Unfair? Without question. Too bad fair had nothing to do with it. Silfer the dragon god had screwed up, pissing off the wrong deity with his cheating ways. Now all of Dragonkind suffered for his stupidity. Which sucked, but hey…

It was what it was. Flip the dossier closed. File it under Fucked Up and get on with it.

Good strategy. The best, really… logical, straightforward, precise. Too bad none of that helped him. He couldn’t quell the dread. Or turn off his brain as he lined up his approach, gliding over building tops and the avenue below. Cloaked by an invisibility spell, he scanned the city streets. Seattle was busy tonight. Humans were everywhere, huddled into their coats, collars turned up, hands jammed in pockets, the fast click of high heels echoing as they hustled along sidewalks. Music drifted, thumping bass rolling out of nightclubs, enticing males and females out of taxicabs, toward neon signs and closed doors.

Another Friday night. Same outcome.

Humans liked to party. The faint smell of alcohol and perfume told him the scene was in full swing. Good for Venom. Not so great for him. It meant there would be lots to choose from, and more action than he could handle.

The thought cranked Wick one notch tighter. He didn’t want to do it. Then again, he never did. The brush of strange hands against his body—the unpleasant rush of sensation—made him cringe and curl inward, away from the prickling pain of overload. Away from bone-bending pressure and the mind-warping hunger that shoved him to the edge of endurance, messing with his control.

Fight or flight.

An instinctive response, nature’s own and one Wick couldn’t avoid. Not that he didn’t try… all the time. But Venom was right. He couldn’t go after Jamison and repay his debt while hungry. He wanted to rescue the female, not endanger her. So, no getting around it. No negotiating with it either. He needed to grow a pair and allow closeness with a stranger. Someone who didn’t give a damn about him. A human who only wanted one thing… the promise of pleasure and its rapid delivery.

With a grimace, Wick circled into a holding pattern, wheeling like a bird of prey over a low-lying rooftop. Pleasure. The word gave him the chills. His dragon shied, not appreciating the psychological deep freeze or the implications behind it. Shit, he wasn’t any good at this, and no matter his eighty-seven years and all past feedings, it never got any easier. He always felt inadequate… completely out of his league. Unable to provide what a female demanded as he took what he needed.

All right, so Venom helped. Was ever constant, smoothing out the rough patches, supporting him through the process, providing what he couldn’t for himself. Sad, but true. He couldn’t feed without Venom present. Panic always picked Wick up, then shut him down, forcing him into freak-out mode the instant a female got too close. Disgust sank deep, cutting through to sear his soul. Damaged. He was beyond redeemable. Shamed by the inability to provide for himself.

Tucking his wings, Wick dropped like a rock between two tall buildings. Glass shuddered and rattled in steel frames, reflecting his black amber-tipped scales and the fierce glow of his gaze. As the golden light refracted, skipping across asphalt, Wick touched down on the brownstone’s rooftop. The razor-sharp tips of his talons screeched across metal, setting him on edge.

Not a great start. Especially since he was already wound way too tight.

Dark-green scales flashed overhead, glinting in the moonlight. A moment later, Venom touched down without a sound beside him. Rolling his massive shoulders, his friend wing flapped, sending rock dust swirling into mini-tornados. Muscles rippled along the male’s flank, showcasing his strength as he folded his wings, drawing the black webbing against his sides.

Ruby-red eyes shimmering, Venom nodded. “The Gridiron. Good choice.”

Good had nothing to do with it. The nightclub, and the humans it catered to, drew his friend like a loadstone. Venom liked a rough crowd and lithe, Gothed-out females, so… no shit, Sherlock. It was a no-brainer. Considering the favor Venom did him, Wick always went with his friend’s favorite.

“Shove over.” The low growl, spiked with a hint of the Highlands, came through mind-speak, vibrating between Wick’s temples. A second later, the purple-scaled Scot uncloaked, coming in on a fast glide. Smoke swirling in his wake, Forge bared his fangs. “Or better yet, get gone. Not a lot of real estate down there. We cannae land if you wankers donnae move.”