Coreene Callahan: Fury of Desire

Death seemed preferable. To the pain. To the shame. To the guilt.

Fisting his hands in his hair, he stepped back from the table, but refused to look away. From the blood. From the gaping wounds. From the certain knowledge he’d put Forge at death’s door. Fucking hell. He’d done this. Was the cause and effect. The one responsible for all the chaos and pain. Had he done his job and stuck to the plan, instead of jumping the gun—going off half-cocked into battle, dragging his pack with him—his comrade wouldn’t be laid out on the table. A heartbeat away from losing his life.

His fault. It was all his fault.

“Jesus,” he rasped, glancing down at his hands. Smeared with blood, he watched them tremble. His throat clogged as remorse and self-loathing collided. The sound of ripping fabric brought his head back up. An intense expression on her face, Myst cut Forge’s blood-soaked shirt away, revealing the extent of the wounds. His eyes stung as he met her gaze. “You have to save him. Please save him, Myst. What can I do? Tell me what to—”

“Get out of the way,” she said, her tone so calm it jolted him. In control. In command of her domain. In her element. The realization gave Wick hope. He took a step back. And then another, giving her space, doing what she asked, praying hard as his shoulder blades collided with the back wall. “And get Sloan. I need another set of hands.”

Pacing the floor in front of him, Mac spun toward the exit.

The glass doors slid open.

“I’m here.” Sloan sprinted into the room, cutting Mac off. “Talk to me.”

Her hand rose, then fell as Myst sewed another suture. “Get an IV going.”

“On it.” Boots thumping, Sloan rounded the end of the table. He slid to a stop next to a rolling table. Grabbing a bag filled with clear liquid, he prepped the kit, and working around Myst, pierced Forge’s vein. Tape hissed as Sloan peeled it from the roll. As he secured the IV, he treated Wick to a worried look. “Get Angela and J. J. in here. Myst can’t feed him because of her pregnancy, and he needs an infusion of energy. And Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“Go get Tania. We may need her too.”

Mac nodded. Wick cringed as his buddy ran for the exit. Shit. Jamison feeding Forge. The idea struck him as dangerous. Particularly since the thought made his dragon half rise with aggression. A bonded male didn’t share his female. Ever. But as he watched Myst work, Wick knew no other option existed. Nothing else would work. Forge needed to feed. If he didn’t, the warrior would die. Wouldn’t survive the hour, never mind last the day. Even with the energy-fuse, he might not make it anyway, but—

The airlock hissed, opening the door into the corridor.

Out of breath, Jamison jogged into the clinic. “Mac said you needed us.”

“What can we do?” Angela asked.

“A lot.” Eyeballing Jamison, Sloan waved her over. “J. J., you first. Come here. I’ll talk you through it.”

With a nod, his female headed toward the table. A growl rolled up Wick’s throat. Primitive. Possessive. Predatory. The soft snarl curled through the quiet. Like razor-sharp dragon claws, warning gouged at the underbelly of sanity, taking Wick out of his head into another place. A space where instinct ruled and logic didn’t live. His gaze on his female, he bared his teeth. Magic thundered through him, rumbling in his veins, making him twitch with the need to possess her.

His hands curled into fists, Wick took a step toward her.

Seeing his expression, Jamison sucked in a quick breath, and halfway across the clinic, stopped short. Her gaze locked on him, she whispered his name. In welcome. With need. With so much heat, Wick lost all sense of himself and his surroundings.

He wanted her. Right now. He needed to dominate. Prove his dominion and show everyone that Jamison belonged to him. She was his.

All his. No one else’s.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Dark eyes shimmering, Sloan fired up mind-speak. “Venom, get your ass in here. Bring B and Rikar with you. Wick’s losing it.”

Staring at him, Jamison licked her bottom lip. Lust spiraled deep, igniting a longing so profound Wick couldn’t contain it. Another growl rolled out of him. Venom skidded to a stop in front of the clinic with B and Rikar on his heels. A cacophony of cursing drifted in from the corridor. Unclenching his fists, Wick went after his female. His best friend vaulted over the threshold. In less than a second, Venom grabbed hold. Fighting the lockdown, Wick spun full circle and raised his arm. Bone cracked against bone.

Venom’s face snapped to the side. “Goddamn it!”

He cranked his fist back again. Right. Wrong. Neither held sway. Only one thing mattered. Jamison. He needed to reach her. Now. Before anyone touched her.

“Oh my God.” Shock flared in his female’s eyes. The uncertainty came next, making her raise her hands. She held them palms up, the gesture one of reassurance. “Wick, stop. It’s all right. Don’t—”

He lunged toward her, dragging Venom with him.

“Fuck,” Bastian growled, entering the fray. Electricity crackled, supercharging the air. Hard hands clamped down. Wick roared as he got hauled backward. Away from Jamison. Over the threshold. Out of the clinic into the hallway. Tag-teamed by B and Venom, he struggled, muscles straining, shitkickers sliding on concrete, his dragon half fixated on her. He surged forward again. Bastian’s grip slipped. “Holy shit. Rikar…”

“Got him.” Frost spread over his leather jacket as Rikar joined the party. With a roar, Wick twisted. His XO cursed and went hard core, pushing arctic air into his lungs. Oxygen disappeared. He wheezed, using what little remained to yell “no!” as his brothers dragged him from view. “Sloan… get it done, then get her into the corridor. We’ll keep him locked down until she’s finished.”

Flipping him belly down, Bastian pinned him to the concrete floor. Still fighting, Wick tried to break his hold. B dropped another f-bomb, and grabbing his arm, cranked it behind his back. Then sat on him while Rikar secured his legs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my brother, but Forge needs it. He needs it, Wick.”

“No,” he rasped, even though he knew the truth. But shit, it wasn’t about being reasonable. Or doing the right thing. The territorial bastard inside him had taken over. Now he couldn’t control his reaction. Or think straight. “She’s mine. Mine. I can’t… don’t…”

“I know.” On his haunches beside him, Venom cupped the back of his head. “But it’ll be over soon. Hang tough. Just give it some time.”

Some time? To what… feed another male? Fuck that. “Let go.”

Bastian tightened his grip. “In a minute.”

One minute turned into two. And then four. Wick counted off the seconds, each ticktock drove him closer to the edge of insanity. Taut muscles grew tenser, then started to shake. Venom murmured, trying to calm him. It didn’t help. He wanted to kill everyone. Rip his brothers limb from limb for getting in his way. For throwing Jamison in the hot seat, and him into emotional meltdown. And as mind fuck expanded, turning his skull into a pressure cooker, Wick groaned in agony. Even after years of battle, all the injuries, he’d never felt pain like this. Wretched. Debilitating. Life-altering anguish. It drilled deep, boring into him until heartache bubbled through the fissure, hollowing him out until all that remained was an empty shell.

His face pressed to cold concrete, Wick moaned her name.

“Here, baby. I’m right here,” a soft voice whispered from behind him. Her scent reached him on a heated curl. Wick exhaled hard, needing every little piece of her. “Please, take your hands off him.”