Coreene Callahan: Fury of Desire

“Do we have to?” Mac grumbled, rotating into a slow flip behind the Scot as he lined up his approach. “I hate the Gridiron. It’s too fucking loud.”

Venom rolled his eyes but shifted, moving from dragon to human form. Wick followed suit, and stomping his feet into his shitkickers, headed for the rooftop door. The staircase made its home behind steel, and a whole bar full of “just-kill-me-now” lay beyond that. But hey, no time like the present. The quicker he got the job done, the sooner he could go on his way. Be all the way across town, kicking ass inside Swedish Medical.

Not here, looking FUBARed in the face.

“Shut your yap, Mac.” Dark-brown scales glimmering, Sloan tucked his horned head, somersaulting in midair to land on the roof edge. Snow-white talons played a game of clickety-click against the building side as the triple scorpion-like stingers tipping the male’s tail glinted in the city glow. “Not all of us have a personal plaything feeding us at home.”

“My mate’s not a plaything,” Mac said, the snarl in his tone undeniable. He flexed a huge blue-gray talon, razor-sharp claws promising aggression. “You say anything like that about Tania again, I’ll rip your face off.”

Wick snorted, boots crunching on stone dust as he crossed the roof. He liked Mac’s style. Easy to do. The male might be new to Dragonkind—and the magical abilities that accompanied the change —but he packed a helluva wallop and didn’t take shit from anyone. Both big pluses… at least in his opinion.

With a chuckle, Forge thumped the newest member of their pack with the side of his spiked tail.

Mac threw the Scot a dirty look.

Sloan bared his teeth, the smile half-amusement, half-challenge. “Bring it on, Irish.”

“Stop mucking around.” Deep voice rolling like thunder, Venom stretched his shoulders. Leather creaked as his biker jacket protested. “I’m hungry, and we got a female in the mix tonight. The sooner we feed and get out of here, the better.”

The statement sobered the group.

And no wonder. Pulling an injured female out of danger would take some doing. Strange, but the idea enlivened Wick. Not for the discomfort he would cause, but for the good he might do… for the peace he would bring Mac and his female. For the debt he would repay. And, yes, for the chance to screw over human authorities and flout their ridiculous laws. He’d read the police report and court transcripts. Jamison had protected herself. And for that she’d been imprisoned, and now mistreated.

Wick’s eyes narrowed. The metal handle settled in his hand, frosting his palm. He cranked the door wide, barely registering the cold. Injustice. It came in so many forms. He was a prime example. His imprisonment—all the agony he’d suffered over the years—didn’t matter anymore. It was ancient history. But Jamison still had a chance, and he would see that she got it. But first, he needed to… to…

His throat went tight. Wick cringed. He forced himself to move forward anyway and descended the stairs. The rank smell of stale alcohol rose, assaulting his senses as his warrior brothers filed in behind him. Multiple boots clanked out a rhythm on steel treads, joining the heavy thump of bass and the high-pitched shriek of a singer’s voice. Darkness descended and swelled, enclosing him inside a prison all his own. His night vision sparked, showing him the way as excitement turned to dread, congealing in the pit of his stomach. But first…

God-awful words. Too bad neither changed the facts. Or lifted the curse of his kind.

A furrow between his brows, Wick paused at the bottom of the staircase. Decision time. Turn right toward the emergency exit, say “fuck it,” and pull a fast flash’n fly. Or go left into the alcohol-fueled oblivion of human frenzy. Shitkickers planted, hands curled into fists, he glanced through the open door into the club. Strobe lights backlit those closest to the entrance, holding male and female bodies in silhouette. Some congregated along the back bar, waiting for their drinks. Others stood intertwining, more interested in sex than the surroundings.

Wick’s heart squeezed, then rebounded, slamming the inside of his chest. Now or never. No easy choice. Especially considering escape lay a few feet away. A couple quick strides, one swift kick, and he’d be outside… in the alley beyond. Deep in the chill, breathing in crisp night air instead of female perfume, the smell of male sweat, and cigarette smoke.

Temptation lit him up. He leaned toward the exit.

A big hand landed on his shoulder.

Clenching his teeth, he glanced left. An uncompromising set of ruby-red eyes met his. Wick shook his head.

Venom tightened his grip. “Let’s go.”

Mouth gone dry, Wick couldn’t answer. He nodded instead and, putting one foot in front of the next, led the way into the last place he wanted to go.

As the back of the bed’s headboard bumped against the wall of her hospital room, J. J. tried not to panic. Fear stuck it to her anyway, punching through to pierce her breastbone. The sharp barbs grabbed hold of her heart, sank deep, and stretched her thin, making it hard to concentrate, never mind control her reaction.

But she needed to. Right now. Before Griggs saw her expression and picked up her distress. The second that happened, she was cooked.

Flambéed with an extra order of screwed on the side.

A consummate manipulator, the slimy good-for-nothing guard would use it against her. Up the ante until nothing but dread remained. Anticipation, after all, was worse than reality. He knew it. So did she. Too bad she couldn’t stop the unease. Or stop her palms from sweating.

Curling her hand in the sheets, she wiped the moisture away as he approached the end of her bed. Handcuffs in hand, he swung the metal shackles around the tip of his finger. The move was pure intimidation, 100 percent wild, wild West, the kind of thing gunslingers did with their six-shooters. Twirl. Flip. Point and shoot. The weasel had it down cold.

Not that Ashford noticed.

The nurse was too busy getting her settled. Humming a god-awful tune, Ashford gave the bed one last jiggle, making sure it sat perpendicular to the wall behind J. J., then bent to lock the wheels. Lovely, wasn’t it… that kind of obliviousness? J. J. wished she possessed a touch of it. Maybe then her heart would stop thumping. Maybe then she could forget the threat, bury her head in the sand, and pretend she was safe for a change.

Maybe then the music would come back.

Her throat so tight she found it hard to breathe, J. J. reached for her fallback. She needed a three-four beat. An up-tempo song. Any melody—a single note—would do, just as long as it blocked out the chaos rebounding between her temples once and for all.

Her gaze riveted to Griggs—and his imminent landing beside her bed—she found the beat on the third try. Rounding the bases like a baseball player at full throttle, the melody came home, sliding in to save her. Acoustic and raw, the guitar thrummed to life. The drums arrived next, snapping imaginary fingers inside her head. B-flat weighed in on the first stroke of piano keys and…

Thank God. The piece was fully formed. Only the lyrics stayed away, letting the refrain lead the way to sanity. J. J. clung to the rhythm, let the music take her, and relaxed into the flow of composition like a sunbather in the noonday sun. Warm on her face. Hot in her soul. Beauty tempered by control and partnered with perfection. And as the symphonic sound melded, her body unlocked, allowing her to release the breath she’d been holding.

As air rushed from her lungs, Ashford grumbled. “Stupid… stubborn… lever.”