“Do it, Wick… right now.” Venom raised his head, ruby eyes aglow, and mind-spoke, “And you don’t stop until I tell you to. She’s prime… able to handle us both. No flaking out this time. You feed until you’re full, or I’ll kick your ass.”
The bossiness should’ve pissed Wick off. It barely registered. Threat, no threat, it didn’t matter. He was too nervous to do anything other than obey. Being told what to do helped. Clear. Concise. No room for error or misinterpretation. Which, oddly enough, gave him courage to move toward the female instead of away.
With a quick flick, Wick shoved the table aside and stepped in behind the female. His leather jacket brushed her shoulder blades. His chest touched down next. She moaned, welcoming his heat, undulating into another thrust, her hips moving in concert with Venom’s. Tainted by alcohol, her breath washed into his face. Wick clenched his teeth, but didn’t stop. Now or never. Quick in. Faster out. He could do this. Could ride the wave, stay the course, all while making Venom proud.
The thought twisted the screw tighter.
Courage made him reach out and cup her throat. As his hand settled against her skin, she moaned and tipped her chin up, giving him more room. Terrible. Without mercy. Voracious. The beast inside him rose on a greedy growl, begging for sustenance. Driven by instinct, he obliged, and pressing his hand to her lower back, lowered his head. She keened, pleading for pleasure as his mouth brushed the nape of her neck.
Energy surged.
The Meridian opened, blasting him with white-hot energy.
Unable to deny his need, Wick drank deep, pulling the electrostatic current through her into his core as Venom picked up the pace. An erotic switch flipped, powering into orgasm. As the female screamed in bliss, Wick fought a tidal wave of nausea and swallowed another mouthful. Venom growled, encouraging him to take more. He did, drinking hard, feeding fast, taking one pull after another.
But as he fed and his stomach cramped, he faced the awful truth.
He was irredeemable. A bastard beyond redemption for his shortcomings. An honorable male wouldn’t need his best friend present when he fed. A normal male would be able to please a female on his own. A dutiful male wouldn’t humiliate himself in such ways. And as the female came again, hammering him with another round, shame came calling. Fate had done him a bad turn and twisted his path. Now he lay beyond help. Fucked up in ways that couldn’t be reversed, never mind cured.
5
Waiting wasn’t Ivar’s strong suit. He’d never acquired the skill. Had never needed to either. As leader of the Razorbacks, no one ever made him wait. His word was law. The commands he issued absolute. The only voice that mattered in a pack accustomed to taking orders, regardless of the outcome. But as the elevator’s smooth ascent took him out of the underground lair, toward street level and the rundown firehouse he now called home, he marveled at the irony.
Hamersveld was late.
All right, not by much. Still the slight bothered Ivar more than he liked. He inhaled long and exhaled smooth, tightening the screws on his temper. No one was ever late. Not when meeting with him. Then again, Hamersveld wasn’t just anyone. He was a breed apart, a water dragon with a brutal nature, a keen mind, and the wherewithal to use both. A fantastic combo, one Ivar not only admired, but coveted, wanting the male’s intellect—along with his propensity for violence—for himself.
And the Razorback pack.
The problem? Accepting Hamersveld put him in the middle of uncharted territory. The male was a true gamble. Powerful. Pissy. And unpredictable. The descriptions fit Hamersveld to a T. So did “severe aversion to authority.” The water dragon wore the badge with pride, and by all accounts? Preferred his own company. With a snort, Ivar shoved his hands into the front pockets of his favorite jeans and leaned back. As his shoulder blades touched the mirrored surface of the wall, he ran through the possibilities.
After a moment, he shook his head. Jesus. Talk about an understatement. The male elevated dangerous to whole new levels. Excellent in some respects. Dicey in others. Good thing Ivar had never been averse to underdog odds. Long shots were his specialty. Sometimes playing both ends against the middle worked to his advantage. And Hamersveld? Ivar was betting all he owned, laying it all on the line in the hopes of bringing the lethal SOB onside and into the fold.
Huge risk. Big payoff… if he could swing it.
And if he couldn’t? Well, death was always an option.
Ivar grimaced, preferring option A over B. He wanted Hamersveld in his corner, kicking Nightfury ass, not spread like fertilizer across his new backyard. But necessity—bitch that it was—demanded a certain amount of practicality. Neither hesitation nor sentiment belonged in the equation. Either the male committed to the Razorback cause or he died. Simple as that. No middle ground. No in between. No going back, changing his mind or the game plan.
All or nothing. Yippee-ki-yay.
The elevator hummed, leveling to a smooth stop, making his heart dip. As it rebounded, settling into a steady rhythm, he stared at his reflection in the steel panels, waiting for the doors to open. It was now or never. Taking a calming breath, Ivar pushed out of his slouch. He checked the contents of his back pocket one last time.
The pads of his fingertips touched hard plastic.
Good. The syringe was still there, safely tucked away, waiting for him to palm it. Filled with powerful neural toxins, the drug was a lethal cocktail, packing enough punch to down three dragons, never mind one. Overkill? Probably, but Ivar wanted to be sure. Nothing could be left to chance, not with a male as powerful as Hamersveld coming to dinner.
He’d sent Hamersveld directions to 28 Walton Street—his new lair—earlier in the day. Which cranked his shit the wrong way. The second he’d connected through mind-speak and relayed the information, apprehension had taken hold. Even now, it poked at him, making his stomach churn. Ivar swallowed, combating a truckload of uncertainty. Had he made the right decision? Was trusting Hamersveld the smart thing to do?
The questions circled, fraying his nerves, filling him with doubt, making him want a do over. A take back… whatever. Too bad backing out now wasn’t an option. He lay exposed, and no matter how much that chafed him, he must see it through to the end. Bastian and his merry band of bastards had a water dragon in the fold. A young, inexperienced one, sure, but powerful nonetheless. Which… fuck a duck… qualified as a huge advantage in the war he fought with the Nightfury pack. Ivar needed a male to counteract Bastian’s power play, and like it or not Hamersveld was it.
His only means to the end. Still, revealing the secret location of his lair didn’t sit well.
And no wonder. Even though he commanded a large pack, three-quarters of his soldiers didn’t have a clue where he lived. Where he laid his head down each day and flew away from every night. It was safer that way. A tactical advantage he needed to thwart Bastian’s efforts to find him. Beyond ruthless, the Nightfury assholes weren’t above torturing the males under his command to acquire the information, so…
Right. No doubt. The less his soldiers knew, the better. Although, to be honest, keeping his location on the down low served another purpose too: insulation from the larger Razorback population meant privacy. All he needed, and a commodity he never took for granted. What little quiet time he managed to get was precious. As leader of the Razorback nation, he had too many demands on his time and not enough hours in the day.
Beyond frustrating, but normal, he guessed. Especially since he was now going it alone.