Light flared. The scent of pine floor cleaner reached him. His feet thumped down. Fighting to keep his balance, Wick cursed as his combat boots slid on polished concrete.
“Holy shit.” Shifting mid-stride, Rikar scrambled out of his way.
Breathing hard, Wick skidded to a stop in the middle of the corridor. Shock riding shotgun, he stood rooted to the floor. Holy shit, indeed. Crazy too, considering the energy shield had left him untouched. He glanced down at Jamison. Relief rolled through him. Fast asleep in his arms, she was none the worse for wear. He tapped into her bio-energy anyway, wanting to make sure. Heartbeat steady. Energy levels good. Each breath soft and even.
Thank God.
“Christ, I hate it when you do that.” The grumble came from his right.
Glancing away from the top of her head, he met Rikar’s gaze.
A sour look on his puss, his XO glared at him. “Stop provoking it, and the bastard might let you through without trying to kill you every once in a while.”
“That work for you?”
“Never mind.” Amusement sparked in Rikar’s pale eyes. His mouth curved in response. He couldn’t help it. Despite the fact his XO enjoyed razzing him, he liked the tough-minded SOB. He was lethal in a fight and loyal to a fault, the kind of warrior a male wanted watching his six. “Nasty fucking thing. Always will be.”
With an “uh-huh,” Wick put his boots to good use and headed for the clinic.
“How is she?”
“Alive.”
Rikar huffed. “Always a bonus.”
No kidding. A big one too, considering the alternative. The idea of her dead, laid out on a cold slab somewhere, made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to imagine the possibility, never mind entertain it.
A few hours ago, it hadn’t mattered.
Rescuing her started out as a lark. A challenge in the form of a jailbreak. Now, though—after meeting her, holding her… talking to her—it mattered a whole hell of a lot. More than he wanted to admit. Which cranked his screw the wrong way. His fixation on her couldn’t be healthy. It was too raw. Too intense. Smacked too much of obsession to be anything other than bad. And yet, even knowing the danger, Wick couldn’t shake the fascination. Like a moth to a flame, he yearned to move toward the inferno—feel the heat, touch the flame, experience the burn—instead of doing the smart thing and back away.
The very definition of insanity.
Bypassing Rikar in the corridor, Wick strode up the slight incline. Roughhewn walls led the way, moving him past scarred stone toward his salvation. The clinic lay just ahead. Soon, he’d be able to put her down. To relinquish his responsibility, set Jamison in capable hands, and reclaim his sanity. He needed to leave her behind. Balance. Peace. A lot of quiet. Severing their connection—all the energy flowing between them—would provide all three. Retreating into the silence of his room—isolating himself from the others—would help too. But even as he acknowledged the wisdom of the plan, Wick battled the urge to hold on tight and…
Never let her go.
God, he was messed up. Beyond confused. And as Rikar kept pace alongside him, Wick considered asking the male for advice. The warrior knew a lot about females. He was mated to one, for Christ’s sake, and well… Angela seemed happy enough. So yeah. Rikar would no doubt make an excellent mentor. His XO wouldn’t bullshit him, but as Wick opened his mouth to ask, his throat closed, and he clammed up. He didn’t know how to broach the subject, never mind word it right. Shit, he was an emotional illiterate—stunted, unsure of himself, incapable of reaching out for help—so instead of asking, he shut it down, abandoning difficult in favor of easy.
“Myst ready for us?”
“Triage is set up,” Rikar said, his boots thudding in concert with Wick’s. Running a critical eye over Jamison, he raised a brow. “Not sure the female’s gonna need it, though. She looks pretty good, all things—”
The energy shield snapped behind them.
“Goddamn it!”
Wick grinned. Things were about to get interesting. About time too. Venom had been right behind him upon entry. He should’ve come through the portal long before now.
Venom snarled as the beast spit him out. Velocity set to breakneck, he flew into the corridor, head and shoulders leading the way. Twisting in midair, arms and legs pinwheeling, he struggled to get his feet under him.
“Christ.” With a wince, Rikar grimaced. “Did I say nasty earlier?”
“You did,” Wick said, watching his friend’s free-for-all scramble.
Cursing a blue streak, Venom landed with a thud. Forward momentum made him slide. Wick winced as he collided with the stone wall. Rolling belly-up on the floor, Venom groaned, “Son of a bitch.”
“Whatcha think, Wick?”
“Eight out of ten. He didn’t stick the landing.”
“Nice,” Venom said, sarcasm out in full force. Looking ready to kill something, he pushed to his feet. As he dusted himself off, he grumbled, “How can I hate that thing, yet love it at the same time?”
Rikar laughed.
Wick fought an eye roll, but as he continued walking, the contrast wasn’t lost on him. Love and hate. Polar opposites that created one helluva combination. One he now owned when it came to Jamison. Not that he hated her. Far from it. The way she made him feel—confused, uptight… out of control—wasn’t her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. The defect belonged to him. He was the damaged one, not her.
And yet, he continued to feed her… even though he knew he shouldn’t. It would only bring him more grief in the end. Too bad his dragon didn’t care. Despite his will to control it, instinct won out over common sense, and he submitted, allowing her to take from him. Without ever putting up a fight. She needed him too much, and as strange as it seemed, he couldn’t deny her, increasing the flow of healing energy the moment she asked for more.
Awful. Complicated. Undesirable.
All three applied, turning him inside out.
Throat gone tight, Wick shook his head. He was in big trouble, the kind that came with a label… energy-fuse. The realization cracked him wide open, making him feel sick. But even as his stomach clenched, he rejected the truth. Impossible. The conclusion couldn’t be right. He was a soulless bastard, well past the point of saving. Intimacy wasn’t his thing. He didn’t want it to be either. Every ounce of kindness—along with the instinct that drove a Dragonkind male to mate—had been beaten out of him years ago.
And honestly? He liked it that way.
Detachment allowed him to do his job. Had shaped him into the kind of warrior his brothers valued, needed, and expected him to be—a natural born killer without conscience or mercy. He didn’t want what the other Nightfuries shared with their chosen females. Juggling a relationship and his responsibilities as a warrior didn’t belong in his lexicon. The first would distract him from the second, ensuring he failed at both.
It all came down to one thing…
Choice.
He’d made one years ago when he joined the Nightfury pack. His brothers—his vow to protect each—came before all else. Bewitching females included. So enough foolishness. His attraction to Jamison must die a swift, unholy death. No good would come from straying from a path already taken.
Air hissed as the glass door to the medical clinic slid open.
In a state of complete panic, Tania shot over the threshold. Time slowed as she pivoted toward him, spinning into an endless stretch. Horror darkened her brown eyes. Wick wiped his expression clean, preparing for the worst. Mac’s female didn’t like him. She’d made it clear that he frightened her… even though he hadn’t done a thing to make her fear him. He was who he was: quiet, reserved, so baffled by social situations he never knew what to say, never mind how to make someone like him. Wick understood the truth of it… accepted it too. Most females reacted to him the same way, but as tears pooled in Tania’s eyes, Wick suddenly wished he wasn’t so inept.