Too bad that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
His gaze narrowed on the male responsible for screwing up his plans. Or rather messing with his escape route.
Boots planted beside the desk across the lab, Bastian stood alongside their resident computer genius. Seated in his uglier-than-shit chair, Sloan nodded at B, his eyes on the wall-mounted screens, fingers flying over the keyboard, making his supercomputer sing in the predawn hours. Watching the byplay, Wick flexed his fists, trying to alleviate the tension. It didn’t work. He was too far gone. On edge. On the brink of exploding into aggression-laced agitation. In need of space and a shitload of alone time to power down. But as his comrades fanned out, taking up most of the available real estate, stealing all the air in the room, the harder he worked to keep his cool.
It was nothing but an act. A game of cover-up he’d played for years.
Not even Venom understood the depths of his emotion. He was good at keeping it contained and out of the spotlight. He understood the coping mechanism. Crossing his arms over his chest, Wick growled. He should too. He’d read every book the field of psychology had to offer—Jung, Freud, fucking Alfred Adler. He knew them all, every single one of their theories. It was all so much bullshit. None had helped him get past his problem. Or cured his phobia.
The thought twisted his stomach into knots.
Wick swallowed the burn and tossed his commander another nasty look. “All right, already. Get the fucking show on the road.”
The low grumble brought Bastian’s head around. Piercing green eyes met his. Wick tensed. His commander left Sloan’s side, coming toward him from the other side of the room. Ah, hell. Here it came… the inevitable question and answer routine the second B reached him.
Stopping beside him, B propped his shoulder against the wall and raised a brow. “You okay?”
“Never better.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
Wick snorted, the sound full of amusement. He couldn’t help it. He liked B. Respected the male too. A step up for Wick. Sentiment wasn’t his thing, after all. But after years spent fighting side by side with the warrior, proximity had turned to friendship… and loyalty to love. Now, he trusted Bastian with his life. The male was solid: stout of heart, whipcord smart, with a wicked amount of lethal on top. Always a good combination. But that didn’t mean he wanted to share what had gone down in Seattle a few hours ago.
The upheaval was still too fresh. Way too raw to get into with B.
So only one thing left to do… deflect his commander’s concern.
Crossing his arms, Wick bent one knee and planted his boot against the wall. “You gonna get this party started or what?”
“Nice try, my brother, but…” As B trailed off, Wick tensed. Jesus, he was in for it now. His commander refused to let it go, which put him in the hot seat. Lovely. Just what he wanted to avoid—an in-depth examination with Bastian in the driver’s seat. “You wanna explain what happened out there, or would you prefer I take a guess?”
“Fuck off, B.” The fail-safe response acted like a shield, deflecting inquiry, shutting down conversation with the added bonus of forcing others to keep their distance. Per usual, Bastian wasn’t fooled, and as a muscle twitched along his jaw, Wick relented. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
“Fair enough.” Bastian nodded and backed down. At least, in the metaphorical sense. The male was still close enough to nail him with a no-nonsense look. “But when you are, come to me. I’ll talk you through it.”
A prickle of discomfort rippled through him. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever. Wick dipped his chin anyway, agreeing without words… if only to get B off his back.
“Energy-fuse is serious shit, Wick. You can’t fight it,” he said, his voice low to prevent the others from overhearing. “My advice? Don’t try. Embrace it. Thank God you found her. Give your female what she needs, and you’ll end up with more than you can imagine.”
Your female. Holy fuck. Bastian thought Jamison belonged to him.
Denial clogged his throat. Wick shoved the emotion down deep, combating the sting. It couldn’t be true. He didn’t deserve good fortune or a female of his own. Could barely take care of himself, never mind someone else. B was wrong—was talking out his ass if he thought Wick capable of forming a lasting bond with a female. Fairy tales existed in human nursery rhymes, not in his world.
Uncomfortable with the topic, Wick broke eye contact and changed tack. “Venom tell you about what happened at Swedish Medical?”
“Not yet. Fill me in.”
With a nod, Wick laid it out, describing his encounter with Azrad in detail.
Bastian frowned. “He targeted the female to force a sit-down with me?”
“Yeah.”
“And he wants to meet at a coffee shop?”
“Pine and 1st Avenue. Midnight tomorrow,” Wick growled, replaying the encounter, seeing the wheelchair whirling down the corridor. The fear on Jamison’s face came next, coalescing into vivid imagery, making his heart pound, pissing him off. His nostrils flared. The bastard. Azrad might not smell like a rogue, but he sure as hell acted like one… disregarding a female’s safety to achieve his own end. For that alone Wick would tear him apart the next time he saw the male. “He hurt her, B. Had her by the throat.”
“And what?” Green eyes knowing, his commander eyeballed him. “Now you want him dead?”
“It’s my right.”
“No argument. But I’m curious now, so…” Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, Bastian sighed. “We talk to him first. I want to know the why before you take him out. Agreed?”
“Deal,” Wick murmured, relief grabbing him by the balls.
Rogue or not, Bastian had sanctioned the hit. So… yeah. He’d get his shot at the tatted bastard. Would get all the time he needed to go to work on the male. Make it painful. Rip Azrad apart scale by scale, without any interference from the Nightfury commander. Nothing better than that, especially if—
“Hey, B?” Swiveling in his chair, Sloan glanced in their direction. “We’re all set.”
“On-screen.” Thumping Wick on the shoulder, Bastian pushed away from the wall and grabbed one end of the cedar conference table. Wood legs bumping across the polished concrete floor, he dragged it into the middle of the room. The tug ’n tow put his brothers in gear. As they stepped to, snagging the leather chairs, resetting the seating arrangement, the screen in front of Sloan flickered. “Everybody take a seat.”
Multiple chair legs scraped across the floor.
Grabbing a seat back, Wick sat in his usual spot along one side of the table. As Venom set up shop next to him, an image flared on the monitor, putting Gage and Haider up front and center. Wick’s mouth curved. Shit, it was good to see the pair. Especially Gage. He missed both males’ presence in the lair, sure, but the warrior with the intense bronze gaze—and an attitude full of fuck you—was his favorite of the two. Vicious to the point of self-destruction, Gage never backed down or said quit.
His kind of male.
Haider, on the other hand, was harder to figure out. A silver dragon, the male epitomized the stereotype of his subset—and not just because he looked the part with his mercury eyes and black, gray, and silver-streaked hair. Talented in the art of deductive reasoning, his IQ landed in the upper echelon of intelligent. Toss in his ability to keep secrets, a lethal amount of charm, and the fact Haider wielded both like a weapon, and… yeah. He was the perfect diplomat, a male equal to any task and able to ferret out information no one wanted him to know.