Lights out.
The second the computer screen went blank, Wick pushed away from the table and stood. No time like the present to make a break for it. He’d lasted long enough. Now he needed a little peace, a lot of silence, and the space that heralded both.
Passing behind his chair, he thumped Venom on the shoulder.
Ruby-red eyes met his. “Halo or World of Warcraft?”
Wick shook his head, turning the male down. Odd, really. Most mornings, he jumped at the chance to hang out with Venom and his high-tech system. Video games allowed them both to wind down after a long night of fighting. But after the showdown in Seattle—and his bizarre reaction to Jamison—he’d had enough games for one night.
“Later.”
As Venom “uh-huhed,” he headed for the door. Almost home free. One turn and a short walk up the corridor, he’d be in front of the elevator doors. Nothing but a quick ascent from the aboveground lair. And his room. But as he left the rumble of male voices behind and stepped into the hallway, the strangest urge struck. He wanted to turn right instead of left… toward the clinic instead of away.
Such a bad idea.
Jamison was in good hands. Would no doubt be asleep for a while. She didn’t need him at her bedside. Despite his promise, experience told him she hadn’t meant what she said. She no more wanted to see him when she woke up than he wanted a boot to the balls. Her request to be close to him stemmed from desperation… from fear and uncertainty. He’d been her lifeline in a moment of crisis. Nothing more, no less. The second she became clearheaded again, she’d react to him the way other females did…
With terror-filled revulsion.
He knew it. Had lived through it time and again. Even so, the thought of her looking at him that way made his chest ache and his heart hurt. And as the pain expanded to engulf his rib cage, Wick fought the growing tide to keep his feet moving. It didn’t work. With his dragon fixated, compulsion drove the spike deep, stalling his forward progress. With a curse, Wick paused in the middle of the corridor. Bowing his head, he fisted his hands, and pivoting 180 degrees, glared at the sliding glass doors.
Son of a bitch. He couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t walk away without checking on her. One more time.
Calling himself a fool, Wick put himself in gear. Maybe all he needed was a sneak peak. Maybe a quick glimpse through the glass would do it. Or a moment parked at the end of her bed—watching her sleep… seeing her safe, sound, and at peace—would alleviate the worry. But as Wick neared the entrance into the clinic, nerves got the better of him. Unease followed, pricking the nape of his neck before slithering down his spine. Nothing about the situation rang true. His need to be near her wasn’t right. Not exactly smart either. Instinct and self-preservation existed for a reason. He needed to exercise both, exorcise the demons that drove him in her direction, and stop thinking about her altogether.
Safer for him. A helluva lot better for her.
Too bad it was easier said than done.
Close to the edge of the mattress, J. J. lay flat on her back in a huge bed. Man, the thing could fit five of her across. Maybe more… easily. Ridiculous. Especially since her prison cot had only been twenty-eight inches wide. Narrow sure, but familiar too. Her home behind the safety of a locked door. The one place in the world she’d found solace after a long day spent avoiding trouble in general population.
Sad, wasn’t it? Instead of comfort, all the extra space made her uneasy.
Breathing in, she filled her lungs, counted to five, then exhaled and glanced at the clock across the room. Mounted above white cabinets, its wide face, the endless ticktock of the second hand, taunted her… kind of like Chinese water torture would a prisoner of war. She swallowed past the knot lodged in her throat. POW. Ha. Surprise, surprise… the title fit, working in a way that surpassed alarm to skid smack-dab into surreal. Not that she was in chains or locked in a dingy hut in a godforsaken jungle somewhere. Her room was beautifuclass="underline" pale-walled, high-tech, and, above all, spotless.
Normally, she would’ve approved. Clean, after all, meant tidy. Everything put away in its proper place. Always a good thing in her estimation, but not today.
Tidiness didn’t work for her. Not after what she’d seen last night.
Blowing out another shaky breath, J. J. returned to staring at the ceiling. Not that there was much to see. Nothing to count either. No pockmarks in the plaster. No brush swipes or straight edges left by the push-pull of a paint roller. Just smooth sailing, a sea of white interspaced by dimmed-down halogens overhead.
Which sucked. In a big way.
She needed a distraction. One that would keep her from obsessing over the fact Wick lay next to her. J. J. huffed. All right, so next to her leaned toward exaggeration, but not by much. Seated on a stool beside the bed, he slouched against the mattress, taking the real estate along her right side. Dark head pillowed on his forearm, he’d tucked his face against her hip, nestled in, and gone to sleep. Not that she blamed him for being tired. After breaking her out of Swedish Medical, he deserved the rest, but…
Was it really necessary for him to… to…
Oh boy. She was in so much trouble. The kind that sent her into a tailspin. Now she didn’t know what to do. Or the best way to react. Not with his arm pressed against a, well… rather sensitive place.
Sometime while she’d slept, he’d tunneled under the covers. Now the back of her knee rested on his muscled bicep while his forearm traveled across country, allowing his hand… holy moly… to curl over her bare hip. Big. Strong. Calloused. Fingers spread wide on her skin, he claimed the spot under her hospital gown, making her aware of every nerve ending she owned. Throw in the fact his position left a certain part of her anatomy vulnerable and unease turned the corner. Panic upped the pace, dumping her into apocalyptic territory with two very different choices.
Stay still and enjoy—the zip in her veins and buzzing effect of his touch—while she waited for him to wake on his own. Or freak out and punch him in the face.
Fisting her hands in the sheet, J. J. debated the pros and cons. It was a toss-up. After five years on the inside, she’d lost her bearings. Most of her autonomy too. And her ability to trust? Long gone. Prison did that to a person. Everyone—good, bad, or indifferent—became suspect, another enemy in the struggle to stay alive in a place where hardened criminals called the shots. But as she lay in the dim light, under the welling warmth of Wick’s palm, she didn’t want to fight. She wanted to stay still, enjoy the echoing quiet along with the man, if only for a little while.
Which… ding-ding-ding, give the girl a prize… didn’t make any sense.
Her reaction to him bordered on stupidity. She should’ve hammered him by now. Wound up and let fly the moment she woke up with him all over her. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve made him pay for getting too close. But for some reason, the situation didn’t qualify as normal. Forget the dragon stuff. Her hesitation started and ended with Wick—the man, not the monster. Odd in more ways than one. Particularly since she never allowed men anywhere near her.
At least, not anymore.
She’d learned her lesson the hard way. Mistrust might not look nice on paper, but it kept a girl safe. Not to mention alive.
But with Wick, her defenses were shot. Down for the count and disengaged from the motherboard. Something about him rang true. Despite the man-to-dragon switch-up, she recognized safe when she saw it. Most women would’ve jumped for joy at the news flash. Gotten off on his trustworthiness and gone shopping for his and her towels or some crap. Not her. J. J. didn’t like the imaginary juxtaposition.