As the other Nightfuries “uh-huhed,” Venom grumbled.
Wick ignored his best friend. The overprotective SOB would have to wait. He was a grown male, for fuck’s sake. Well able to take care of himself. So screw Venom and his opinions. Clearing the scene came before his brother’s skewed sense of responsibility.
Footfalls silent, he walked toward the corner of 1st and Pike. Planted not long ago, young trees lined both sides of the street, skinny limbs bobbing under the influence of saltwater breezes. The scent of brine hung in the air, and Wick paused under an eave, his gaze locked on the coffee house. An outdoor terrace hugged one side of the establishment, providing humans with the benefit of sunshine. Empty now but for tables and chairs set at odd angles, the patio abutted a bank of large windows that rose toward the second floor and the ornate architectural frieze above.
Shadows moved behind the thick panes.
“B? I sense three males inside. Sound about right?”
“Same. All in human form.”
“Skill set?” Wick asked, tapping Bastian’s talent for assessing a male from a distance.
“The first breathes acid, the second… Scald.” As his commander paused, magic vibrated in the void. And Wick hummed in anticipation, ’cause… oh baby. Scald. Such an interesting weapon. One not many Dragonkind males possessed. Natural napalm mixed with venom, the exhale was potent—toxic swill that ate through scales and sent deadly neural inhibitors deep into muscle. A real challenge to avoid, which made doing so all the more fun. “But the third? Shit, I don’t know. I can’t get a read on him.”
“Azrad… guaranteed,” Wick murmured. “The fucker’s powerful.”
“Christ,” Rikar said, entering the fray. “All right, guys… here’s the plan.”
Mac chimed in. “Break it down.”
“You, Sloan, and Forge set up post outside. Nothing and no one comes in or out.”
“Anybody tries, we’ll pull the trigger,” Forge murmured, his brogue thicker than usual.
A telltale sign. The Scot’s accent always became more pronounced at the first hint of battle. Excitement, maybe. Eagerness, certainly. Wick related. He couldn’t wait to get started. Or put his fist in Azrad’s face.
Rikar growled. “Good.”
“The rest of you… with me. Let’s rattle the bastard’s cage,” Bastian said. “And Wick?”
“What?” His attention riveted to the front door, Wick crossed the street.
“Remember our deal. Stay put until we land. We go in together.”
Bullshit. Screw the deal along with the direct order.
Wick could see the assholes moving around inside. Fate had given him a single shot. A moment in time to wrong a right. Now he stood just a hop, skip, and jump away from the male who had hurt a female. No way would he allow B or anyone else to get in his way. He needed to unleash, exact retribution, make Azrad pay the price for Jamison’s pain.
Not wasting a second, Wick ramped into a run.
Shitkickers hammering concrete, he sprinted beneath the steel overhang fronting the shop. B snarled a warning. Venom seconded the motion, cursing a blue streak as Wick slammed the door open with a mental shove. Reinforced steel whiplashed, rattling the glass pane in its frame. Claws clicked down on asphalt behind him. Wick didn’t care. All he needed was thirty seconds. Time enough to snap Azrad like a twig, and as he roared over the threshold—heart thumping, aggression level topped out, ready to unleash hell—he zeroed in on his target.
Spinning on his heels alongside his two companions, Azrad settled into a fighting stance beside the coffee bar, fists raised and eyes flashing. Wick bared his teeth. Oh goody. Kick-ass came in size extra-large, it seemed, ’cause… yeah. The male was ready, and oh so willing, to engage. Too perfect. Beyond satisfactory. Azrad deserved every ounce of pain he was about to deliver.
Forget reason. Sideline sensible. Fuck it all.
Jamison belonged to him. She’d become his responsibility the moment he saved her. Now his retaliation would be her revenge.
Venom grunted as he got elbowed in the face. The shot to his chin backed him up a step, making his skull bobble-head on his shoulders. Blood washed over his teeth, filling his mouth with an awful metallic flavor. Pain streaked along his jaw, then clawed up the side of his face to hammer his temple. Scrambling to avoid another elbow, he lunged forward, boots sliding on the wooden floor, his gaze centered on Wick and the flurry of fists.
Frigging male. So much for the chitchat with Azrad.
Wick had started a war inside Starbucks. Now a full-on brawl was in progress… Nightfury pitted against three strange males in a battle of wills that trumped good sense. Goddamn it. Trust Wick to toss a monkey wrench into the mix and twist the screw the wrong way. Not that he blamed his best friend. Wick was who he was—violent, unpredictable, merciless—and after what had gone down at Swedish Medical, Venom understood. He really did, ’cause… hell. Had it been him protecting a female? Azrad would be dead already.
Wick cracked the male again.
Azrad cursed and stumbled backward as a cut opened beneath his eye.
“Fucking hell, Ven.” Low and lethal, the growled words whiplashed, giving Venom chills as Rikar entered the fray behind him. An enemy male cursed. Ice crackled and frost spread, coating the inside of the coffee house’s windows, dropping the temperature until each breath became white puffs of air. “Get a hold of him, for Christ’s sake!”
He lost his grip on Wick a second time.
“Goddamn it.” Venom gritted his teeth. “Like I’m not trying?”
Easier said than frigging done.
Wick was a force of nature on a good night. On a bad one? He was the devil incarnate. Un-frigging-stoppable.
Venom made another grab for him.
Slippery as a water snake, Wick slid right. Venom’s hands caught nothing but air, throwing him off balance. As he compensated, shifting mid-stride, Wick widened the gap, driving the male backward across the shop. The scramble of footfalls echoed against the high ceiling. Frustration riding shotgun, Venom went after the pair as his best friend slammed Azrad against the wall. Picture frames rattled against plaster. One let go, plummeting into a free fall. Wood splintered against wood. Glass shattered, spilling across the floor as Wick hammered his opponent again.
And again. Then one more time.
Venom closed the distance between them. Quick hands bought him a fingerhold on his friend’s leather jacket. Determination sealed the deal, intensifying his grip. He yanked. Wick rocked backward, but resisted, regaining his momentum. Thrusting his knee forward, he unleashed more hell, nailing Azrad in the stomach.
The male doubled over.
“Son of a bitch.” Locked in a battle of his own, Bastian kicked a male’s feet out from under him. The warrior hit the floor with a thud. With a nifty move, B wrenched his arm back and flipped him belly down. Driving his knee into the male’s spine, he pressed him to the floor. “Put a leash on him, Venom.”
“You think it’s so easy…” Out of breath, he lodged his forearm against Wick’s throat. “You come over here and do it.”