Looked like a grocery list. One that leaned away from eats and tilted toward lethal.
Glancing sideways at Wick, he raised a brow. “You gonna tell me what we’re into here?”
“A prison break.”
“Tania’s sister?”
Wick nodded, nonverbal as always.
Venom frowned. “What the hell, man?”
“I owe Mac.” Expression set, eyes serious, Wick met his gaze. “He saved your life. Protected you when I couldn’t. I need to repay him for that.”
“It’s my debt, not yours, so—”
“Bullshit. You’re my friend… mine.” Wick rolled his shoulders as though uncomfortable in his own skin and glanced away. His attention settled back on the mountain of paper. “I owe, so I’ll pay.”
The low murmur tore Venom wide open, messing with his head. It wasn’t the words so much, but the force behind them: the ownership in Wick’s tone, the concern and pain, the unmistakable acknowledgement of friendship. Of mutual need and the unbreakable bond of brotherhood. And in that moment, he got it… understood the reason Wick pushed him away, refusing to allow him close.
Self-protection. Emotional ruin. Wick feared losing him.
And no wonder. The night he’d been injured hadn’t been pretty. The Razorbacks had nearly killed him, slicing him open from stem to sternum. Wick’s quick thinking saved his life. Myst—the Nightfury commander’s female—had done the rest, sewing him up when Wick got him back to the lair. But it had been close, a real toss-up into touch’n go for a while and—
Jeez. No doubt about it. He’d scared his best friend, sending the ever-steady Wick into a tailspin. It was a good theory. Made a lot of sense even as it surprised the hell out of him, ’cause… yeah. Emotion from Wick? The realization his friend felt that deeply? Total mind-twist territory.
“Hey, Wick?”
“What?”
“You know I love you, right?”
“Fuck off.” Leaning to one side, Wick bumped shoulders with him.
Venom swayed on his feet but grinned at the contact. The gentle collision was as good as any love tap. Sure, Wick might not be able to express his feelings with words, but the male could show them. Which at the end of the day was all that mattered.
“So…” Venom trailed off, changing course, bringing the conversation back to its origin. “We’re going after the sister.”
“Yeah.”
“We gonna clue Mac and Forge in?”
“Sloan too.” Snagging the pencil off the legal pad, Wick leaned forward and planted his hands, palms flat, against the tabletop. “We’ll need backup. She’s injured.”
“So flying her home in dragon form is out.”
Wick shook his head. “Mac and Forge’ll secure us a vehicle for transport.”
“Why not take an ambulance?”
“Too obvious… the humans will notice its theft too fast. Call the cops on us.” Wick’s eyes narrowed on the city map once more. “Too risky. No… we move her in an SUV. A cube van maybe, depending on if we need the hospital bed or not.”
“And Sloan?”
“Hospital computers.” Wick tapped the pencil against the surface of the notepad. Soft sound echoed, laying out a soundtrack of tap-a-rap-tap. Tap-a-rap-tap. “We may need info on the fly.”
“Her medical records too. Hard copies of X-rays, tests, and shit. Myst’ll want to see them.”
“Exactly.”
The word—and the enthusiasm behind it—tickled Venom’s funny bone. His lips twitched. Unprecedented. The excitement, sure, but also the fact Wick was talking to him. For a frigging change. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Come on, Ven,” Wick said, the “duh” in his tone unmistakable. A second later, he pushed away from the table, devilry in his eyes. “How often do we get to bust somebody out of jail?”
Venom snorted. How often, indeed.
Grinning like an idiot, he allowed his own excitement free rein. And why not? With Wick jazzed, the night promised to be a good one. Hell, forget good. Goddamn fantastic was more like it, except…
For one itty-bitty problem.
“So,” he said, tone cautious, starting the conversation off slow. Wick wouldn’t like what he said next, but hell, it couldn’t be helped. No way could they go after the female without setting a few ground rules first. Which meant getting a face full of flack from his best friend. “We’ll need to make a pit stop before hitting the hospital.”
Wick’s brows collided. “What for?”
“I need to feed.” Venom took a deep breath, preparing for the fallout. “And so do you.”
A growl slithered through the room, killing the quiet. Tension followed, jacking Wick so tight the muscles roping his arms flickered in protest. Avoiding his gaze, Wick looked away, shook his head, then retreated a step.
“Wick…”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.” A quick grab and Venom fisted his hand in the front of Wick’s shirt. His friend leaned away, searching for an out. Goddamn. Here they went again. Forcing Wick to feed always started and ended the same way. Wick disliked being touched, and although Venom understood the panic that drove him, he couldn’t allow the evasion. The male must feed on female energy, connect to the Meridian or die. No getting around that fact. Or the curse of their kind. So he held firm, preventing Wick’s retreat. “I can feel the energy drain in you. You haven’t fed in so long, you’re slipping into energy-greed.”
“Ven—”
“You can’t retrieve the female if you’re hungry. Tania is high-energy, which means her younger sister probably is too.” Knuckles pressed to his best friend’s chest, Venom jostled him, hoping to shake some sense into the male, then uncurled his hand and let go. “She’s hurt, Wick. You get anywhere near her in this condition… touch her while you’re hungry? You might lose control, tap into the Meridian without thought, and kill her. Helluva way to repay Mac, don’t yah think?”
“Fuck.”
A poignant reply with a nasty aftertaste. And the understatement of the century.
But no matter how much Wick fought, he would do right by his best friend. Life or death. Commitment or abandonment. Two choices, only one viable option. Provide what Wick needed to keep breathing or die trying.
2
Every time she drifted off, Jamison Jordan Solares woke up in a different location. Musical chairs for the injured and sleep deprived. Not exactly reassuring. Unfamiliar places and strange people had never been her favorite thing. Here, though, surrounded by pale walls, the hum of low-pitched voices and the sharp smell of antiseptic, foreign took on a whole new meaning. She didn’t recognize anything or anyone and yet knew exactly where she’d landed.
Inside Swedish Medical.
Or more precisely… a hospital bed now moving at a steady clip down another ordinary hallway. Such a smooth ride. Too bad she didn’t want to be a passenger.
Fluorescent lights gleamed overhead. Each light-filled flash rushed her along, acting like strips on a runway in the long stretch of corridor. Then again, what did she know? She couldn’t see straight. Not with one eye half-swollen shut and agony thumping on her skull. Add that to all the stitches, bruises, and… God. She didn’t have a chance in hell of controlling the pain.
Or saving herself from what came next.
J. J. tried anyway, turning her face away, seeking refuge in her pillow, desperate to block out the glare and get her bearings. A no-go. Pain tightened its grip, making her bones ache and muscles cramp. She shifted on the mattress, but… tough luck. Movement didn’t help. It hurt instead, and as nausea came calling, brutality twisted the screw. An awful taste flooded her mouth. Swallowing in compulsive desperation, she worked moisture into her dry mouth, past her sore throat, and fisted her hands in the sheet. The tape holding the IV in place pulled, jarring the needle pumping fluids into her vein.