Unfurling his wings, Wick nodded and leapt skyward. Exactly. Perfect. Excellent conclusion. A no-brainer, really. He didn’t want her. She clearly harbored no liking for him. Now only one job remained… reach Black Diamond. The sooner he handed Jamison over to her sister, the better it would be for both of them.
Hamersveld snarled as Ivar dragged him away from the female. Black eyes half-open, the tattoo bracketing his spine still glowing, the male fought the pull and reached for her again. With a muttered curse, Ivar tightened his grip and muscled the male to one side of the prison cell. Enough was enough. Tapped out already, she couldn’t afford to give another ounce of energy. And the warrior in his arms didn’t need anymore. But as she collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor, he shook his head.
Hell’s bells. He’d never seen anything like it. Hamersveld was voracious. So hungry, energy-greed drove him, propelling him toward female after female, KO’ing reason in favor of self-preservation.
Not surprising considering the Norwegian’s condition, never mind his crash landing in the backyard. Since then, he’d gone through three HE females, mainlining energy the way an addict injects heroin. All in between salt baths. In. Out. Lift, carry… dunk. He’d been doing it all night, hauling the warrior away from one female after another, lifting him in and out of the tub between feedings. But that was over now. The worst had passed. At least, Ivar hoped so, ’cause…
God, his arms were about to give out.
Muscles screaming with fatigue, Ivar slung his new friend’s arm around his shoulder. One hand gripping Hamersveld’s wrist, the other around his waist, he turned toward the front of the cell. Wet skin touched his. He ignored the slip ’n slide and half carried, half dragged the male toward the glass stretched wall-to-wall across the front of the cell. Satisfaction hummed as he admired the seamlessness. Perfection in application, a clear expanse of quadruple-paned glory instead of steel bars… more fishbowl than prison.
Modern. Contained. The perfect cage for his exotic collection of human birds.
Pleasure filled him as he glanced at the unconscious female. Curled up on the floor, blond hair in disarray around her head, the number three was branded on the back of her shoulder. A fitting mark, one that reinforced her purpose. She was livestock, captured for one reason… to breed the next generation of Dragonkind, and hopefully—if the serum he’d created proved successful—produce the first female offspring of his kind.
It was a lofty goal. A risky venture too. One he needed to work.
Science drove him. The thrill of discovery its twin as he hunted for the chromosomal sequence to unlock dragon DNA and lift the spell that cursed Dragonkind. No other outcome would be satisfactory. The promise of freedom burned deep inside him, driving him to do better. To find the answers and save his race from inevitable destruction. He’d seen the path long ago. With females of their own, Dragonkind would no longer rely on humans to survive.
And the moment that happened? He’d eliminate the inferior race. Wipe them from the face of the earth once and for all.
The pissants deserved no better. Only a horrible death would do. Why? It was simple, really. No matter how many times Mother Nature warned them, the humans refused to act responsibly. The proof lay in the pudding… or rather, the result. Global warming. Catastrophic weather patterns and extreme storms. Species all over the planet driven into extinction. Air pollution, ozone reduction, oil spills, and the poisoning of groundwater. The list went on and on… and on.
Each one when added to the next equaled one thing…
The rape of Planet Earth.
So, fuck ’em. He was through pulling political strings, hoping the assholes would do the right thing. The time for talking had come and gone. Nothing left to do now but find the perfect superbug. The incurable disease that would infect them one by one when released into the wilds of human society. Mass genocide via supervirus on a global scale. The perfect plan.
Flicking the lock with his mind, Ivar gave the cell exit a mental push. The glass panel slid out and to the side. Hauling Hamersveld with him, he crossed into the central corridor of cellblock A. The door closed behind him with a suctioning hiss. He barely noticed. Bare feet brushing over concrete, his focus was on one thing. The lab. He wanted to get back to his superbugs. With his pack out hunting—and his new friend practically asleep on his feet—he’d get in a few hours before dawn threatened and his soldiers arrived home.
If he hurried. And Hamersveld decided to cooperate.
Hoping beyond hope, he muscled the male through a complex series of doors. Steel dead bolts clicked, releasing only to reengage behind him. Sharp sounds echoed, the clang of doors closing along deserted corridors. As he turned into the main hallway, the male he held up twitched.
“Ivar.”
“Yeah?”
“Want more.” Chin bobbling, Hamersveld tried to open his eyes. His blond lashes fluttered. Ivar glimpsed the blue rimming his black irises a second before the warrior gave up and let his lids fall again. “Give me another.”
“No chance of that, my friend. You’re already topped up.”
“Are we?”
Laboring under the Norwegian’s weight, Ivar frowned. “Are we what?”
“Friends.”
“After the last few hours? Hell, we’d better be,” he said, only half joking. “Otherwise I’ll KO your ass, scrape you into an ash bucket, and toss you into the nearest trash bin.”
Hamersveld snorted. “Nah. We’re friends now. Definitely. Kind of strange, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Never had a friend before.”
“You and me both,” Ivar said, even though it wasn’t true.
Lothair had been his friend—an impulsive one, sure—but a close companion nonetheless. Well, at least until his murder a few months ago. Ivar’s chest went tight as he muscled Hamersveld along the corridor. God, he missed the male. Much more than he ever expected. Missed the early morning bullshit sessions. Missed having someone who shared his goals and worked hard to see them realized. Even missed making the crazy-ass SOB sandwiches after coming home from a successful raid. The bigger problem, though? No matter what he tried, he couldn’t find a way around the grief. The pain remained, getting in his face, refusing to abate, damning him with each passing day.
Now, he hurt whenever he thought of Lothair.
Ivar shook his head. The result equaled a total mind-fuck. One he didn’t need, never mind want.
“You sure I can’t have another?”
Ivar’s lips twitched. Persistent with a slaphappy helping of “ah, come on,” the warrior clearly didn’t have an off switch. Three females in as many hours. A record by anyone’s standards, but unheard of inside the complex beneath 28 Walton Street. His new lair hadn’t seen that much action. Ivar liked it that way. Only males he trusted gained entrance to his new home, and even fewer to cellblock A, where he housed his HE captives.
“How about another salt bath, instead?”
Hamersveld grumbled but shook his head. “Bed. Sleep.”
Thank God. It was about time. “Just a bit farther. You can crash in my room until yours is ready.”
His new friend nodded, and Ivar upped the pace, turning right toward his bedroom suite and into the main corridor. Still under construction, bare lightbulbs cast shadows across walls marred by splotches of joint compound. Soon, though, his worker bees—the forty-odd humans he’d imprisoned—would complete the project, leaving glossy wood floors and no dust behind. A minute later, Ivar stopped in front of his door. Hamersveld sagged in his arms. With a grunt, he swung the door wide. The lights flicked on, illuminating the space Ivar called his own. A place of solace for him, he loved it here. The sea grass wallpaper and bamboo floor blissed him out, helping him relax in the arms of organic cotton and eco-friendly feather-down every day.