Not even close. Satisfied didn’t have anything to do with it.
Wick nodded anyway, his gaze on the scar that marred the inside of Azrad’s forearm. Fucking hell. Never mind suspicion, instinct made a better bedmate. His had been right. Then again, having graduated from the same hellhole, calling Azrad out hadn’t been all that difficult. Even so, the sight of the brand drove revulsion to the surface, making Wick remember and his stomach churn. He swallowed the burn, unable to look away from the proof of the Archguard’s cruelty.
So obscene. So barbaric. So completely unnecessary.
And yet, the depravity of the mark remained.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Wick dropped it behind him. As the leather hit the floor, he rolled up his sleeve. An inch below his elbow joint, the Dragonese symbols—seven digits strong—marred the skin on the inside of his own forearm.
Azrad sucked in a quick breath.
“Wick,” Venom murmured, stepping in behind him. “There’s no need—”
“It’s time, Ven. I’m tired of hiding it.”
He’d done a good job, though, hadn’t he? None of his brothers-in-arms knew the truth. None had seen the mark either. In dragon form, he hid it, using his magic to camouflage his shame. In human form, he couldn’t conceal the scar. Which meant he never took off his shirt or wore short sleeves. But now, after all these years, he wanted to come clean. To have the others understand why he kept to himself and didn’t talk much.
He’d been trained from an early age to be that way. No talking. No physical contact. No warmth of any kind. Deprivation like that changed a male. Made him quiet. Kept him apart. Bred mistrust and suspicion.
The ultimate way to build a killing machine.
Flexing his hand, Wick watched his muscles work, undulating beneath the brand, distorting the numbers his captor had burned into his skin… remembering what had made it.
Molten dragon venom, the only substance that could mark his kind.
If used before a male went into his change—before the magic in his blood activated—the stamp of ownership scarred and never faded. The burden became something to carry, a blatant reminder seared into skin. One to look at and live with every day. One that dragged the past, no matter how distant, into the present.
He should know.
Every time Wick looked at it, his stomach rolled, taking him to the night he’d received his number. As memory spun him around, things he yearned to forget bubbled to the surface. In a blinding flash, he was back in the filth and squalor, reliving the brutality—the flames burning high in the fire pit, the red glow of steel as the bastard lifted the brand from the bubbling vat of dragon venom, the acrid smell of smoke in the air, the hard hands holding him down, the bite of steel against his throat.
Wick clenched his teeth. He should be over it by now. Sixty years was a long time to hold onto the pain, but… God. Recall was a bitch with a mind of its own. No matter how many times he tried to blot out the details, the experience stayed with him, haunting him. The helplessness in the face of savagery. The bitter taste of defeat. His rage as they forced him to submit.
Not that it had taken much to subdue him.
His captor had done it right. Waiting until his body chemistry dipped, landing him on the edge of his change. He’d been too weak to fight… so ill, beyond vulnerable, in need of help from a senior male to get him through his first shift. Most males anticipated the occurrence. Dreamed of the night it would happen and rejoiced when it came. Then again, those males had sires who loved them. He’d had a sadistic bastard who wanted him dead at the first sign of true strength. The second Wick’s magic spiked, his captor had realized his peril, recognized the warrior inside the male, and understood Wick would hunt him to the ends of the earth—tear him limb from limb—the instant he woke in dragon form.
So yeah. He understood Azrad. And as he looked at the male seated across from him, Wick saw everything he felt reflected back at him.
“They didn’t send you…” Clearing his throat, Azrad trailed off. His brow furrowed, he shifted in his seat. A moment later, he broke eye contact and traced the edges of his own scar. “You were never at Tanzenmed. I would have seen you there.”
The name made Wick tense. Tanzenmed. A Dragonkind prison so terrible, males begged for death, a merciful kill when faced with the prospect of imprisonment there.
“I never got that far.” Thanks to Venom. His best friend had risked everything. Given up a cushy life inside Dragonkind’s aristocracy to rescue him. Throat gone tight, he glanced over his shoulder. As always, Venom stood at the ready, willing to back him up at a moment’s notice. Just like the night he’d defied the general and intervened to save his life. “Which club did you come up in?”
“Rodin’s.” A hard gleam in his eyes, Azrad’s nostrils flared. “You?”
“The general’s.”
“My sire’s club,” Venom said at the same time, his voice overlapping Wick’s, revealing what neither of them ever had before. “Rodin’s right hand back in the day.”
“Jesus H. Christ. A fight club run by Dragonkind elite?” Grabbing a chair, Rikar dragged it over and joined their circle. Concern in his pale eyes, he shook his head. “The practice has been outlawed for hundreds of years.”
“Doesn’t mean the clubs don’t exist. The new law simply pushed them underground.” One shitkicker crossed over the other, Bastian leaned back against the table edge. The pose was relaxed. Wick knew better. His commander didn’t do nonthreatening. “Thought they only used human fighters, though.”
“Probably still do,” Wick said, a prickle of unease nipping at his nape. He didn’t want to talk about it. Hated the power of recall and what it did to him. “But they bet on boys too.”
“I entered the ring for the first time on my seventh birthday.”
“Same.” A bad taste entered his mouth. Fuck. No more secrets. Nothing to hide behind anymore. Wick flexed his hands, not knowing what to do with the knowledge… or how to act now that his brothers-in-arms knew the truth. “They kept me caged by day and fighting by night until—”
“You went into the change,” Azrad said, completing his sentence.
Wick nodded. “After that, I was too much of a risk. I was slotted for Tanzenmed, but Venom intervened, pulling me out before the general loaded me on the truck.”
Resulting in the death of Venom’s sire.
Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Patricide. Jesus, what an awful burden to bear. One Venom carried every day. A moment in time that had put a price on both their heads and sealed their fate. An act that made them instant fugitives, sending them running with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
“I did what was needed,” Venom murmured, shrugging off the sacrifice. He always did, downplaying his bravery. But Wick knew the truth. That night had taken a terrible toll on both of them. The strain in his friend’s voice broadcasted that fact loud and clear. “But you were already inside Tanzenmed by then.”
Azrad nodded. “Godforsaken place.”
No doubt.
Established to train the elite, the prison used live targets—Dragonkind sentenced to death, males drawn from the fight clubs, or anyone the Archguard wanted silenced—in a series of war games designed to teach fledging dragons how to fight. Spread out over vast acreage in rural Russia, the compound kept the live targets enclosed in a limited area via an electronic collar, allowing the hunters to track and kill their prey. Packed with explosives, the collars would detonate, blowing a male’s head off if he crossed the boundary to flee the compound.
Death via C-4. Or try to fight your way out.