The thought made him sick to his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he said, staring at his hands, his throat so tight the words came hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” Shifting against a pile of pillows, Forge sat up a little straighter. “Friendly fire, lad. It happens.”
“Not to me.”
“Tae every male, if he lives long enough.”
He shook his head. Despite Forge’s willingness to forgive, Wick couldn’t let it go. A mistake had been made. He must pay for his part in it. “I owe you restitution. A blood debt of—”
“Bullshite. You owe me nothing,” Forge growled. “’Tis the other way around. You shared your female. Saved my life by letting J. J. feed me.”
Let her? What a big, fat lie. “I wasn’t exactly willing.”
“Neither was I.” Expression serious, Mac split the deck with one hand. A pro move. Not surprising. The newest member of the Nightfury pack excelled at the poker table. Was a regular card shark, even by Wick’s lofty standards. “Venom and the others held me down too when Tania took her turn. And Rikar?”
Wick raised a brow, waiting for the punch line.
“The corridor turned into a winter wonderland. Total Frostville the second Ange entered the fray. We couldn’t hold him back, so Bastian hammered him. Knocked him out cold.” Mac huffed, cards moving rapid-fire, a silent shuffle in his hands. “You should see the shiner he’s sporting. Ange is still babying him.”
“Seems tae be going around,” Forge said, gesturing to the back of Wick’s hand. “You’ve gotten some of the same.”
“More than just some.” He flexed his fingers, making the mating mark move across his knuckles. Pride settled deep. A swirl of happiness followed. “Didn’t think I had the balls to claim her, did you?”
“Courage isn’t your problem, Wick.” Picking up a poker chip, Forge flicked it at him. He caught it in midair and, running his thumb over the ridged edge, turned the piece over in his hand. Mischief in his eyes, the Scot smirked. “People skills, on the other hand?”
“Fuck off, Forge,” he said, unleashing his favorite phrase.
As intended, the comeback made both males laugh. And just like that, the tension eased, and it was over. Apology accepted. Back to normal. Forgiveness sent and accepted. Fantastic. But as relief took away the burden, another worry popped up to replace it. A big one that had nothing to do with the warriors already safe inside the lair.
Skirting the end of the bed, Wick unloaded on the mattress. His back against the footboard, he stretched his legs out on top of the quilt and crossed his feet at the ankles. Gaze ping-ponging between his comrades, he asked, “Any word from Gage and Haider?”
Mac shook his head. “Nothing. B’s worried.”
Wick was too. The Metallics never went this long without checking in. The fact they’d gone radio silent wasn’t a good sign. “What about Nian?”
“Sloan’s sending him messages, but so far he hasn’t answered.”
“Shite.”
“No kidding.” Sliding into a slouch, Mac leaned back in his chair. Plastic creaked as he lifted his legs and set his shitkickers down beside Wick’s bare feet. “We got another option, though.”
“Azrad,” Wick murmured, picking up his buddy’s line of thought.
Forge hummed. “A good bet, considering his connection tae Nian. The male might know something.”
Fingers crossed. Information was step one. Action would come next. “Is Bastian setting up another meeting?”
“Yeah. Not sure when it’ll go down,” Mac said. “He wants Forge on his feet first.”
Wick nodded. Made sense. “All hands on deck.”
“Bloody well better be.” A sour look on his puss, Forge glared a warning. “You leave me at home, I’ll kick your arses from here tae Saint Paddy’s Day.”
“Could be worse.” Flashing pearly whites, Mac grinned, half devil, all eager. “At least, there’ll be lots of beer to drink.”
“Green ale,” Wick said, joining in on the fun.
“Total wankers… the pair of you.”
Mac laughed.
Wick shook his head, even as appreciation for his fellow warriors sank deep. Despite their newness to the pack, Mac and Forge fit like marrow inside bone. They belonged. Were family in every way that counted. Which meant he should be able to ask them anything. He frowned. Right? After a moment spent thinking it over, the answer came to him. No question. Both males were solid, safe, smart as hell too, so… yeah. Asking for their advice seemed like the thing to do.
But for one small problem.
He’d never asked anyone for help before. Wasn’t sure how to go about it either. Should he jump right in? Was there a protocol he needed to follow? A code of etiquette of some kind? Shit, he didn’t know, so…
Fuck it. He might as well wade in. “Hey, Forge?”
“Aye, lad?”
“I hear you’re good with a hammer.”
An understatement. A huge one. Particularly since Wick had seen his work. A master carpenter, Forge owned serious tools and a shitload of skill. Ones he put to good use every afternoon, carving out a spot for his collection of fine wines and aged whiskies. The passion fueled his project, keeping the male happy as he built a wine cellar in one corner of the underground lair. Barely begun, the space reeked of style and sophistication, with exotic woods taken from foreign lands, and a sense of tradition brought over from the old country.
From a Highland heritage and a history that endured.
Rapt interest in his eyes, Forge perked up. “What are you building?”
“A gift for Jamison.”
Chasing an itch, Mac rubbed his shoulder against the seat back. “Lay it out.”
Simple as that, the conversation began. Amazing, really. Something as basic as a question could give birth to camaraderie. The kind he’d only ever experienced with Venom. But as Wick shared his idea, his brothers accepted him without question: helping him shape his vision, hashing out the details, and making a list of materials. Extraordinary. Wicked fun too, and as he listened to Forge and Mac argue about the best wood screws to use, his excitement lit off like a rocket. Watch out world. He was headed into the great unknown, about to attempt something he never had before with his friends’ help. The fine art of pleasing a female. And oh baby, he couldn’t wait to get started. Couldn’t wait to see Jamison’s face when he unveiled his gift and surprised the hell out of her.
Perched on a stool at the kitchen island, J. J. rapped the end of her pencil against the notepad and frowned at the cake in front of her. The eraser bounced against paper, punishing a curlicue treble clef and the adjoining lines containing a flurry of music notes. Two birds with one stone. Musical composition while baking… a happy accident. One she’d discovered with Daimler’s help. A pastime she would be enjoying, but for one simple thing.
Her design wasn’t working.
Oh, not the song. The melody was taking shape just right, the up-tempo chorus flowing into each verse like a river into the sea. On cue. Perfect rhythm keeping time. No problems on the musical front at all. It was the dragon cake she worried about. The legs were too fat, the neck too skinny, and the head? Gosh darn it all. The thing looked more like a triangle than the smooth, sculpted contours she wanted. Chewing on her lip, she added another string of notes to the music staff, then dropped the pencil to pick up the baker’s knife. She drummed its tip against the marble countertop. The rat-ta-ta-tat barely registered. She was too busy figuring out where she’d gone wrong.