Page 19 of Fury of Affliction

Clinging to the beauty of Natalie’s signal, he shook his head, then fell forward. His knees hit the floor. His packmates cursed. Hands grabbed at him, holding him steady. He didn’t care. Barely noticed the help. Breathing like a wounded animal, he rolled onto his back, going belly up in front of his brothers.

“Sveld?”

“Inform Ivar,” he said, voice soft, order firm. “Wake the pack. The second night falls, we fly out as a unit.”

The Razorbacks surrounded him grunted in agreement.

He barely heard them. Didn’t care about their concern, or his prone position. He paid the vulnerability no mind. Only one thing mattered—the glorious burn of his female inside hishead. So instead of moving, he stayed where he lay, palms up, legs spread, back pressed to the floor. Eyes closed, he listened to his packmates shuffle around him and clung to Natalie’s signal. Hunting her energy. Tracking her movement. Following his female’s progress as she broke her word, drove up I-5 and returned to him.

3

SOUTH TACOMA—THE DEAD-END OF EASTER STREET

Standing in a war room designed to take males apart, Zidane allowed the silence to settle on his skin. Across his senses. Closing his eyes, he soaked in the stillness, absorbing the soothing wave of a lair gone quiet.

A tingle ghosted down his spine. Flames followed, flickering over his shoulders, then down his bare back. Heat engulfed him. His dragon half sighed and sank deeper, relaxing as he opened his eyes and turned to his new knives. Seventeen strong, encased for the moment in hand-tooled leather sheaths, the assortment of blades came in all shapes and sizes. Some cleaver sized. Others as small as scalpels.

Works of art. The tools of his trade. The last pieces in the puzzle since his move across the Atlantic. Though the collection sat next to other toys, too. Straight and hooked pliers, narrow and wide chisels, different sized bone saws and wooden blocks. All set at precise intervals on the wooden tabletop he’d spent the last couple of weeks crafting.

A much nicer set-up than the one he left behind in Prague.

Thank the goddess. He’d always hated the dank despair of the dungeon room buried deep inside his sire’s pavilion. Muchpreferred what he’d created here—a clean, aboveground space inside a windowless room that looked more like an operating suite than a torture chamber. Lovely lines. High ceilings. Easier to reach from his bedroom two floors up. Less electrical wiring to run too, which…he frowned…come to think of it, still needed to be done.

He’d already laid the cable. All he needed to do now was install the electrical plug that would connect the man-sized grill bolted to the only wall in the room comprised of concrete. A handmade piece, the apparatus stood ten feet tall and seven feet wide. Metal handcuffs already hung from top and bottom horizontal slats, waiting for the first visitor to be shackled in and strung up.

Anticipation shivered through him.

Impatience followed, urging him to fly out and begin the hunt.

Inhaling through his nose, he filled his lungs, enjoying the smell of new plaster and paint, then breathed out through his mouth. The need to make someone bleed downgraded from urgent to a pleasure-in-waiting. He needed to be smart. Do the research. Take his time. Ensure he won in the end by doing the heavy lifting upfront. Other males considered patience a virtue for a reason. And with renovations of the ramshackle mansion he shared with his packmates almost complete, he could afford the luxury…along with the delay.

Bastian and the Nightfury warriors weren’t going anywhere.

Neither were Ivar and his motley crew of inept fighters.

Some way, somehow, he’d cull one of the bastards from the larger pack. The second he did, the enemy warrior would find himself inside his war room. Nothing but a plaything in a place designed to separate flesh from bone. No mercy shown. Zero breaks given.

Enlivened by the possibilities, he liberated a knife from its sheath. The handle settled in his palm like an old friend. He hummed. Perfect weight. Perfect length. Perfect weapon with which to?—

A clang sounded.

Hinges creaked behind him.

The heavy steel door swung open.

Cradling the blade, fighting his need to throw it, Zidane glanced over his shoulder.

Blue eyes with yellow flecks narrowed on him. “You throw it at me, I gut you with it.”

His mouth curved. “Tempting to put that to the test.”

“Try me,” Yakapov growled. “I’m begging you—tryme.”

Pivoting to face his first-in-command, he planted his ass on the table edge. With a flick, he tossed the knife. He watched it rotate above him. On revolution number three, he snagged it out of the air. Satisfaction struck, pushing bliss through his veins. A state of being Yakapov didn’t share given the sour look on his face.

“Always so grumpy. What’s wrong now,zi kamir?” he asked, calling his best friend “brother” in Dragonese. “Was the female not to your liking today? Not accommodating enough?”

“No stamina.” Reliving the event, Yakapov scowled. “She didn’t last through round two. I had to send her home in a cab.”

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