Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (5 page)

Holding her gaze, he raised a brow. “Three grand—the going rate, I’m told.”

Throat gone tight, Evelyn stared at the money. One-hundred dollar bills. All rolled together. Neat. Tidy. The answer to her problems and—

She smothered a cry of dismay. God forgive her. Was she really going to do this? Forsake her dignity? Forget her upbringing—all the morals her father had instilled in her—and sleep with a strange
r . . .
for money?

Shame tightened her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Fighting the shift toward humiliation, Evelyn reached for pragmatism. She couldn’t deny the truth. Or avoid the inevitable. Much as she despised her circumstances, nothing had changed. The money or her life. Markov sat smack-dab in the middle of the mess. Wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon either. Which meant no choice remained. Mr. Sexy was exactly what she needed—a wealthy patron willing to pay for the one thing she should be giving away for fre
e . . .

To a man who loved her. Not a complete stranger with perfect bone structure.

He tipped his chin. “You ready?”

No. She wasn’t
ready
. No matter what happened tonight—or how many times he took her—she never would be either. “Anything in particular you want?”

“For three grand, I want everything.”

She shivered. “Nothing rough. I won’t—”

“Nothing rough,” he said, his tone soft with reassurance. With a shoulder roll, he shrugged out of his biker jacket and tossed it on the end of the bed. The white duvet sighed, giving way beneath heavy black leather. He flexed his hands, as though preparing to touch her, and took a step in her direction. “Just pleasure,
mazleiha
. For both of us. I promise.”

“Okay.” Unable to meet his gaze, Evelyn stepped out from behind the chair. Bowing her head, she reached for her heel. Her stiletto came off with a tug. She dropped the first to the floor and attacked the second. As the pair hit the carpet with a soft thud, nerves got the better of her. Releasing a shaky breath, Evelyn cleared her throat. “Do you want me to undress you or would you prefer—”

“What is your name?”

“Evelyn.”

“Anyone ever call you Evie?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then come here, Evie.” Standing at the end of the bed, he held his hand palm up, inviting her to come to him. “Let me hold you for a minute.”

A reasonable request. Welcome too, particularly since it bought her a little more time: to accept, to acclimatize, to get used to the idea of being stripped bare and put on display by a stranger. “Your name first.”

“Venom.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Really. My sire thought it suited me.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her mind whirling. Strange name. Weird phrasing in the word
sire
. Not American at all. “Guess you do things differently in Europe, huh?”

“We do,” he said, giving nothing away, a smile in his tone as he flicked his fingers. The movement spoke of impatience. His body language, however, said something else. He was relaxed. Prepared to be indulgen
t . . .
but only to a point. “Now—are you done stalling?”

“No stalling. Just getting to know you better,” she said, lying through her teeth. Of course she was stalling. The tactic seemed like the best option. The longer she dodged the inevitable, the less time they would spend in bed together. She gestured to the antique sideboard behind her. Crystal decanters filled with hard liquor winked in the low light. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No,” he said. “Come here, Evie. Get used to me before I lay you down.”

Lay you down.

The words echoed inside her head. A buzz lit off between her temples. Oh, mercy. She’d just run out of time. To be expected. Venom was right. Stalling wouldn’t change a thing. Or make her feel any better about what she must do. Which meant she needed to move forward instead of away. The sooner she let him touch her, the faster the night would end. But as she crossed the room, slid her hand into his much larger one, and let him reel her in, Evelyn knew she would never be the same. She’d crossed a line. Was now in dangerous territory, a place from which she would never return.

The desire in Venom’s eyes told her so.

His murmur of pleasure as she settled in his arms sealed the deal.

He would take her without mercy—use he
r . . .
consume her—then let her go and never look back. The truth of it hit her hard, wounding her soul deep. But even as she ached for the girl she was tonight—and would no longer be tomorrow—Evelyn refused to back away. Now or never. Sink or swim. Time to throw herself into the deep end and pray she surfaced unscathed in the morning.

Chapter Four

Somewhere in Prague, Czech Republic

The sound of dripping water echoed off thick stone walls, collecting against the curved arch of an ancient ceiling. Drip-drip, pause. Drip-drip, plunk. The raindrop struck metal. A ping echoed through the quiet. Gage flinched as a droplet sizzled on electrified steel, cooking like an egg, evaporating off the crosspiece above his head. Less than an inch from where one of his wrists lay cuffed to the vertical grill.

Metal cut into his skin.

Blood rolled down the inside of his forearm.

His muscles flickered in protest. Another drop fell, missing steel to splatter across the nape of his neck. A chill worked its way down his spine, following the awful slide of cold water. Not optimal. Nowhere near good. In a perfect world, he would’ve broken the steel cuffs and moved. Taken self-preservation out for a spin and a giant step to his right. Out of the water’s path. Out of the line of fire. Away from the entire situation—and all the pain. A lovely thought after the fact. Too little, too late as it turned out.

Rodin and his crew had done it right. Set up the ambush like pros—striking in the narrow alleyway, hitting him and Haider with forty thousand volts each, obliterating all hope of shifting into dragon form and getting airborne. A smart move on Rodin’s part. A boneheaded move on Gage’s. He’d known the Archguard jerkoffs would play dirty. Shit, he’d expected it. Had prepared for it, bu
t . . .

Gage huffed. His bad along with the blame. He’d made a fatal mistake and taken the bait. One damsel in distress being attacked in a dark alley. A mere moment of distraction. A single teeny-tiny mistake and—

The assholes had struck.

Before he’d registered the threat.

If he had, he’d be halfway home by now. Hours from Seattle and the Nightfury lair. Safe. Secure. In the bosom of his family, not here: spread-eagle, hands and feet cuffed to a vertical grill, awaiting the next round of torture inside a death squad’s kill room.

Multiple floor drains told the tale.

So did the scent of other warriors’ blood.

Males came here to die. Got strung up inside the underground tomb all the time. Wrists and ankles shackled with steel cuffs. Limbs stretched wide across the large grate bolted to the wall. Blood flowing like rivers while electricity coursed through the metal rack. Standing with his back against the diagonal crisscross of bars, Gage tested his restraints again. No good. After three hours in hell, he was too weak. Electric shock ensured he stayed that way, stealing his strength, shutting down his magic, destroying any hope of escape.

A tough spot for any warrior to be in.

Someone turned a tap. Metal squeaked as the nozzle spun. Water drizzled into a steady sprinkle, coating his skin and the cables clamped to the sides of the rack above his head. Electricity snapped. Sparks flew, cascading into brilliant shards. The pop-pop-pop rattled the grill. Steel bars vibrated behind him, zapping Gage with another shot of high voltage. His muscles contracted as his body shuddered and his mind recoiled. He bit down on a groan, refusing to show any weakness. Or surrender. Not that his bravado mattered. Gage knew it. So did Zidane—the asshole with a nasty disposition and a whole table full of torture tools. Resistance was nothing but pride in another form. Sooner or later, the brutal claw of electrical current would become too much. He’d pass out. Lose his ability to fight, and succumb to the pain.

Just as Haider had done.

One eye swollen shut, Gage cracked the other open. The room wavered, moving into, then out of, focus. He gritted his teeth. Fucking pricks. Archguard assholes. They’d made him watch. Had kept him weak, but cognizant while Haider suffered. While Zidane—Rodin’s heir—wielded brass knuckles and knives, brutalizing his best friend. The memory clawed at his heart. Watching Haider be hurt had been terrible. The worst thing he’d ever been forced to endure. Now he couldn’t push the awful images from his mind. Or accept that he’d been unable to protect his friend. Add that colossal mind fuck to the fact he didn’t know where Zidane had taken Haider after he’d finished torturing him and—

Anguish tightened its grip.

Gage squeezed his good eye shut and breathed through the pain. He must stay steady. Remain even and ready, able to attack fast and strike hard when the enemy least expected. Otherwise, he wouldn’t make it out alive.

And neither would Haider.

Eyes closed, head bowed, Gage curled his hands into fists. The twin cuffs cut deeper. Blood trickled from his wrists, mixing with water, dribbling down the inside of his arms. He ignored the slow roll and stayed on task. Focus. Intent. Skill. Three things he owned in spades and put to work, calling on what remained of his magic. Weak, but still cognizant, his dragon half rose, sharpening his senses. Sound ricocheted inside his head. He listened harder, tracking his captors’ movements inside the torture chamber. The duo stood somewhere off to his left. No doubt in front of the table laid out with sharp tools. He heard the soft rustle of clothing. Each rasp of boot soles against the concrete floor. The awful scrape of a knife being drawn over a whetstone.

He clenched his teeth. God forbid the jerkoffs use a dull blade to cut him open.

Another swipe of steel against stone. “Which do you want next, Zidane?”

“The pliers,” Zidane said, an edge of anticipation in his tone. “The Nightfury has too many teeth. What say you, Ferland?”

“Start with his canines. It’ll hurt more.”

“No doubt. Do you want the honor of pulling the first or—”

“Go ahead.” Steel teeth snapped, breaking through the quiet as Ferland tested the tool. “I enjoy watching you work. True artistry.”

Zidane laughed. “Reset the camera, Ferland.”

Gage tracked Ferland across the dungeon in his periphery. Blond hair glinting in the low light, the male stopped beside the tripod holding a high-tech camera. Stifling a snarl, Gage swallowed the metallic taste of his own blood. Sick bastards. The pair took cruelty to new heights, recording each session to watch later. No doubt in the comfort of whatever pleasure pavilion the duo called home. Rodin’s, no doubt. The leader of the Archguard spoiled the members of his death squad and his firstborn son in particular.

Gage let his good eye drift closed again.

Just for a moment. All he needed was a second. A single slice of time to regroup and get ready. But as the pair discussed camera angles—adjusting the tripod, resetting the floodlights, lighting him up for maximum effect
—
his resolve slipped. Not a lot. Barely even a little. The slight shift, however, signaled trouble. Doubt pushed him off his moorings an
d . . .
ah, shit. Not good. His defenses were starting to crack. Which led to one inescapable question. How much more could he endure? So far, he’d withstood it all without making a sound. The brutality grounded him, fed him purpose, telling him the longer he held out, the longer he and Haider would stay alive.

He frowned.

Well, at least, he hoped so. It was hard to tell. Zidane liked to color outside the lines. Usual limits didn’t apply to him. He was an extremist, willing to do anything for his sire. Which mean
t . . .
Gage swallowed in apprehension. He might’ve misread the situation. Maybe Zidane really was that stupid. Maybe the dickwad only planned to keep one of them alive to obtain what he wanted. He cursed under his breath. The theory made sense. Not that it mattered. Guesswork meant fuck-all while strung up and about to be filleted like a fish. And yet, even under the fog of uncertainty, the facts remained the same. Zidane might be sadistic, but he was also goal oriented. He wouldn’t waste an opportunity. The song and dance inside the kill room served a purpose. The prick needed information to support his sire’s mission.

The kind of intel only a Nightfury warrior could provide.

Zidane was gambling, betting big to win huge. Gage understood the game. Was even better at assessing the odds than the males holding him hostage. Which meant he already knew what Zidane didn’t. He would never talk. Never give up the goods on his pack.

Or the location of his lair in Seattle.

The Nightfury pack meant everything to him: a second chance, true brotherhood, the stability of safety inside a real home with males who valued him. And whom he loved in return. So fuck it. He’d pay the ultimate price to protect his brothers. Would die in a medieval torture tomb. Amid death and squalor. Deep underground. Under the watchful eyes of a death squad commanded by Rodin—unless he found a way to turn the tables and escape.

Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, Gage lifted his head. Frayed nerve endings screamed in protest. Fatigue and blood loss converged, attacking what little remained of his strength. Reaching deep, he dredged the bottom of his energy reserves and, gritting his teeth, leveled his chin.

Blood dripped into his good eye.

Gage blinked the red ooze away and glared at the male tormenting him. “I’m going to kill you, Zidane. The second I am free, you’re nothing but ash.”

“Bold words, Nightfury.”

“Remember them, asshole. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Such hubris, Gage.” Zidane’s mouth curved a moment before he returned his attention to the tabletop. He scanned the collection of torture tools, then reached out and trailed his fingertips over a row of pliers. Serrated tips. Crooked ends. Razor-sharp blades made for cutting. His fingers danced over each implement. Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. The calculated touches spoke volumes. His enemy was savoring the moment. Wanted Gage to imagine the worst and dread its delivery. “I almost like that about you.”

Pausing mid-caress, the prick picked up a pair of slim pliers. He tested the pointed tips with the pad of his thumb. As he hummed and palmed a wooden bit used to wedge a male’s mouth open, Gage snarled. Bad move. He knew it the second the growl left his throat. Too bad he couldn’t help it. Or call the sound back. No matter how many times he told himself not to react—that Zidane fed on fear—he admitted the bastard knew what he was doing.

Anticipation of pain, after all, always trumped its reality.

“Your choice, Nightfury.” Dark eyes shimmering, Zidane turned away from the table. “A slow death—or a fast one? Give me what I want and I’ll show mercy.”

“Bullshit.”

Zidane huffed, the beginning of a smile in his eyes. “How very astute of you. Nightfuries never lack brains, I’ll give you that. Althoug
h . . .
” Rotating the pliers in his palm, he raised a brow. “You may want to consider your friends. You talk, I won’t take another run at them. A swift death? Or unending pain and humiliation—for each of you? You decide.”

Heart thumping, Gage’s breath caught in the back of his throat. Gaze narrowed on Zidane, he frowned. Friends? Had the asshole really just said
friend
s
. . .
as in, of the plural variety? What the hell was Zidane talking about? Was he tossing out threats with no substance? Or was the news flash something to be concerned about? Hunting for the truth, he glanced at Ferland. The smug expression on the jerkoff’s face gave the truth away.

Holy God. Zidane wasn’t lying.

The Archguard held another warrior captive. Maybe more than one. Hell, there could be a whole host of males Gage knew and loved locked up somewhere nearby. The idea sent him into a tailspin. As the whirl got going, he dug in and stopped the mental slide. Worry wouldn’t solve anything. Thinking straight and staying calm, however, just might, s
o . . .

Gage forced his mind away from panic. His brows collided. Wait a minute. Hold everything. The conclusion didn’t make any sense. None of the other Nightfuries were in Prague. Well, at least, as far as he knew. Six days of radio silence—of being locked in a dungeon and unable to warn his brothers—didn’t inspire confidence. Neither did the triumph in Zidane’s eyes. Which meant—

Bastian had interfered.

Gage swallowed a curse, then started to pray, hoping Bastian had stayed out of it. Too much to wish for? Probably. No, strike that. Switch it to
definitely
. His commander never sat on the sidelines. No matter how volatile the situation, Bastian found a way to protect his pack. So yeah. Absolutely. Which meant B would never leave them behind. He was too loyal—too smart—to allow things to run their course without stacking the deck. The male always set up contingencies. A plan formed in advance—perhaps a secret alliance made in order to get them out of Prague if the situation went sideways.

“Who else do you have?” Gage asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“The whole point of the question, asshole. Christ, you’re a dull blade.”

Fury lining his face, Zidane turned toward him. He pointed the pliers at him, threatening Gage from four feet away. “Careful, Nightfury. My patience wears thin.”

Gage shrugged, raising one shoulder even though it hurt like hell. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll give you something in return.”

“And what would that be?”

“The information you need for the answer I want,” Gage said, lying through his teeth. The only thing he’d be
giving
Zidane was a fist to the face followed by a broken neck. “Come on, Zidane. You like games—play.”