Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (2 page)

Until four months ago, none of the Nightfury warriors had ever taken a night off. Each had been intent on one thing—hunting rogues, members of the Razorback pack preying on humankind—to the exclusion of all else. The inclusion of females in the lair, however, changed the Nightfury landscape. Now each warrior took at least one night away from fighting a week. Usually in pairs, a show of solidarity in the wingman department. Tonight was his—and Wick’s—turn. More’s the frigging pity, ’caus
e . . .
yeah. Now Venom was stuck. Under direct orders to cool his jets and—God help him—
relax
.

No way around the rules. No wingman or relief in sight either.

Cranking his hands into fists, Venom rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension, then shook his head. He wanted to go. To shift into dragon form, spread his wings, and fly. To push himself so hard exhaustion set in and the past blurred into an indistinct entity. Something to be discarded and ignored. Maybe then he’d be able to forget. Maybe then his chest would stop hurting. Maybe then he’d be able to sleep. A long shot in a losing game? No doubt, and yet, even knowing he should stay put, the temptation to leave taunted him.

Bastian wouldn’t be happy about it.

Venom snorted.
Happy
. Right. Try pissed off and then some. Hell, his commander would kick his ass—and come back for seconds—the moment Venom took flight from Black Diamond alone. Not an optimal outcome. Particularly since B didn’t screw around. Or give a direct order unless he believed one necessary. So yeah, leaving the lair wasn’t a great idea. The entire pack would get pissy. Call him out. Put him in the hot seat. Slam him for being an idiot, bu
t . . .
whatever. He could handle the others. His commander, however, was a different story. He respected Bastian. And honestly, being turned into a Dragonkind pretzel for breaking rank didn’t appear on his list of things to do—ever—but, wel
l . . .

Tonight ignoring protocol might be worth it.

No one, after all, needed to know. He could get out—get what he craved, sex with a female—and be back before any of his buddies arrived home. Or anyone inside the lair noticed he’d gone AWOL for a couple of hours. As the realization took root, spiraling into possibility, the perfect place popped into his hea
d . . .
the Luxmore. Venom glanced toward the sliding doors beside the fireplace. Moonlight streamed through the panes, cutting a wide swath across the hardwood floor. Venom flexed his hands. Yeah, definitely. The boutique hotel would do. Not that he’d ever visited it before. Or heard about it until a week ago. Sloan couldn’t stop talking about it—or the gorgeous females who frequented the Luxmore’s upscale bar, s
o . . .

Screw it.

He turned toward the patio door. With nothing but a thought, he flipped the lock and gave the handle a mental push. The slider retreated to one side. Chilled by winter, wind rushed in. Venom didn’t hesitate. He stepped over the threshold into the cold evening air instead. With another flick of his mind, he shoved the door closed behind him, walked across the stone patio, down three steps, an
d . . .

Presto change-o. He shifted from human to dragon form.

Interlocking dragon skin fell like dominoes, laying a trail along his lengthening body. Armored up and buttoned down, the venomous barbs tipping his tail rattled as he unfurled his wings. Black webbing stretched, sliding into dark green scales. His sonar pinged. Sensation curled around the horns on his head, allowing him to gauge distances. Fifteen minutes tops, and he’d land at the Luxmore. So close, yet still too far away. With a growl of anticipation, Venom flexed his talons. Razor-sharp claws digging grooves in the frozen lawn, he leapt skyward an
d . . .
hmm, baby. He was on his way. Up over the treetops. Moonlight playing against his scales. Banking toward the northeast edge of Seattle, the promise of scented female flesh and the soothing slide of relief in his future. Serious ass-kicking from his brothers be damned.

Chapter Two

Down on her luck. In hawk up to her eyeballs. Screwed six ways to Sunday and twice on Monday. Sitting inside her had-seen-better-days Volkswagen Golf, Evelyn Foxe pulled the key from the ignition and stared across the parking lot. The windshield encapsulated the Luxmore Hotel like a picture frame. A pretty view from across the avenue fifty yards away. Art deco stone facade aglow in soft light. Arched windows and gleaming steel accents. Manicured gardens curling around a wide-mouthed circular drive. And enough sharply dressed valets to make a rich man drool.

Beautiful. Sophisticated. A haven for the well-heeled and wealthy. A place most people dreamed of spending a Friday night.

Well, everyone except her.

Too bad she didn’t have a choice. Do or die. Everything said and done. That’s what it came down to: put her three-inch heels to work, cross the parking lot, and enter the playground for the ric
h . . .
and sometimes famous.

Three months ago, Evelyn wouldn’t have thought twice about entering the posh boutique hotel. She’d belonged in that world. Not wealthy by any standards, but respected by those in the club. Money, after all, made people—particularly CEOs of large corporations—sit up and pay attention. Ravenous greed fueled the fixation, of course. But then, that had been her jo
b . . .
to ensure the companies in her portfolio stayed honest. Creative accounting might be the norm in a dog-eat-dog world, but in the end it always equaled bad business practice.

A fact her former employer should’ve kept in mind inside his own walls.

Grabbing her purse from the passenger seat, Evelyn pulled the Prada into her lap. With a flick, she undid the buckle. A quick toss saw her keys disappear behind the lip of expensive leather. An even faster hunt inside her makeup bag unearthed her lipstick. She popped the top and twisted the base. Bloodred Viva Glam a la Marilyn Monroe. Evelyn’s favorite lip color. Ironic in many ways, particularly since she and Marilyn had nothing else in common.

Oh, but wait. That wasn’t exactly true, was it?

She and the beauty icon might not share the same skin color, but trouble didn’t discriminate. Age. Race. Affluence with a heaping scoop of smart. None of the variables mattered. The norms remained the same. The world kept turning. And misfortune always took its pound of flesh. Which brought her back to the original problem, didn’t it? No sidestepping the issue. No getting around the facts. Just straight-up in-her-face realit
y . . .
her life or the money.

A shiver ghosted down her spine.

As goose bumps set up shop beneath her fancy cocktail dress, Evelyn fought to stay even. Nervousness wouldn’t help. Neither would the anger bubbling inside her. Pragmatism would serve her better. But as Evelyn swallowed past the knot in her throat, glanced in the rearview mirror, and put her lipstick to work, fury tightened her chest.

How dare those assholes.

How dare they be so stupid? So self-serving? So devil-may-care with the charter of ethic
s . . .
and other people’s lives? If only the higher-ups had been responsible—instead of helping their largest client defraud investors out of millions in the Amsted scandal—the accounting firm wouldn’t have folded, and she’d still have her position. Would even now be inside a struggling corporation’s books, finding financial solutions as a senior insolvency and restructuring advisor for Willis, Bower & Bloom. Instead, she was out of a job she loved. And thousands were out their life savings.

Such a huge mess. Nowhere near fair either. Particularly since the scandal had left her with little recourse.

Oh, she applied for new positions all the time. At least four or five a week, interviewing with company after company. Big corporations. Small businesses. It made no difference. No matter where Evelyn went, she couldn’t catch a break. Tough economic times? Sure, but that wasn’t why she sat in her secondhand car in front of a fancy hotel—jobless, in trouble, and out of options. The name on her résumé made everyone run scared. A bitter pill to swallow considering her credentials and reputation. But try as she might to convince those in charge of hiring she hadn’t been part of the corruption—or the subsequent cover-up unearthed by the SEC—no one wanted to give a former employee of Willis, Bower & Bloom the benefit of the doubt.

Which left her with no job. A vicious bookie on her trail. And only one way out—the Luxmore and the wealthy clientele it drew like paparazzi to a celebrity crime scene.

Her heart sank. It always did when she thought about that terrible day.
The Implosion
, as she liked to call it. The news had broken hard with a
New York Times
Op-Ed piece. She’d been in Europe, scouring an Austrian corporation’s ledgers, searching for ways to save three thousand jobs by restructuring, stabilizing and—

Something rapped against her window.

Evelyn jumped in her seat. Her knees bumped the bottom of the steering wheel. Reflex snapped her focus toward the driver’s door an
d . . .

Panic banded around her rib cage. Air left her chest in a rushing puff.

Holy God. A gun. Big, black, and ugly, the barrel hovered an inch from the glass. Another sharp rap. As she flinched, the person holding the weapon leaned down to look at her through the window. Raptor-flat, his blue eyes met hers an
d . . .
oh Lord, please send the swiftest of guardian angels
. Markov the Monster had found her. Hired muscle for the bookie she owed—no, strike tha
t . . .
not her, but
her mother
had owed—stood a foot away. Nothing but a flimsy door lock, tempered glass, and rusty steel between them.

Fear rattled her mental cage, making her temples throb.

A sinking feeling set in, fracturing her resolve. With a shaky breath, Evelyn struggled to control her reaction. Markov fed on fear. Which meant the second she showed any, he would press his advantage, and she’d be done. Over. Kaput with nowhere to run and even fewer places to hide. Knowing it, however, didn’t lessen the pressure growing inside her head or slow the beat of her rampaging heart. She was in serious trouble. The kind she’d stayed ahead o
f . . .

Until now.

Dark hair gleaming in the lamp glow, Markov tapped the pistol against the window again. “Get out of the car, Ms. Foxe.”

Fingertips trembling, Evelyn grasped the door handle with her left hand. White-knuckling her handbag with the other, she hesitated, debating. Options. She needed a fe
w . . .
right now. Before fear got the better of her. Before the situation deteriorated. Before Markov decided to act, but—heaven help her. She couldn’t think straight. Not with a gun pointed at her face. One thing for sure though? Driving away didn’t qualify as a good idea. For one, she’d never find the keys at the bottom of her bag in time. The thug holding her hostage would shatter the glass and haul her out before she put her Golf in drive and her foot down. Which mean
t . . .

No hope of escape. Time to face the Monster.

Along with the Russian mob.

So tense her muscles ached, she popped the handle. Rusted-out hinges squeaked. Markov stepped back, giving her enough room to swing the door open. Taking a fortifying breath, Evelyn swiveled in the bucket seat and stepped out. The moment the soles of her black, snub-nosed stilettos touched down and she stood, Markov shifted toward her. Evelyn countered, sliding left toward the back bumper in the hopes he’d leave her untouched. No such luck. With a speed that belied his size, he slammed the car door shut and seized her wrist. His grip on her tightened. The bones in her hand protested the pressure. Pain spiraled up her forearm and streaked over her shoulder. He twisted, exposing her elbow joint to the cold night air. Her composure cracked, and she cried out as he shoved her backward.

Her back thumped against the side of her car.

The cashmere wrap she wore slipped off one shoulder, exposing a patch of bare skin. Goose bumps broke out on her upper arm. Trapped between him and the car, Evelyn bared her teeth. Showing weakness to a man who possessed none would be the kiss of death. It would only make Markov bolder and her appear more vulnerable. Not the best idea when dealing with bottom feeders who acted like great white sharks. Always on the hunt. Forever interested in finding the tastiest prey. No mercy in sight.

Clenching her free hand into a fist, she raised it in warning. “Get your hands off me, Markov.”

His eyes narrowed on her knuckles, then cut back to meet her gaze. “You threatening me?”

“Injured people don’t pay their bills.”

“Not true, pigeon. Sometimes, they pay faster,” he said, scraping her nerve endings raw with his thick Russian accent. Quiet. Calm. Controlled. His tone reminded her of a poisonous snake, coiled and ready to strike. “Isn’t that so, Sergei?”

The name rippled through the quiet and landed like a threat.

A soft warning. An excellent reminder. Markov might be a sociopath, but at least he understood the concept of outstanding debt. Sergei, on the other hand? Her focus cut to the thug standing behind Markov. Boots planted in a golden pool cast by a street light, the Russian stood unmovin
g . . .
cleaning his nails with the tip of a hunting knife. The wicked-looking blade gave Evelyn the shivers. No remorse in his expression. Not an ounce of compassion either. The Russian didn’t own a conscience. She could see the truth in his eyes. The guy was a touch left of center, a blunt instrument used for one purpose.

Hurting those who didn’t pay.

“
Da
. Seems to work that way.” Black gaze unreadable, Sergei lifted the knife from his thumbnail. After a moment of reflection, he wiped the blade on his jean-clad thigh. “Gives ’em added incentive.”

“Added incentive.” Markov’s mouth curved. He leaned in, dipped his head, using his size and strength to cage her. “I like that. Lovely turn of phrase.”

“You do realize how wrong this is, right?” she asked without knowing why.

Reasoning with mobbed-up killers never got a person anywhere. Not when money was involved. Evelyn should know. She’d been trying since the day Markov had shown up at her mother’s funeral, insisting Evelyn assume the debt. One hundred and twenty-five grand to the penny. The mystery behind the amount wasn’t difficult to figure out. A compulsive gambler, her mother had disappeared down the rabbit hole just after Evelyn’s eleventh birthday.

Drugs. Alcohol. Illegal Blackjack tables. Name the vice, her mother had suffered from it.

Her dad had paid the price, working double shifts at the Seattle Port Authority, taking out loans, trying to keep his wife out of trouble with the bookie of the moment, pulling strings to get her into rehab a handful of times. Nothing had worked. No matter what Evelyn and her dad tried, the cards always proved stronger, dragging her mother in, taking both her parents before their time. Her dad of a heart attack at age fifty-nine. Her mother, just nine months ago, when she wrapped her car around a tree—accidently on purpose—on Interstate 5. The police labeled it a suicide. Open. Shut. Write the report and call it a day. And even though all the evidence supported the conclusion, Evelyn still found it difficult to accept.

Despite her mother’s shortcomings, she’d loved her anyway.

“Right. Wron
g . . .
” Markov paused, then shrugged. “Fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

“It isn’t my debt to pay.”

“Yours? Your mother’s? Makes no difference,” he said. “Mr.
Stampkos wants his money. We’ve discussed this already, Evelyn.”

“It bears repeating.”

His grip on her wrist tightened. “Do I need to visit your grandmother again?”

Alarm streaked through her. Dear Go
d . . .
no. No more late-night chats in Granite Falls. Mema deserved peace and couldn’t handle another face-to-face with Markov. Evelyn frowned. All right, so that might not be true. At seventy-nine years young, her grandmother owned the disposition of a grizzly bear. No one pushed her aroun
d . . .
Russian mobsters included. But that didn’t change the facts. A repeat visit from Markov wouldn’t end well. The second time was not the charm. Mema might end up in the hospita
l . . .

Or worse.

“No,” Evelyn whispered, her throat so tight the word lacked strength. Leverage. Markov possessed all he needed. Hurt her grandmother, take the only person Evelyn loved, leave her with nothing. “Please leave her alone.”

“Good,” he said, nodding. “We understand each other, s
o . . .
where’s the money?”

“I have another day.”

“Twenty-four hours. Not a lot of time to come up with five grand.”

“I said I would get the money,” she said, struggling to stay even. But God, it was hard. Especially while a thug held her hostage and terror shone a spotlight on her problems. All the nasty possibilities rose to taunt he
r . . .
every single
what if
. What if she couldn’t keep her word? What if she ran out of time? What if Markov went after her grandmother again? Terrible questions. Only one answe
r . . .
find the money, make the next payment. Not an easy proposition. Her savings were gone. Her bank account was empty. And without a job? Forget asking a bank for a loan. Completely out of luck—the entire reason she stood here, across from a luxury hotel about to do something unconscionable. “And I will.”