Page 1 of Fury of Affliction
1
BLACK DIAMOND LAIR—THE HUB
Sometimes the only thing that helped was hitting something hard.
Leaning into the age-old truth, Sloan slammed his fists into the punching bag. Left jab. Right cross. Uppercut. Sweat rolling down his spine, he pivoted into a high kick.
His foot struck black leather.
The heavy bag swung.
Thick chains jerked.
The clank rippled across the gym, bouncing off cinder-block walls only to boomerang back toward him. Rage swam in the sound. In each strike. Carving into him like a blade, making him bleed a little more with every heartbeat. His knuckles hurt. His muscles ached. His mind screamed. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Refused to deny the need, ignoring the clock as one hour rounded into two, and he pummelled his imaginary opponent.
He didn’t need a face…or a name. The target didn’t matter. Pain called the play, folding the memory into a loop inside his head. Relentless in pursuit. Ruthless in intensity. Inescapable, the same way it always was this time of year.
Baring his teeth, he hammered the bag again. Leather groaned then cratered. Stitches popped. The seam split wide-open. Saw dust and stuffing flew in all directions. As the mess spilled onto the narrowed-planked floor, he hit pause on the brutal onslaught to scowl at the fist-sized hole.
“Shit.”
Ruined.
He’druinedthe only heavy bag in the gym. Something his brothers-in-arms used often. All in an effort to assuage his temper. He wanted to ask himself why he bothered, but knew it didn’t matter. Year after year, he suffered just the same. Finding an outlet never helped. Nothing he tried ever did. No matter how hard he worked out—or slammed his fists into shit—the rage boiling beneath his surface remained. Always there. Never assuaged. Which meant…
He needed to stop.
Right now.
Before his dragon half took control. Before the heavy weave of his earth magic boiled over. Before he unleashed a seismic tremor so devastating it cracked granite and shook his packmates awake from where he stood seven stories underground.
None of the warriors he lived with would be happy with the shake-up. All of them would get in his face about it. Demand to know what was bothering him. Sit him down. Force him to explain and relive what he wanted to let go, but knew he never would.
With a muffled curse, Sloan spun on his heel. Swiping the file folder he’d abandoned earlier on an exercise bench, he strode out of the weight room and into the gymnasium. The rubber soles of his boxing shoes squeaked across hardwood. The scent of floor wax and sweat hit him. Kicking a basketball out of his way, he snarled and started for the exit.
Full of fury, magic frothed out in front of him.
Harnessing the power, he murmured his wishes. Hinges hissed. Reinforced steel panels whipped open. A satisfying clang reverberated as metal handles slammed into granite walls. Dust puffed up. The doors whipped back in his direction. Pace steady, strides even, he avoided the backlash and stalked into the hallway. Wide double doors slammed behind him. The echoing violence of his exit quieted. His footfalls picked up the slack, thumping along the corridor as he pivoted toward his computer lab.
Same view, different day. Wide hallway with twelve-foot ceilings. Round lights embedded in polished concrete floors throwing V-shaped splashes up scarred, white-washed walls carved from solid granite.
Right now, the lights were dimmed down.
Later, when his brothers-in-arms rolled out bed to start the day, soft illumination would power into a bright glow, absorbing the energy his packmates threw off like supernovas. Par for the course with so many magically gifted males inside Black Diamond.
With the addition of Azrad, Kilmar and Terranon, the Nightfury pack had gone from elite heavy-weights to a Dragonkind powerhouse. As individuals, all three warriors packed a serious punch. Combined, the trio became poster boys for brutality, delivering the kind of ferocity smart males avoided if they wanted to stay alive.
Blood sport.
Exactly want he needed right now.
Sparring with Azrad would improve his mood. Kilmar would no doubt be a good choice too. And Terranon? He didn’t know the warrior well, but the Aussie seemed like a male who gave worse than he got, making him an ideal target in Sloan’s currentstate of mind. Going twenty rounds would help him forget what sat inside his computer lab.
Sloan growled under his breath.
Goddamn Daimler.
The Numbai needed to stop before Sloan lost his mind. Every time the Nightfury go-to guy pulled this kind of shit, the scabbed-over wound inside him reopened, sending him careening down memory lane. A place Sloan never enjoyed visiting. But Daimler—in typical Numbaifashion—refused to relent. He kept hoping Sloan would change his mind and get rid of his chair.