Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Read online

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  ALSO BY COREENE CALLAHAN DRAGONFURY SERIES Fury of Fire Fury of Ice Fury of Seduction Fury of Desire Fury of Fate: A Dragonfury Short Story Fury of Obsession Fury of a Highland Dragon: A Dragonfury Novella CIRCLE OF SEVEN SERIES Knight Awakened Knight Avenged WARRIORS OF THE REALM SERIES Warrior’s Revenge

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 by Coreene Callahan All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781612185057 ISBN-10: 1612185053 Cover design by Janet Perr

  To my dad—for showing me the true meaning of courage under fire, and because I love you.

  Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Acknowledgments About the Author

  Chapter One The buzz of halogens breathed life into the absence of sound. The silence should’ve bothered him. Sounded internal alarm bells. Put him on high alert. Something. Anything. The smallest response to the eerie fog of quiet descending over Black Diamond would be good. Forge glared at the precise seams of the chair rail instead, searching for flaws as he strode down the extrawide corridor. Perfect fucking corners. Smooth, curving surfaces. Nary a chip in an ocean of glossy white paint covering the wood. Colorful paintings joined the parade, holding court, sending him deeper into the lair, pointing him toward the last place he wanted to go. His gaze jumped from pale walls to the trio of Kandinskys hanging to his left. He scowled at the collection, the sight of even brushstrokes on priceless masterpieces irritating the hell of out him . . . for no good reason. His reaction to the sight qualified as over the top. He saw the flash ’n glamour every day. Lived in the lap of luxury ins

  Chapter Two Heart pounding like a motherfucker, Mac bared his teeth on a snarl. “Goddamn it, we’re losing him.” Fear for his friend made his throat close and the words fade. He couldn’t help the vocal lockdown or stop his mental slide into panic. Forge was in serious trouble. Flaming out. Unconscious. In agony from the torque and tear of mind regression. Working to stabilize him, struggling to hold him down, Mac gathered his magic. The spell sped through his mind. His water dragon half zeroed in—a kind of X marked the spot—before unleashing the magical torrent in a raging rush. A cool wash splashed through his veins. Rain gathered inside the clinic, coating the pale walls, flowing up instead of down. Mist settled on his skin. The waterworks focused him. He tunneled deeper, trying to connect with Forge through mind-speak, his voice spiraling into his friend’s psychological space. Nothing. No answer. No change in Forge at all. The male plummeted into physical free fall instead, muscles s

  Chapter Three Her technique was all wrong. Hope Cunningham didn’t care. She hit the heavy bag anyway. Over and over. Again and again. Slam-bang-thump. She went twenty rounds with black leather, punishing it with singular purpose. Proper form be damned. It didn’t matter. Neither did the unfinished pile of case files stacked on the desk in her office. Not tonight. She needed an outlet, a way to stem the flow of recall. Of heartbreak and loss. Of guilt and inadequacy. Of playing the blame game. Five years, and she couldn’t shut it off or push it away. Same time, different year. February, twenty-eight days of god-awful. Not that her least favorite month cared about her preferences. Days away from the anniversary, the memory tortured her. Like a knife blade, recollection cut deep, sliced hard, leaving her nowhere to run. The visual played like a movie inside her head: the rapid staccato of gunfire, the terrified screams, the smell of blood in the air . . . Her twin brother bleeding out on a

  Chapter Four Arse planted on a stool at the kitchen island, Forge frowned into his teacup. A smooth-tasting chamomile concoction swirled inside, a soothing balm for a ragged soul. At least, it was supposed to be—what the box label advertised. A bloody pack of lies. Tea wasn’t good for the spirit. Forge lifted the mug anyway and, following Myst’s orders, took another sip. The brew stuck, swimming at the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to swallow. Hot liquid burned on the way down. Intense heat expanded behind his breastbone, and he waited. For the relief. For the blaze to melt the chill sitting like a chunk of ice in the center of his chest and the pain to become bearable. No such luck. He was frozen. A solid block of hurt and sensory overload. Worse than the physical anguish, though, was the jumble inside his head. Two hours, and still, his mind refused to settle, dipping, diving, tumbling until his thoughts fractured, exploding in multiple directions. Now he

  Chapter Five Forge was going to kill him. Mac knew it. He’d resigned himself to the inevitable on the ride home. The entire reason he hadn’t argued when Angela insisted on driving. A good thing too. His mind hadn’t been on the road. It had been at Black Diamond, on his best friend. After getting a look at Hope—and seeing her through Dragonkind eyes—he’d known what kind of shit storm he planned to bring into the lair. Another high-energy female on the hook, about to walk into Nightfury central and upset the balance of the entire pack. But then, hindsight was twenty-twenty. Knowing then what he did now, he might’ve altered the plan. Waited a day for his friend to recover. Brought Forge along for the ride. Had him knock on her front door. Or at the very least, told him what he intended and how Hope figured into the scheme, but well . . . shit. No way he could’ve predicted she’d be high energy. Or guessed how Forge would react to her. With inferno-like heat that bled into the air around hi

  Chapter Six Sweat trickled over his temple, catching on the edge of his eyebrow. Bent over the workstation in his lab, Ivar swiped at it with the back of his hand and frowned into his electron microscope. Tiny organisms swam inside a glass petri dish. The up-close, in-depth look should’ve illuminated the situation, marrying fact with understanding. His surroundings should’ve done the rest. The equipment inside his state-of-the-art laboratory was the best money could buy. High-tech perfection housed one hundred and fifty feet below ground level. Most of the time, Ivar took pride in his new digs. He adored the lair he shared with his personal guard. Buried deep beneath 28 Walton Street, the underground living quarters lived up to expectation: safe, comfortable, beautiful. And his lab? The space screamed symmetry, functionality, every single utilitarian line dressed up in glossy white walls and stainless steel countertops. His refuge. His sanctuary, a stronghold against humanity and the b

  Chapter Seven Standing in one of the guest bedrooms, Hope pulled a dresser drawer open and tossed the last pair of socks inside. It landed on top of the pile and bounced off, rolling into her boxing wraps. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the cotton coil, the familiar sight helping her feel more grounded in unfamiliar surroundings. Her gaze jumped to the boxing gloves tucked into the back of the drawer. Old faithfuls, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. She released a pent-up breath. Thank God she’d thought to bring the pair. Something told
her she would need them before her time inside Black Diamond came to an end. An uncharitable thought? Hope pursed her lips. Probably, but with her instincts howling, erring on the side of caution seemed the best way to go. Something about the house didn’t ring true. Not that she could put her finger on what exactly, but . . . She glanced around the room. Yeah, without a doubt. The vibe seemed off. Not bad, just odd. Powerful somehow,

  Chapter Eight No need tae run. What kind of advice was that? Forge bit down on a curse. The worst kind . . . the very worst a male could offer. He flexed his fingers, struggling to forget the feel of the female’s hand in his, the decadent spark of her bio-energy against his palm along with the delicious scent of her. Unable to help himself, he drew another deep breath. Tempting and sweet, her fragrance invaded his lungs. His skin started to heat. Prickles sparked across his fingertips. Oh yeah. Give him more. She smelled amazing, like hot cinnamon and shortbread cookies, his favorite of all treats and . . . bloody hell. Not good. He was in serious trouble. She was practically edible. Forge frowned at the female standing a few feet away. Too close. Far too close. With no effort at all he could reach out and cup her cheek. Learn the texture of her skin. Run his fingers over the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Feel the zap of her energy as he connected to the Meridian, t

  Chapter Nine Worrying blew . . . big time. So did being hungry every minute of the day. Toss in the fatigue that always accompanied his near-starved state and—yeah. It sucked to be him. Sitting on the sofa in the great room, Mac tried to watch the game. One–nothing Blackhawks. He didn’t give a shit. Unusual to say the least. He enjoyed hockey. Got a kick out of Rikar’s obsession with the game and all the body contact. His mouth curved. Hell, those guys could hit. Sometimes with enough force to break bones. Always fun to watch. A plate balanced on one knee, Mac picked up his fork. Eggs. Bacon. Crispy potato wedges. All of it smothered in maple syrup, the real kind, one hundred percent authentic. Mouthwatering aromas rose on a curl of steam. He frowned at his stack of pancakes. The commentator droned on about a penalty—a stick infraction, some kind of shot to the head. Mac sighed. Enough stalling. Might as well get on with it. No sense beating the issue to death. He might not be able to

  Chapter Ten Sitting at the table across from Forge, Hope stared at him, searching for flaws. She needed to find a whole bunch. Pages full—right now, but well . . . her strategy wasn’t working. Luck and intellect had abandoned her half an hour ago. No matter how good the argument, she couldn’t deny his appeal. Her gaze drifted over his face. The strong line of his jaw, the sculpted cheekbones, the color of his eyes, and dark day-old stubble—each feature pointed to one god-awful conclusion. He was gorgeous. Pure male beauty. The kind no woman on earth could ignore. Or resist. Bad news for her. Even worse for professional ethics. The longer she looked at him, the less her brain worked. Now she didn’t know what to do—keep talking to him or push the pancakes aside and kiss him senseless. The urge startled her. Worried her a whole bunch too. She’d never been attracted to one of her patients before. Never sat across from anyone meant for her therapist’s chair and wondered what he tasted like

  Chapter Eleven Shoulder blades pressed to the rear wall of the viewing chamber, Forge stared through the glass separating him from his best friend. The barrier rubbed him the wrong way. He should be in there doing . . . well, something. What, exactly? He frowned. No bloody idea, but God, the waiting. He hated waiting—along with the MRI surrounding Mac, the human thing keeping him from his best friend’s side. Damned machine. Crossing his arms, he scowled at it and told himself to be patient—for the umpteenth time—but . . . shite. It was hard to do. Hard to wait. Hard to watch. Hard to feel so completely helpless. His stomach dipped. Forge smoothed away his unease and forced himself to remain still. Perfectly fucking still. Pacing wouldn’t help. Wearing the floor out never worked. Neither would putting his fist through the wall, considering Mac lay unconscious, stretched out on the patient table, his tattoo glowing red against the walls inside the cylinder. Bright lights blinked above th

  Chapter Twelve Holding G. M. in her arms, Hope waltzed across the nursery. Thick area rug underfoot, the scent of baby powder in the air, she hummed Vivaldi, moving to the concerto of violins playing inside her head. She counted out the beat, twirling between each step. An easy three count: one, two, three—pivot, slide, spin into a gentle turn. One, two, three—sway with the baby cradled against her, keeping him happy and herself content. Pulled free of a ponytail, her hair swung loose. The soft strands brushed across her shoulders as she sidestepped the end of G. M.’s crib. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile bobbed. Eeyore nodded at her. Ignoring the encouragement, Hope danced by the toy box full of stuffed animals, skirted the changing table, then whirled around the rocking chair. Sucking on his thumb, G. M. sighed in contentment. Joy bubbled up, settling into her bones, invading her heart. God, what a pleasure. It had been ages. Way too long since she’d held a baby. Her gaze on her temporary

  Chapter Thirteen The dream tightened its hold, driving Forge into thick fog. Swiping at the ashy swirl, he struggled to find his way through the smoke: to level his wings, to feel the rush of air and bring the landscape into focus, but . . . He growled through clenched teeth. Zero visibility. Nothing but gloom and shadows. Pushing forward, Forge narrowed his view and tried again. His vision wavered. Light flickered behind the fog and—goddamn it. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. Indistinct images flashed in his mind’s eye, then faded, lost forever in the mounting chaos. He knew it was coming. Had cataloged every detail of the memory/dream each time it invaded his sleep . . . though it never picked up in the same place. Sometimes it started inside the mountain lair, with him sitting in the kitchen eating his mother’s shortbread cookies. Other times, the dream began as he leapt from the cliffs. Or like now, as he approached the moors, wings spread wide, winter wind in full bluster. He felt

  Chapter Fourteen Forge needed to stop kissing her. He shouldn’t be holding her. Shouldn’t have his hands anywhere near her gorgeous arse either. And caressing her petal-soft skin? Oh, so not a good idea. He ought to be shot. Drawn and quartered. Hung from the nearest rafter. Or something. Maybe then his brain would kick over and order him to do the right thing. Wanting her wasn’t the issue. Taking her—making Hope his—didn’t qualify as the main problem, but . . . good Christ. He shouldn’t be doing it like this, with her reeling, punch drunk from the healing energy his dragon half continued to feed her. An honorable male would back off. Think. Assess. Sit her down and talk it out. Which made it official. He should pull away, explain the way things worked while he made his position clear and let her decide. Only two options existed for females in his world—accept his dragon half, become his mate, or run like hell. Clear cut. Concise. No room for misinterpretation. And yet, as her tongue t

  Chapter Fifteen Krkonoše mountain range—Czech Republic Ancient treetops rocked as Zidane flew overhead. On a collision course with warriors hidden amid inhospitable cliffs and low-lying mountain valleys, he banked into a tight turn. Twin streams whistled from his wing tips. His brown, orange-speckled scales rattled. Snow spun in his wake, the mad rush matching the rise of his fury. A yellow glow sparked in his dark eyes. His gaze swept east, the citrine glow staining the washed-out winter landscape in front of him. He needed a target. The mock battle—dragon combat training with the crew he’d chosen as his personal guard—might not be real, but at least it was something. The perfect remedy. A way to focus his rage, the promise of a fight that would leave him bruised and more than a touch bloody. It was either that or explode. Not a great plan considering his firepower in dragon form. An ill-advised explosion was the last thing his father’s physician would prescribe. The flammable poison

  Chapter Sixteen Cursing his bad luck, Ivar leapt off the third-floor balcony. The violent free fall blew his hair back. Frigid air burned over his cheekbones. Focused on the ground, he bared his teeth and timed his landing. The blackness was absolute. No porch light on behind his aboveground lair. No
glow from streetlights bleeding into his backyard. No moon to break through the murky thread of midnight. Just stony silence and the abysmal threat of another fucked-up night. Suppressing a snarl, Ivar called on his magic. His night vision sparked. Frozen grass came into focus, the brown, bladed edges sharp and battle worn in the darkness. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three— He let his fire dragon loose. Pink flame licked over his skin. Heat blasted through the cold. His body lengthened beneath the spread of blood-red scales and the crack of razor-sharp claws. Winter wind snapped at the spikes adorning his tail. Brick facade of 28 Walton Street blurring in his periphery, Ivar spread h

  Chapter Seventeen Sitting with her back to the wall inside her temporary bedroom, Hope turned the rolled boxing wrap over in her hands. Slap a sticker on her that read “Cooked” and call it a day. She was in big trouble, the kind of screwed that left her wondering when and where she’d lost her mind. She snorted. When and where weren’t the issue. The who, however, remained a serious problem. One unlikely to go away anytime soon. Stay put, he’d said. No way she could’ve done that, not after . . . Hope frowned at her knuckles. Screwed didn’t quite describe what she was at the moment. Or rather, what she was doing. Hiding might be a better characterization. In full retreat was an even better one. The fact she was doing it while wedged between her bed and the night table with her butt planted on the floor summed up her situation nicely. Hope cringed. All right, best add pathetic to the heap of shame and get on with her day. Cursing under her breath, she examined the Velcro holding the boxing

  Chapter Eighteen Raising her fists, Hope kept her guard high and pivoted around the heavy bag. Footwork perfect, her bare soles skimmed over the hardwood floor. Shift right. Dance left. Keep her opponent in her sights. Rope creaked. The black bag swayed from her last strike. Muscles pulsing with energy, she flexed her hands inside the sparring gloves and, timing her punch, hammered the sucker again. The violent thump echoed across the weight room. The impact jolted up her arm. Satisfaction hummed through her as her biceps squawked in protest. Ignoring the discomfort, she struck again. And again. Jab right, a quick left cross before powering into an uppercut, moving in a rhythm that would make her trainer proud. Over and over. Again and again until her surroundings fell away. Concrete walls nothing but blur in her periphery, she brought her feet into play. Kicking high, she slammed her foot into the target zone. Black leather groaned. The heavy bag rocked sideways. Sweat rolled down her