Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 12

  “Stop it,” she whispered, staring at her reflection in the window glass. “Get a grip, you big scaredy-cat.”

  She tried. She really did, but…God. She was driving herself crazy, imagining all sorts of awful scenarios. Ones that involved chainsaws and wood chippers. And the cops on the case? Big jerks. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Detective Keen was cool. Tough, sure, but as compassionate as they came. Her partner, though?

  Frigging Detective MacCord.

  The guy rattled her cage. For a plethora of reasons. None of which she liked, never mind wanted to admit. He tempted her to a dangerous degree, and not just because of the way he wore a pair of Sevens. All right, so she enjoyed looking at him, butt-gloving jeans and all. The man was gorgeous, and no one could fault a girl for noticing. No harm, no foul, right?

  Tania nodded. Right. And had that been the end of it—just a healthy girl admiring a beautiful man—no problem.

  But her attraction to him went beyond the physical. Something about him drew her. His vibe, maybe. Intangible. Confusing. Strange. Call it whatever you wanted, but he possessed that extra special something in spades. And foolish or not, she wanted to believe him when he told her not to worry…that he’d untangle the mess and bring Myst home.

  Which burned her butt.

  Twenty-first century women didn’t rely on he-men with aquamarine eyes and a body that never said quit to solve their problems. A shame on so many levels. She liked the idea of leaning on him, of those strong arms around her. He would feel good and…

  Holy crap. The whole attraction thing with MacCord needed to die a fast, horrific death. Along with her fantasies. God. Her imagination was so lit up, she swore she could taste him. Feel the softness of his dark hair between her fingers. Smell him on her skin. Hear his voice as he whispered her name, driving desire way past need into must-have territory.

  Heat and pleasure. Pure and simple.

  Oh, boy, she needed to get a grip. Especially since she planned a sneak attack later this afternoon. The detective needed a fire lit under him, and she was just the girl to strike the match. First things first, though, she needed a shower. Or maybe a swim. Thinking of MacCord made her sweat, which made her realize she wasn’t just watchless, but sticky too: cotton T-shirt plastered against her back, damp tendrils of hair stuck to the nape of her neck.

  Tania combed her hands through the rat’s nest on her head. Jeez, what a catastrophe. What had she been doing? Running the Seattle marathon? Blowing out a breath, she rooted through her bag, found an elastic, and swept the entire mess into a ponytail before tapping the glass again. The taxi driver’s head swiveled, one eyebrow raised. He nodded as she gave him the new address. The YMCA.

  Yup, definitely. The gym and its Olympic-sized pool was the best bet.

  She needed to stretch her stiff muscles and calm down before she headed to the police station for round two with Detective MacCord. Her lips curved as his face surfaced in her mind. It would be good to see him again. Especially if it meant upending his unhelpful butt. She wanted answers and her best friend found, so…

  MacCord would just have to suck it up as she put the screws to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grabbing a chair from beneath the table edge, Rikar dragged it behind him as he crossed the recovery room. The metal feet bumped across the hospital-grade floor, protesting the rough treatment. Not that he cared. The pathetic excuse for a chair could squawk all it wanted. In the end, it was going right where he put it. Beside Angela’s bedside.

  He set the thing down with a thunk, then dropped into the plastic seat.

  And groaned. Talk about uncomfortable.

  He shifted, trying out different positions. Why? No freaking clue. Comfort wasn’t in the cards. Sleep either. At least for the foreseeable future. But, man, he needed it. The past twenty-four hours were a blur, and he was whipped, in need of his own bed, a shitload of Zs, and yeah, something else too.

  Food. Dragonkind style.

  Rikar scrubbed his hand over the top of his head, fighting the hunger. No way could he feed now. Not with his frosty side on guard duty. Even without the daylight complication, his dragon wouldn’t let him leave the lair. The territorial SOB had nailed his ass to the chair, keeping him chained in the recovery room. So forget about finding a female and tapping into the Meridian to get what he needed. The whole thing was a no-go. Especially since the only female he wanted lay curled on her side less than an arm’s length away.

  His gaze flicked over her. His chest tightened another notch. She looked so small in the king-size bed: blankets pulled to her chin, IV plugged into the back of her hand, dark lashes lying against her pale cheeks. He frowned, worrying about her lack of color, her stillness, if she needed another blanket, or maybe she was too warm…

  Christ, his list went on ad infinitum. Not that he could help it. Bonded males were like that. Concern for their females came naturally, and after what Angela had been through, the needle on his worry dial was buried in the red zone.

  Planting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, listening to the beep of the heart rate monitor, clinging to the steady beat like a lifeline. God, he’d almost lost her. It had been close out there. Way too close. Had he arrived an instant later…not left Myst’s loft the second night fell, she’d be—

  Rikar shook his head. No need to think about it.

  But even as he told himself to leave it alone, his mind laid out possible outcomes like flash cards. As he pictured each one, he shuffled on the chair, wanting to get up and go hunting. To carve the Razorback into little pieces and watch him bleed out. He watched Angela instead, breathed with her, willing her chest to rise and fall even as his heart ached for her. For the moment she woke up and discovered the life she knew was over. No more police precinct. No more homicide division. Good-bye, normal. Hello, strange new world.

  His brows collided as he laced his fingers between the spread of his knees. Maybe she knew already. Maybe, on some level—deep down in the place called female intuition—she understood what capture by the Razorbacks meant…that she was no longer safe in the human world.

  Wishful thinking? Probably.

  He wanted her acceptance: of him, her new life, all of it. And right now, fooling himself into believing she wouldn’t fight the transition was fantastic fiction. The fantasy chilled him out, relaxing his frosty side, and as his tension eased, the headache hammering his temples moved to the back of his head.

  With a sigh, Rikar dipped his chin, pulling on the stiff muscles bracketing his spine. As the knots released, slipping loose one by one, he groaned. Hmm, that felt good. Maybe a full-on stretch session was in order. Although, no way he’d follow Venom’s example and hit the yoga mat. Screw the hatha shit. Wrapped knuckles and hitting the heavy bag was more his style. Still, a little Zen in his morning couldn’t hurt, so—

  “No!”

  The sharp denial—half scream, half rasp—brought Rikar’s head up. His gaze caught on Angela’s face, and he lost his ability to breathe for a moment. Fine brows furrowed, she flinched, fists balled and legs churning beneath the sheet as she cried out in her sleep. A nightmare. After what she’d been through, he’d expected it, but the reality was far worse. Watching her fight an imaginary foe gutted him, and as he shoved the chair back and stood, he wasn’t sure what to do. Wake her? Restrain her?

  He shook his head. Holding her down wasn’t a good idea. Lothair had done that and…fuck him. He refused to do the same.

  “Angela…shh, baby,” he said, hoping to soothe her. God, he wanted to touch her so badly, but instinct told him to keep his distance. At least for now. “It’s all right. You’re safe…you’re safe now.”

  “My gun,” she rasped, eyes moving rapid-fire behind her lids as she fought imaginary monsters. “Where’s my…I need it…he’s gonna—”

  “No, angel. I’m right here.” Rikar struggled to keep his voice even, but it was hard. He wanted to let loose, give voice to his pain, and put his fist through the nearest wall. Bu
t Angela didn’t need his rage. Not now. What she needed was comfort and soothing, both of which he could provide…as long as he kept his frickin’ head screwed on straight. “He can’t get you. I won’t let him. You’re safe.”

  Her breath shivered in and out, the harsh sound one of fear and—

  Fuck it. He reached out, her hitching sobs tearing him apart. Moving slowly, keeping it soft, he cupped her cheek. She went still a second, then turned her head, pressing her face into his palm. His breath caught as she nestled in, seeking more of his touch. He gave it to her, sliding one hand to her nape while he caressed her temple with his fingertips. “That’s right, angel. Settle down. You’re all right.”

  Her brows furrowed. “I want my Glock.”

  Her words came out slurred, and Rikar’s lips curved. Christ, he couldn’t help it. Relief had him by the balls. Respect for her had him by the heart. Anyone else would’ve said, I want my Mommy. But oh, no. Not his angel. Even pumped full of painkillers and gripped by nightmares, she was strong. Ready to defend herself from all comers. And in that instant, he decided. His magic flared as he conjured a Glock 19, standard police issue.

  Still cupping her nape, he put the gun in her hand. “Here, love.”

  She jerked as the cold metal hit her palm, then hummed and settled, curling onto her side, hugging his forearm to her chest like she needed both him and the weapon close. Which choked him up.

  And there he went again…falling into pansy mode.

  Shaking his head, Rikar gave himself a mental kick as footfalls echoed out in the corridor. Time to pull it together. One of his brothers was seconds away and—

  The door handle cranked down.

  He tried to untangle himself from Angela. With a whimper, she tightened her hold, fingers flexing on the gun, her arms around one of his, and Rikar dropped the tough guy act like a hot potato. Who the fuck cared what anyone else thought? He could handle the teasing, all the jokes about being whipped, wearing a leash…whatever. His female needed him, so yeah, his boys could go straight to hell.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. She snuggled against him, pressing her face up against the side of his thigh. Murmuring to her, he stroked his hand over her hair, listened to her steady breaths as she fell into a deep sleep.

  Steel hinges sighed a second before the door swung wide. Sloan crossed the threshold, tray in hand, the smell of scrambled eggs rolling with him and…oh, hell yeah, cinnamon and brown sugar. His favorite. Bless Daimler. The Numbai knew how to “caretake” like nobody’s business.

  Seeing his interest, Sloan grinned, white teeth flashing against mocha skin. “Hungry?”

  Rikar stroked Angela’s hair again. As his fingers played in the short strands, he held his buddy’s gaze, daring him to comment about the cozy arrangement. “Whatcha got?”

  Sloan snorted. “You know what I got. You’re practically salivating over there.”

  Cinnamon toast. Mmm, mmm good.

  Sliding the tray onto the small round table between the cabinetry banking the far wall and the bed, Sloan tipped his chin. “You want it over there?”

  “Yeah. Bring the table.” With a gentle twist, Rikar freed his arm, sliding it out of Angela’s grip. She frowned, making a sound of protest. Which, of course, squeezed his heart so hard he gave her his left hand to hold before she stirred from the healing sleep. “I’m one paw short at the moment.”

  “I can see that,” his buddy said.

  His hand drifted over the nape of his Angela’s neck, touching her soft skin, combing through her red hair. And Rikar waited…for the derogatory comment, for the warrior’s derisive tone, for his reputation as a hard-ass to be challenged. But Sloan didn’t say a word. Just kicked the other chair out of the way, picked up the table—tray and all—and walked the entire mess over. Rikar blinked, his eyes burning like a house on fire, his throat so tight he found it hard to swallow.

  Christ. He hadn’t expected that, but…man, straight up? Sloan was the poster boy for a worthy male, looking after him when most would’ve teased him about his need to stay with Angela.

  Fine china clinked and utensils rattled as the table got set down with a thunk. Sloan whipped off the cover, and Rikar nearly melted into a puddle of gratefulness. He dug in instead, picking up a piece of cinnamon toast, shoving half of it in his mouth as he murmured a heartfelt thanks.

  Sloan’s big mitt landed on his shoulder, then gave him a squeeze. “How’s she doing?”

  “Better,” he said around a mouthful. Polishing off the last of the toast, Rikar chugged chocolate milk to wash it down. When he saw the bottom of the glass, he picked up the fork and went at the eggs. Hmm…protein in a scrambled mess. Nothing better. “It’ll take a while, but she’ll heal.”

  Propped against the wall next to the bed, Sloan’s gaze flicked to the gun in Angela’s hand, then came back to him. He raised a dark brow. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “It isn’t loaded,” he said, shrugging off his friend’s concern. “She needs it to feel safe.”

  “The gun isn’t doing that…you are.” Lightning quick, his buddy leaned forward and snagged a piece of bacon off his plate. “You fed her, didn’t you?”

  The fork halfway to his mouth, Rikar paused. How much should he admit? All of it? None? The whole Bastian and Myst thing hadn’t surprised anyone. B had been looking to hook up and sire a son. But with his frosty side in perpetual “fuck you” mode, no one expected him to ever feel for a female this strongly.

  Silver clinked against the plate as he put his fork down. “Got a problem with that?”

  “Not even a little one.” One corner of Sloan’s mouth turned up, like the bastard knew what he was thinking, and Rikar had the sudden urge to pop him one. “But if you have, you need to get into bed with her. Enough of the hand-holding shit.”

  Christ, there Sloan went again, smacking him in the face with the unexpected. Get into bed with her. Had the male gone freaking insane? No way Angela would want him curled up next to her. Not after what she’d endured, so yeah…

  “Not a good idea.”

  “You want her to heal fast?” Sloan held his gaze, dark eyes dead serious. It was a challenge, pure and simple. “Ditch the leathers and get in. She’ll relax deeper into the healing sleep with full body contact. And fuck, man. You’re wiped. You need to sleep too.”

  Rikar’s gaze strayed to Angela. He traced the outside curve of her ear with his fingertip, temptation circling like a son of a bitch. It would feel so good to slide in beside her…to pretend she belonged to him as he held her. If only for a little while. But that was just plain selfish. What he needed shouldn’t matter. His dragon half, though, wanted what it wanted. And as the beast stirred, male need and territorial instinct mixed into a volatile cocktail. Rikar shifted on the mattress, aching to have her in his arms.

  Wrong. It was so fucking wrong.

  He rolled his shoulders, suddenly feeling like his skin was three sizes too small. “I don’t think—”

  “Then don’t,” Sloan said, pushing away from the wall. “Think of the benefits for her instead.” His buddy’s shitkickers thudded softly, joining the beep of the heart rate monitor as he rounded the end of the bed. Grabbing the blankets, Sloan flipped them back, pouring more gasoline on Rikar’s fire. “You settle in with her…share your energy? And she’ll have less of a scar. Maybe nothing at all. All those bruises and cuts, buddy? Gone. And that’s just for starters.”

  A little desperate now, Rikar shook his head. “She won’t like waking up with me.”

  “She won’t get the rest she needs if she doesn’t.” Holding his ground, Sloan rammed his point home with a verbal hammer. “She needs you with her.”

  “Fuck…” Rikar ran his hand over his skull-trim. Rubbing his nape, he stared at the smooth expanse of mattress Sloan had exposed beside his female. Exhaling hard, he stood and shrugged out of his leather jacket. “You’re an asshole.”

  His buddy huffed, catching the leather load Rikar tossed at him
. “Takes one to know one.”

  Didn’t it always, Rikar thought as he ditched the rest of his clothes and slid in next to Angela.

  Mac came awake with a suddenness that startled him. The stiffness hit him next and, as his cramped muscles screamed for release, he cracked an eye open. The brick wall wavered into focus. Next? All the upended furniture jammed beneath tall, arching windows. Three of them, black glass rippling in waves, like the surface of a lake.

  Hmm, yeah. Water.

  He could do with a little splash action right now. A steady front crawl across the marina would straighten him out. Well, either that or a chiropractor. Goddamn, what had he been doing all day…an excellent imitation of a pretzel?

  With a groan, he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders. First one, and then the other. His bones clicked in their sockets, protesting where sore muscles left off, aching like a son of a bitch. And God, his head hurt too. Pain thumped his temples, then slid around to hammer the back of his skull. Mac clenched his teeth on another moan. Sound wasn’t a good idea right now. Not with his body one big throb of pain.

  What had he been thinking? The feeling—and the morning-after regret that came with it—was all too familiar…tequila. Most likely an entire bottleful of Patrón. Although, why the hell he’d been hitting the good stuff was anyone’s guess. Drinking to excess and blackouts weren’t his usual MO. At least not anymore.

  Mac shook his head, instantly regretting it as the hammering got worse, but something was way, way off. None of what he felt made sense. He hadn’t been drinking. Mac frowned. Had he?

  As the accusation circled, he tried to remember. Tidbits came at him, flipping into place inside his head. He labeled each one like evidence at a crime scene, retracing his steps. Last thing he remembered he’d been—

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Angela.

  Mac’s head came up. Something rattled with his movement, and his focus snapped toward the windows. A blurry outline took shape. Mother of God. A dragon. Blue-gray scales glimmering in the low light, the thing stared back at him: unblinking, unmoving, its stare holding his. He went stone-still, not wanting to spook it. The horned head froze too, like it was waiting for his next move or—