Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 15

  “Didn’t mean to, but…yeah, you’re bang-on.” Watching her closely, he set his elbows on his widespread knees. “That doesn’t freak you out?”

  “A little, but…” She trailed off, adjusted her grip on the Glock, an adorable pucker between her brows. “I’m more interested in the endgame.”

  “Which is what?” He raised a brow. “Playing dirty?”

  “No…convincing you,” she said, not bothering to hide her intention. “Look, I know I’m out of my league here. That’s why I need your help. I can’t let it go so—”

  “It’s too dangerous, Angela.”

  “I need to be a part of this. I can’t sit on my duff and do nothing. I’ll go nuts.”

  Fucking hell. So much for his line in the sand. The thing had just gotten shoved a gazillion feet. In the wrong direction. “It’s not that I don’t want to let you, but…shit. I’m afraid for you.”

  “Rikar—”

  “Just hear me out, okay?”

  When she nodded, he frowned and flicked at the quilt. As he played with the corner edge, winding the patchwork between his fingers, he searched for the right words. The ones that would make her understand. In the end, he settled for, “Our world isn’t like yours. Dragonkind…the males I fight don’t play fair. We’re at war…locked in a bitter feud without end. It’s kill or be killed. No rules, no boundaries, no mercy. I want to protect you from that, not send you into the middle of it. Especially after—”

  “Don’t say his name!”

  The outburst cracked him wide open, and he bled for her. For all the pain. For all the suffering and fear. And as she struggled for composure and he watched tears pool in her eyes, he cursed the daylight. He wanted to go right now: hunt that fucker down, rip his still-beating heart from his sadistic chest, and bring it back to her.

  Moving carefully, he reached out and slid his hand into hers. She flinched but allowed the contact as he fused their palms and examined the IV punching her skin. So fragile. So fine. So dangerous to let her win. He needed her to listen. To stay home. Stay safe. Stay out of trouble so he could do his job.

  “Angela, love,” he murmured, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Listen to me.”

  “No…” Blinking tears away, she shook her head. “You listen.”

  Her voice was sharp, stronger than he expected, and he wanted to say “attagirl.” Give her a pat on the back and applaud her bravery. He stayed silent instead. What else could he do? Saying no wasn’t working. Explaining the danger wasn’t getting either of them anywhere. Seeing her tears didn’t help, either. Her pain sent his will to resist into a nosedive, and just like that, he was floundering again.

  Laying the Glock on the mattress beside her knee, she pressed the back of his hand into the mattress and took hers away. He mourned the loss of her touch, but not for long. She came right back. Her mouth curved as she traced the lines on his palm. “Do you believe in fate, Rikar? That all things happen for a reason?”

  Another light stroke against his skin.

  Rikar shifted, fighting a full-body tremor. “I don’t know.”

  “I do. All the other cops make fun of me, but I believe it anyway.” She shrugged, brushing away their derision, and Rikar had the sudden urge to visit the precinct and bash every one of their heads in. Her featherlight caress distracted him, kept him still as her eyelashes flicked up, and she met his gaze. “I’m stronger than I look, you know. I got out of that place…no help. No rescue on the horizon. One hundred percent alone. So don’t tell me I can’t manage in your world. I already have.”

  He wanted to say something—anything—to refute her, but…hell. His brain was on hiatus, giving him nothing but a load of blankety-blank-blank.

  The sheets rustled as she moved closer. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. I really do, but it’s a load of crap. I have skills. I have information. If I’m part of the team I can—”

  He growled. Part of the team? No chance in hell.

  “—learn anything you need me to,” she said, talking so fast she tripped over each word. “Teach me how to fight in your world. I can help. If you let me, I can help…please.”

  She paused a beat, hope in her eyes.

  Rikar sighed. Fuck. He might as well admit it. The battle wasn’t just uphill, it was already lost. So, yup. New strategy, here he came.

  Withdrawing his hand, he untangled from her touch—from the witchy, mind-altering contact…call it whatever you like because…yeah, her soft caresses were fucking him up. “Come here, female.”

  She hesitated, leery of him as she leaned away a little.

  Rikar slid forward on the sheet. He heard her quick intake of breath, felt her pulse skyrocket, but didn’t stop. As he settled alongside her, she shied, jumping like a scared rabbit, body language screaming don’t touch me. He ignored the message. Trust wasn’t something a male took. It was earned, and here—right now, in this moment—he needed to show her fear had no place between them…that she was safe with him.

  “Easy, angel.” Cupping her wrist gently, he stopped her retreat. “I will never hurt you. All right?”

  She shivered, still apprehensive, but no longer moving away. “O-okay.”

  “Relax.” Rikar kept his touch light as he rotated her hand and picked at the tape holding the IV in place. Peeling the strip all the way off, he held the needle still with the pad of his thumb and grabbed a cotton pad from the table beside the bed. “Take a deep breath.”

  She did.

  He nodded his approval.

  With a care born of patience, he slid the needle out and pressed the gauze over the small wound. As he applied pressure to stop the bleeding, silence gathered, sounding loud, echoing against nothing. She tugged her hand. He held firm, keeping her in place as he palmed a roll of tape.

  He glanced at her sideways. “What information?”

  Her brows collided.

  “You said you have—”

  “Oh, right,” she said, following the change in topic like a pro. “The Razorbacks, ah…the place they took me to…I’m not sure where it is exactly. Somewhere north of where you found me, but I know there are other women being held there. The bastard talked about cellblock A and that I’d have company and…” Her face grew pale as she paused.

  Her agitation lit him up, and he fought to keep his cool as she rubbed the bandage on her thigh. Even knowing the gash had healed didn’t help. He hated that she’d been hurt at all. Detested her uncertainty and the strain in her voice. Christ, he didn’t want her reliving the pain but needed every scrap of information she could give him. So he waited, giving her time as she struggled to tell him.

  “They did tests on me…medical stuff. Needles in the stomach. Forced drugs down my throat,” she said, the words so quiet he leaned in to catch each one. “I heard them talk about a…a…serum for a breeding program or something. I didn’t catch it all, but…God, Rikar. Those bastards have other hostages. We have to get them the hell out of there.”

  He sighed. Shit. The situation was beyond FUBARed. Ivar, the mad scientist, had finally lost it. Now he was unleashed and headed in bad directions. The fact that females were involved only made it worse. So, yeah. No question. They needed to get the imprisoned females out alive. And do it fast before the Razorbacks fucked them up permanently.

  Which gave him an idea.

  “Are you good with computers?” He ripped off a sticky strip from the roll.

  Angela blinked, then nodded. “I can hold my own.”

  “Good with police databases?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rikar couldn’t believe what he was thinking. Or about to do. Talk about an idiot. He was a big one. Should be sticking with the “no” strategy, but he couldn’t blame Angela for wanting to play a part. She deserved revenge…justice…whatever. And Sloan—their resident computer genius—was tapped out. Hell, the male was so busy monitoring the human world and filtering information that he hardly ever left the lair. And if Angela could help his bu
ddy with the workload, it was win-win all the way around.

  Plugging her into a computer would kill two birds with one stone: keep her at Black Diamond while he smoked Lothair out. But the bigger bonus? Access to Angela. Every hour of every day. Time enough to convince her of his worth. To make her want him, need him…crave him as much as he did her. All while keeping her safe.

  Jackpot. The perfect solution wrapped up in a tidy package.

  “All right, then.” Tossing the roll, he ignored the thud as it landed on the tabletop and laid the tape across the back of Angela’s hand. “If you want in, there are ground rules.”

  “Lay them out.”

  “When you’re not with me, you stay in the lair. No running off half-cocked. No going it alone when something doesn’t go your way. I let you in…you take the tasks assigned to you. I lead. You follow.” Smoothing the tape across her skin with his thumbs, he turned his head, drilled her with a don’t fuck with me look. “Got it?”

  She frowned. “But—”

  “My way or not at all, Angela,” he said, debating how far to push, how much to tell her about Dragonkind and the feedings.

  Her high-energy status might not freak her out, but the fact Lothair had taken a piece of her would. She didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Frightening her was the last thing he wanted to do. But if push came to shove, he’d nail her feet to the floor—keep her safe inside the lair—by explaining the Razorback could track her now. The instant she stepped outside Black Diamond’s energy shield, her signal would go live, transmit her location and…

  Wham.

  The SOB would come after her. No holds barred.

  “That’s the deal, love.” Releasing her hand, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and stood. As the cold floor met his bare feet, he glanced over his shoulder at her. “In or out…what’s it gonna be?”

  She glared at him. “In.”

  His satisfaction swelled like tidal wave. Well, all right, then. Score one for the home team. Now all he needed to do was stay in the game. And one step ahead of Angela. Too smart for her own good, stubborn to the core, she wouldn’t give him a straight-up victory. She’d play dirty…work him a bit at a time until he gave ground. And before he knew it? He’d be on his heels, scrambling to keep her out of trouble.

  The thought gave him chills. Which, of course, he relished, the challenge cranking him into high gear. An easy win, after all, was never as sweet as one well-earned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lothair arrived at 28 Walton Street to a whole lot of nothing. No fanfare. No explosions. Nothing being thrown at him. Thank Jesus. He didn’t need Ivar’s temper right now. Or any more of Denzeil’s trucker talk either.

  “D…shut the fuck up, would ya?” Tossing his comrade a loaded look, Lothair grabbed the remote out of the center console of the Oldsmobile. On cue, the industrial-size garage door opened, old chains rattling as the sun crested the horizon. Just in time. Another five minutes and they would’ve pulled into a secluded spot, parked, and bunked in the trunk for the day. Could’ve been fun back there…a party of four, hold the champagne, fuck you very much.

  “What are ya gonna tell Ivar?” Hands working out a beat, Denzeil drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the door to rise enough to drive in.

  Rat-ta-ta-tat. Rat-ta-ta-tat.

  The sound was a nervous one, the action telling. His comrade was scared shitless. Not that Lothair blamed him. Only a male with suicidal tendencies messed with Ivar. Good thing he wasn’t just any male and he had an ace up his sleeve. Ivar loved him like a brother. Would no sooner hurt him than cut off his own arm, and that was before his connections got thrown into the mix. Yes, sirree. Powerful friends in the Archguard made for one hell of an insurance policy.

  Lothair glanced at D’s hands, then raised a brow. The rat-ta-ta-tat stopped instantly, making his mouth curve. The fear factor—and the male’s reaction—was one of his favorites.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Denzeil glanced at him.

  Pinning him with a glare, Lothair raised a brow.

  White-knuckling the wheel, his comrade swallowed, then shifted, ass walking all over the worn velour seat. “We need to get our stories straight, man. He’s gonna be pissed we lost the she-cop and—”

  “The truth, D,” he said. “We don’t hide this kind of shit from Ivar.”

  At least not if they wanted to stay alive. Ivar had a nasty streak, sure. But he was a reasonable male. Lothair frowned. Most of the time anyway. The science experiment, though, worried him a little. It had gone from the usual strange to downright hinky in recent days.

  “Ten-four.”

  More with the trucker crap. Lothair sighed. “Just drive through. My eyes are stinging.”

  With a nod, D put his foot down and drove them into the shadowy recess of the old fire hall. As the garage door closed with a grinding clank behind the ass-end of the car, darkness fell, bringing relief from the breaking dawn, and so much more. The sunlight was a bitch, sure, but escaping the supernova wasn’t what made him relax. Dipping his chin, he rolled his head left, then right, stretching out the knots, and thanked his lucky stars.

  Home. After weeks of sleeping in that rat hole, he was finally home.

  And who did he have to thank? A pack full of Nightfury assholes. Ironic, wasn’t it? The males who tried to kill him every night had just done him a huge favor, liberating him from the old lair. No way Ivar would send him back now. He’d rage about his plan hitting the skids—that the new cellblock wasn’t ready for habitation yet—but his commander wasn’t stupid. Going back in for any reason now was too risky. It wouldn’t take long for Tweedledee and Tweedledum to infiltrate and tear the place apart looking for clues.

  Maybe the males had broken through the energy shield already. Derrˋmo, he hoped so. The faster they worked, the better for him. Lothair snorted. Who would’ve thought the idiots would ever come in handy?

  His mouth curved as he popped the latch and shoved the car door wide. Rusty hinges squawked, echoing through the dark. Jacking himself through the opening, his boots touched down on the smooth concrete. Poured just weeks ago, the floors qualified as a definite upgrade. No more pockmarks. No more oil stains. Just new on new. The condition of 28 Walton was light-years from the shitty accommodations when he and Ivar had bought the place. Each day brought changes, and with each small improvement, the lair became more livable. And that was without counting the network of underground tunnels that now sat beneath the old structure.

  After years spent in subpar conditions—caves, run-down factories, basements, and old wine cellars…you name it, he’d been there—the facility was a revelation. Modern, high tech, the Razorback’s new home was über comfortable. Something to be proud of, and for once, he was thankful. So attached to the fire hall now, he would fight to defend rather than abandon his home at the first sign of trouble.

  Lothair shook his head. The sentiment was stupid, but no matter how hard he tried to quash it, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Acceptance. The sense of belonging. Both were powerful things, forces that shaped a male. He’d never been truly welcome anywhere: not with his family or by his former pack, not by anyone other than Ivar.

  Slamming the car door behind him, Lothair glanced over his shoulder. He met D’s gaze over the roof of the car. “Deal with the females. I’ll handle Ivar.”

  The male nodded, relief shining in his dark eyes.

  “Get them something to eat after you lock ’em down.” Heading for the stairs at the far end of the ten-car garage, he skirted Ivar’s ride. Kitted out vintage style, the 1963 ’Vette owned sweet curves, a set of wicked rims, and an engine that purred like a female in heat. He should know. He’d picked a coed up in it last week. Let the engine rumble as he banged her in the front seat: pulling her into his lap, spreading her thighs, thrusting deep as she begged for more and he fed.

  Not his favorite memory. The willing ones were never as much fun.

  He paused at the base of the steps,
the smell of new cement making his nose twitch. “Make sure they get enough, D. We lose those two, and the Ivar’ll go postal on our asses.”

  Pace even, footfalls silent, Lothair took the stairs two at a time. Taking a tight turn, he continued up, double-timing another set of concrete treads. Thirty seconds later, he stood on the third-story landing. He scanned the shadows, the bank of cracked windows yet to be replaced, hardly noticing the devastation that years of neglect had wrought. Built in the 1950s, the fire hall had sat empty for years. Decay liked it that way, but things were about to change. Right now the underground lair had priority, but soon Ivar’s worker bees would turn their attention to the brick structure sitting on terra firma.

  Lothair could hardly wait.

  The underground lair—while comfortable with its bedroom suites, modern kitchen, computer center, and Ivar’s lab—didn’t have a game room. Cards. Pool. Foosball. Ping-Pong. Video games. Whatever. The game didn’t matter as long as he got to play. And kicking his comrade’s asses? Hmm…yeah. He liked that best of all.

  Skirting a jagged hole in the wooden floor, he headed for the elevator. Hidden behind a wall of paneling, the modern wonder waited, the hum of powerful magnets barely audible above the street noise. He reached out with his mind. The lock disengaged with a snick, and the hum got louder. Floor-to-ceiling wainscoting pushed into the room, then slid sideways, steel glinting behind polished mahogany in the dimness.

  The double sliders retreated, opening into the Otis. His mouth curved into a satisfied smile. Beautiful. Excellence in a steel box.

  Lothair stepped inside and pressed the solitary button. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, reengaging the security system with his mind as the elevator descended. The soft beep told him the wainscoting had closed, sealing the entrance to the underground lair tight.