Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 21

  “I need you to shift, big guy.” The movement slow, Rikar reached out and put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. He kept his touch gentle, not wanting to startle the male. The dark-blue tattoo Mac sported on his scaled torso shimmered beneath Rikar’s hand. When he didn’t move, the pattern settled into flat, dark ink once more. “We need to get you inside.”

  Mac blinked, his eyes drifting closed, then opening again. He tried to raise his head. “I wanna go back in the water.”

  Bastian jogged over. “There’s a salt bath inside, my man. Let’s get you inside the clinic and into it.”

  Planting his paw, Mac pushed up, muscles trembling, groaning low as he transformed. Rikar winced. The cop looked even worse in human form. Poor bastard. The first night out and he’d caught real action.

  Not the least bit fair. Or wise.

  Fledglings were fragile in the beginning. Exhausted from the change. Overwhelmed by their new bodies and baffled by how to use them. So, yeah. A new Dragonkind male was always protected, kept away from the world and other dragons that weren’t family until he learned how to handle himself.

  But oh, no. Not Mac. The male had dove right in. No hesitation. No fear. No freaking common sense. Which, Rikar suspected, would be their new boy’s MO from now on. Not a bad way to go, but…man. He was going to be hell to protect until he was up to speed and combat ready.

  Rikar slung the cop’s arm around his shoulder. Mac cursed. He murmured “sorry,” but didn’t stop. B had called in their ETA on the fly. Sloan expected them, so…

  No time like the present.

  Muscling Mac across the LZ, Rikar pinged his buddy. “Sloan. You ready?”

  “All set.” Plastic crinkled, the sound coming through mind-speak as the male said, “Triage is good to go. How’s our boy?”

  “Shitty,” Mac growled through clenched teeth.

  “Run the salt bath,” Bastian said, bringing up the rear. “And get Myst. He needs stitches.”

  “Ah…about that,” Sloan said, tone hesitant.

  Which cranked Rikar’s shit in the wrong direction. Oh, Christ. What the hell was that about? His buddy rarely, if ever, hesitated.

  “Where’s my female?” B asked.

  “I’ll let Daimler explain.”

  Mac’s arm slung around his shoulder, Rikar threw his best friend an alarmed look.

  B returned it, then muttered, “Shit on a stick. Freaking female.”

  Shitkickers pounding granite, B hauled ass ahead of them. Rikar picked up the pace. Yup, no doubt about it. Myst was up to a whole lot of nothing good. Which meant Angela was in the thick of it. Shit, she’d probably instigated the entire mess.

  Fantastic. Freaking female was right. Just wait until he got his hands on her. He’d either wring her pretty neck or kiss the hell out of her.

  His body jumped at the idea. His mind seconded the motion, making him ache from the inside out. And no wonder. After feeding Angela and all the fighting, he needed an energy-infuse like an addict needed a fix. Hunger gnawed at him, turning his gut into a bottomless pit. Rikar swallowed to combat the burn and clamped down on his need. Hungry or not, his female was nowhere near ready to feed him. If he touched her now, she’d run scared…hate him before he ever got the chance to prove his worth.

  No way could he let that happen.

  He wanted her to want him, not fear him. So only one way to go. Keep his hands to himself and his dragon side under control. He’d gone hungry before, weeks if necessary, and he could do it again. He was a warrior; self-mastery was his middle name. So yeah, even if it killed him, he would respect Angela’s timeframe.

  But as he muscled Mac into Black Diamond, doubt slithered deep, and he prayed he could keep his word. Not to mention his distance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sitting cross-legged on a cushion, Angela studied the guy behind the invisible barrier. Even with the steel collar clamped around his throat, Forge reminded her of someone. It was the little things. The way he gestured with his hands. The tilt of his head when he smiled. The way his eyes narrowed when he paused to think about something and…

  Weird, but even his features seemed familiar. Had she met him somewhere before? Passed him on the street or something?

  Her gaze narrowed on his face. She would’ve remembered a guy like Forge. He was too big to miss, and as she listened to him talk, her eyes trained on his face, Angela gave it another shot. Nada. No spark of recognition.

  With a frown, she closed the door on her memory vault, forcing herself to pay attention. As she refocused—picking up his body cues, measuring the pauses in his speech pattern—Myst hammered him with questions, trying to bust through the impenetrable force that was Forge. Her lips twitched. He was a tough nut to crack. Hedging each question. Skirting the real issues. Feeding Myst tidbits of information without telling her anything. And all with that smooth-as-silk voice, rolling Rs interspaced by smooth As and long Os.

  Pure magic on the vocal front.

  He skirted another tough question. Angela bit down on a smile. Bullshit on top of bullshit. Freaking guy. He would’ve made a good cop. Hell, he was the verbal equivalent of a tap dancer. A nice-sounding one, but a big fat liar just the same.

  Which, naturally, reminded her of Rikar. Because really? Everything did today.

  Angela rubbed the bridge of her nose. God, she really needed to get a handle on that. She was far too interested in Rikar. And he was way too accessible. Yup. No fight from that quarter. He wanted her. Angela saw it in his eyes, knew it like her butt was planted on a Japanese cushion. That meant resisting the attraction would be up to her.

  Not a problem under normal circumstances. Her willpower was solid, but her reaction to Rikar crossed boundaries. Was anything but normal.

  Raking her fingers through her hair, Angela massaged the nape of her neck. Muscles stretched and discomfort streaked down her spine. The pain didn’t slow her roll or the curiosity propelling it. But then, she was an idiot. One with a bad idea and a huge problem. And what was that?

  One word. Energy-fuse.

  Man, what a concept. One guy. One girl. And boom! Instant attraction. Mutual need. A match made in heaven.

  Angela sighed, trying to deny her interest. No. Strike that. Her fascination with the idea Rikar might need her in that way. Something powerful existed between them…no question. She felt it even when he wasn’t with her. The zing of connection—the powerful pull of sensation that spilled into passion. Deep down—even though she didn’t want to admit it—she hoped he felt it too and that he came to her to get what he needed.

  A little batty, she knew…to want to feed him. Particularly after everything she’d been through. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t deny the compulsion. The urge to be the one for him.

  The one and only.

  And holy crap, there she went again. Tumbling into the rabbit hole head-flipping-first. ’Cause, honestly, did she really want to be Rikar’s next meal?

  Swallowing hard, Angela stifled a shiver. Had she fed him that night at McGovern’s? Seemed like a good guess. Too bad it was still fuzzy. She remembered certain things—like the way he touched her—with perfect recall. But other details were gone. Which was beyond strange. Her photographic memory never missed a beat. Great for a homicide cop. Not so good for a girl who wanted to forget the rat-bastard had—

  She flinched, shying away from the memory, slamming the lid on the mental box so fast the bang echoed inside her mind. She hung onto the pleasure instead…to the feel of Rikar and the deep connection she felt when he came near her.

  Palming the Glock, she played with the safety. Click-click-snick…on. Click-click-snick…off. Click-click—

  “Yo, Ange. You still with us?”

  Angela glanced up. Forge raised a brow. She set the Glock down in her lap, wondering if she should ask him. Myst had certainly run him through the gauntlet, so…

  She hesitated a second, weighing the pros and cons. Screw it. Why not? Rikar wasn’t here to ask, a
nd she wanted to know. “Hey, Forge?”

  His amethyst eyes steady on her, he murmured, “Aye?”

  “Got a question for you.”

  “Hit me.”

  “What does it feel like?” Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her own. It landed on the gun that brought her comfort, even though it shouldn’t. A Glock for a security blanket. Talk about bizarre. And damaged. She was undeniably damaged, absolutely beyond repair. “I mean…when a male feeds? Does it hurt or…?”

  “It shouldn’t.” A furrow between his brows, he turned a piece of shortbread over in his hand. “Should feel good. A lotta pleasure for the female if she is willing.”

  “And if she isn’t?”

  He studied her for a second, expression serious. Angela resisted the urge to squirm. If she fidgeted, he’d know. Hell. He’d probably already guessed, but no way would she admit to being…hurt…by the rat-bastard. It was bad enough that she knew it. Felt it. Had to live with the failure and guilt. Saying it out loud would bury her alive.

  “It’s not…” He paused as he set the cookie back in the container. “I would imagine it is very painful for a female if the connection is forced.”

  “Oh. Well…” Uncurling her hands, she wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “Asked and answered, I guess.”

  Silence met her inept attempt at deflection, stretching out like infinity in front of her. Goddamn it. She sounded so small. Vulnerable. Not what she’d been going for in any way, shape, or form. But holy hell, she’d needed to know and—

  “I like feeding Bastian,” Myst said, jumping into the void, tilting the conversation away from Crazytown and back into Evensville. “A lot.”

  Angela blinked. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Especially when we’re, ah…in bed.” Making a face, she glanced at Forge. “TMI?”

  “Wicked TMI,” he said, sounding disgruntled even though his eyes twinkled. “Look, Ange, nothing about this is easy. Not assimilating into our world or leaving your own. Not dealing with the shit that happened tae you. If you let him, Rikar will help. Feeding him will take some of the anxiety away. Bring peace while you become accustomed tae him…” he paused, throwing Myst an amused glance, “ah…in bed.”

  Her new friend grinned, enjoying his play on her words.

  Angela rolled her eyes, wanting to hit them both. “A temporary fix?”

  “Better than enduring the pain alone, aye?”

  “Maybe,” she murmured, willing to concede the point. “But how am I supposed to—”

  The door banged open, smashing into the steel wall behind it. A moment later a deep growl rolled into the corridor.

  “Ah, crap,” Myst muttered.

  Angela palmed her gun and popped to her feet. Stance set, she focused on the entrance. Which also served as the only exit. Way to go, Ange. Brilliant detective work. Nice to only notice that bit of info now, with the doorway blocked by a huge guy dressed in leather. The Harley Davidson attire matched the PO’d look on his puss…kick-ass with a whole lot of hardcore.

  Green eyes aglow, his gaze flicked over her, then narrowed on Myst. Angela swallowed, resisting the urge to take a giant step backward. And take Myst along for the ride.

  She chanced a quick glance at Myst and whispered, “Bastian?”

  “Ding-ding-ding.” G.M. snug in her arms, Myst rolled to her feet. Her scowl every bit as fierce as her mate’s, she said, “Don’t go postal, Bastian. I can explain.”

  “I hope so, bellmia,” he said, more growl than actual words. “Especially since I asked you not to come down here.”

  Ooh-oh. Asked. Not ordered. Interesting word choice and one that put Myst neck-deep in trouble. A girl could ignore an order from her man. This wasn’t the twelfth century, after all. A request, however? Angela grimaced. That wasn’t so cut and dried. And judging by her guilty expression, she guessed Myst knew it. Knew she didn’t have a leg to stand on as Bastian rolled in like a human thunderstorm.

  “I’m not one of your warriors,” Myst said, her words sharp, her gaze narrowed on the man she claimed to love. As far as strategies went, it was a good one. Attack instead of retreat. “You wanna talk to me? Change your tone.”

  Bastian growled again.

  “Don’t blame her.”

  Angela blinked. Good God. Why the hell had she said that? Well, whatever the reason, it was a bad one. Especially since Bastian was now focused on her, his green gaze hitting her like twin spotlights. Okay. No sense panicking. She’d gotten herself into trouble. She could get herself out.

  Clearing her throat, intent on backpedaling, Angela opened her mouth and…made the mistake of glancing at Myst. Ah, hell. She couldn’t do it. No way could she leave her friend twisting in the wind like that.

  “Please don’t blame Myst,” she said. “It was my idea.”

  He glared at her.

  Angela gave ground, backing up a step.

  “It’s all right, Ange.” A muscle twitched in her jaw as Myst glared right back, slamming Bastian with a loaded look. “Bastian would sooner put your gun to his head than hurt me.”

  “True,” the guy said without slowing his roll. Long legs carried him forward, the thud of his heavy boots sounding loud in the quiet. “Doesn’t mean I won’t turn you over my knee, now does it, bellmia?”

  While Myst sputtered, choking on the threat, Angela regrouped. Okay, so the guy wouldn’t hurt her friend. Good to know. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t make good on his threat, though and…really. No one needed to get spanked today. Unless, of course, they wanted to, and neither she nor Myst was volunteering for that one.

  “Look, Bastian.” Holding her hands palm up, she tried to placate him. “It really is my fault.”

  “Fucking hell. I knew it,” a deep voice growled. “Always neck-deep in trouble, aren’t you, angel?”

  Angela’s head whipped toward the open door. Oh, crap. Rikar. He had the worst timing. Or the best, depending on which way you looked at it. At least Bastian wouldn’t get the chance to throttle her with her man-dragon in the room. But man oh man, that didn’t mean Rikar wouldn’t take a shot.

  Lie or not, she’d just shot herself in the foot.

  An unhappy look on his face, he stood between the jambs, a wide-shouldered, long-limbed, too-gorgeous-for-words man. Angela swallowed, trying not to eat him with her eyes, but…mmm, it was hard. She liked looking at him. Liked the way his pale eyes glowed and the way he moved toward her, lethal grace in each stride, muscles coiled with a controlled strength she knew he could unleash without warning. Or mercy.

  But not on her.

  She could see the truth of it in his eyes. In the pale shimmer of ice-blue irises. In the way his gaze roamed, looking her over to make sure she was unhurt. All right. He was pissed off at her—might even growl and yell—but he wouldn’t touch her with anger. No need for heavy-duty explanations. No need for proof. Angela knew it instinctively.

  The second he stopped in front of her, Angela whispered, “I have a good reason to be here. Let me explain.”

  “Too late for that, angel.”

  His gaze flicked over her again, repeating his examination at close range. Angela stifled a shiver. Holy hell, it wasn’t fair. The way he looked at her was, well…God. It made her feel powerful, desirable, and something else, too…brave. Strong enough to stand her ground. Willing enough to take a chance. To trust him a little further.

  Which had crazy written all over it.

  She should be backing up a step. Or ten. Giving him a wide berth while she skedaddled out the door. But oh no, not her. What was she doing? Getting courageous at the wrong moment. Wondering about the damn connection they shared. Wanting to get up close and personal to see if she got zapped. Zinged. Carried away by the same mindless pleasure she’d felt in McGovern’s the night he’d touched her.

  Rikar stepped in close, crowding her. Raising her chin, Angela planted her feet, refusing to succumb to intimidation. Too bad he was good at it.

  Using his body to block her, he met h
er gaze head-on, tethering her with eye contact as he herded her away from the cell. Planted between her and Forge, he threw her a warning look. Angela chewed on her bottom lip. Message received. He wanted her to stay put. Wanted her behind him where Forge couldn’t see her.

  “Frosty,” Forge said, the hum of challenge in his voice. “So nice of you to visit. I’ve been chatting with Angela…thinking about giving you a bit of competition on the suitor front.”

  Rikar’s pale eyes went icy, then sparked, making his irises glow.

  Angela swallowed. Oh, so not good. Rikar in a snit was one thing, but in full-on lethal mode? That was something she didn’t want to see.

  “Isn’t that right, lass?” Giving the tin of shortbread a shove, Forge sent his snack spinning toward the back of cell. The container bumped against the wall, and he pushed to his feet, taking a step toward them. As the invisible barrier snapped, the collar around his neck beeped in warning. “We’ve been planning your future.”

  Frost gathered, coating Rikar’s temples, blowing arctic air into her face as he spun to face Forge.

  “Knock it off, Forge,” she said, trying to dial down the frost factor. Seeing more of Rikar’s back now than the prisoner, she peeked around his shoulder. He widened his stance, trying to block her. Angela gave in to the childish urge and rolled her eyes. Uh-huh, right. As if she needed protection from a guy locked behind a force field with a dog collar around his throat. “You’re being an idiot…not helpful.”

  “Never said I’d help, Ange,” Forge said, purring her nickname like a lover.

  Angela winced. Well, crap…just crap. The jerk was obviously angling for the Stupidest Move in History Award, because winding Rikar up to watch him go wasn’t the best move. Unless, of course, the guy wanted to get his head ripped off.

  A distinct possibility, considering—

  Rikar snarled, cranking his fists tight.

  Ah, hell. “Rikar…don’t. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

  “Oh, come on, angel,” Forge said, borrowing Rikar’s endearment for her. A wicked gleam in his eyes, he rolled his shoulders, getting ready for the fight he was trying to start. “Admit it. I’m the better male. You’ll be happier with me.”