Fury of Seduction

by Coreene Callahan

  Mecca for a hungry male.

  And he wasn’t alone. Wick and Venom had already made the trip. Per usual, the two sat side by side, Venom’s arm slung over the back of Wick’s chair. Wick growled a greeting. Mac nodded, making eye contact, getting plugged by the male’s golden gaze in return. Venom he ignored, doing the usual as he pretended the guy didn’t exist. It was either that or load a matched pair of Sigs and shoot the obstinate jack-off.

  Ruby-red eyes trained on him, Venom followed his progress along the opposite side of the table. “About frigging time, fledgling.”

  “Stow it, dickhead,” he said, resigned to the grind. Venom always came at him hard, like a sidewinder with fangs bared and poison rising. No trust. No faith. Just in-your-face aggression. Mac understood it to a certain extent. He was new and unproven, still unstable in a lot of ways and a potential minefield to the warriors Venom considered his to protect—the possessive SOB. “I’m here, so fuck off.”

  Venom shifted in his chair. Wick grabbed his forearm, keeping him seated as B yelled, “Yo, Sloan...unplug, man. Time to eat.”

  “In a sec,” Sloan said, sounding distracted.

  Uh-oh. Not good. He knew that tone. And whenever Sloan—resident computer genius, hacker of impenetrable databases—used it, shit usually hit the fan. Mac changed course and headed for the living room. Chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as the wonder twins pushed away from the table. As he bypassed the massive double-sided fireplace separating the two rooms, Bastian rolled in on his six.

  Sitting on the back of the couch, shitkickers planted on the seat cushion, MacBook on his thighs, Sloan looked up as the entire crew filed into the room. Shaved head displaying his mocha-colored skin, he pegged Mac with dark eyes and an intense look. “We got a problem.”

  “We?” Mac skirted the ass end of the sofa. He wanted a sneak peek at what was playing on the computer screen. “Or me?”

  “Both.”

  Rikar’s eyes narrowed. “Put it on-screen.”

  Fingers flying, Sloan remote accessed the lair’s cyber network. A second later the wall of plasma TVs flipped on. A few more keystrokes and...eureka. The six o’clock news started playing, pain-in-the-ass reporter Clarissa Newton front and center on-screen, talking about police corruption. And joy of joys, Mac’s sudden disappearance from the Seattle scene.

  “Jesus help me,” Mac muttered.

  “The little witch,” his partner said at the same time. Hazel eyes glued to the screen, Angela slipped beneath Rikar’s arm, snuggled into his side, and scowled at the reporter. “Never could stand her.”

  Per usual, Angela was bang on. Witch summed it up nicely. The powder-puff reporter had been a problem for them while working cases with the SPD. And now? Here she was again, poking her nose where it didn’t belong, smearing his good name, accusing him of a cover-up.

  Him, for fuck’s sake. The straightest, least corrupt cop on the entire frickin’ force.

  Flexing his hands, Mac unclenched his teeth and forced tense muscles to relax. No sense getting bent out of shape about a reputation that didn’t matter anymore. So what. Big deal. Screw the humans and their idiot assumptions. Still, a mess was a mess, and this one needed to be cleaned up before the reporter got too close to the truth. He glanced at Bastian. “We need to find Newton—”

  Glass shattered, splintering against the floor with a crash.

  “Oh no.” One hand covering her mouth, a broken water pitcher at her feet, Myst stared at the TV.

  Mac’s attention snapped back to the screen. His heart went jackrabbit. Caught fast by the image, he froze, hands and feet going numb, breath locked in his throat.

  Mother of God. Her. His dream girl decked out by high definition, giving an interview to the cream-puff reporter.

  “Tania,” he growled, sounding more animal than human.

  And no wonder. His dragon half stood at attention, instincts rising as need dragged him toward her. The closer he got to the screen, the more powerful the longing became.

  Mine.

  The word—possessive, territorial, and...mind-torquing terrible—echoed inside his head. Desperation turned the screw, twisting him tight, and as yearning took hold, he struggled to stay even. To hold on to the self-imposed exile he’d clung to all his life and the emotional distance that insulated him from the inevitable pain of betrayal. But not anymore. The sight of her made detachment impossible.

  “Bastian,” Myst whispered, fear in her violet eyes, face gone pale. “If we’re watching this, so are the Razorbacks. If Ivar gets a hold of her, he’ll...oh God, he’ll...you have to find her first.”

  A quick about-face. Two long strides and Bastian reached his mate. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close and held her tight. “I will. Don’t worry, bellmia. I’ll find her.” Nestling his cheek against the top of Myst’s head, B nailed Sloan with shimmering green eyes. “How much time?”

  “Sun sets in an hour.”

  The time frame cranked Mac into overdrive. Tearing his gaze from Tania’s face, he growled, “I’m going with you.”

  Rikar cursed.

  B shook his head. “Mac—”

  “No one touches her but me.” He drilled his commander with a glare, daring Bastian to contradict him. Let him try. The male might be big, but he wouldn’t get far. “Any of you go near her...I’ll rip your heads off.”

  No contest. He didn’t give a damn about protocol or the chain of command. The how and why of his reaction to Tania didn’t matter. She belonged to him. He would protect her at all costs. End of story.

  As the prisoners left single file, Tania waved at her sister. Dark as a raven’s wing, J.J.’s long hair shimmered as she tipped her chin, returning her good-bye. Love mixed with envy. She loved her sibling, no question. But honestly, she’d always coveted her sister’s pin-straight do. And wonder of wonders? J.J. still dreamed of one day having her wavy J. Lo–like locks.

  Strange, wasn’t it? To want what you didn’t have.

  Today, though, Tania didn’t want to change a thing. She felt grateful for the first time in, well...she didn’t know how long. Forever maybe? It seemed like a stretch—like an exaggeration without end—but it wasn’t. Not after all she and J.J. had suffered together. And now, in the fading light of the closing day, bright and shining hope came calling. Finally something good had come home to roost. Knocked on their collective doors...whatever. The analogy didn’t matter.

  The letter in her back pocket, however? That mattered a heck of a lot. Meant everything and more as she watched her sister disappear from view. To return to her cell, nothing but a number printed neatly on the top of a prison file folder.

  Well, not anymore. Parole. God help her...parole!

  She rechecked the back pocket of her jeans. The piece of paper was still there. Snug. Secure. Safe from nosey parkers and away from prying eyes. Just how her sister wanted it. Too bad, really. Had it been her, she would’ve wanted to keep the letter with her...to read it over and over, early in the morning, late at night, between meals and trips to the prison yard, until the shock wore off and the contents began to feel real. Like a serious possibility instead of a homespun dream.

  But it wasn’t her neck on the line. And if her sister thought smuggling the paper out of the prison would keep her safe, Tania refused to argue. Squabbling, after all, took time, which was something she didn’t have. Not right now.

  Spinning toward the door, Tania hightailed it out of the visitor center. She needed to get to her cell phone and make a call ASAP. Before she sank any deeper into trouble. Before bad became worse. Before that stupid interview on KING channel 5 news went live and she screwed up J.J. for good.

  Worry streamed through her, hitching her heartbeat into a gallop. Feet moving rapid-fire, Tania crossed the threshold into the waiting room. Without an abrupt “excuse me,” she breezed by a woman with a bad perm and, ignoring the dirty look thrown her way, skidded up to the guard booth. An exchange took place, the plastic claim tag she held
in return for the officer’s scowl and her oversize handbag. She swung her purse off its perch. The monstrosity knocked against her thigh, throwing her off balance for a second. As she shuffled sideways and turned toward the exit, she blew out a long breath. Downsizing in the handbag department sounded like a good idea, and after this? She would go smaller. Become more practical on the fashion front and less, well...ridiculous for lack of a better word.

  Slinging the Versace over her shoulder, she beat feet and, retracing her steps, headed for the front door. She needed to make the call outside. Prison walls had ears, so no question. The farther away she got from the guards and their snoop-o-meters, the better.

  Boot heels ringing in the corridor, she unzipped her bag and dug for her iPhone. Stalling the reporter was mission critical. Vital for more reasons than one. Not the first of which involved keeping the SPD happy. Pissing off a bunch of cops, after all, wasn’t the best idea.

  Tania shook her head. What the hell had she been thinking? Well, all right. Dumb question. She knew the what along with the why. Myst was still out there, alone, probably scared, and in need of help. The kind only the SPD could provide, but somehow it had all gone sideways, not to mention upside down and backward. The brilliant plan to save her best friend had backfired on her sister. J.J. couldn’t afford the police attention. Not after killing the younger brother of one of SPD’s finest.

  Which meant...

  Yup, you guessed it.

  Big brother cop would show up at the parole hearing if he got wind of it. A first-rate asshole, the guy didn’t care that his brother had been a bad guy—a drug-dealing, abusive jerk with nothing better to do than hurt her sister. Nor did he give a damn that J.J. was a good person who’d gotten caught up in a bad situation and made a big mistake. Blood ran thicker than water, and the bonehead would muck up J.J’s chances just for the fun of it.

  Going round two with the inside of her bag, Tania frowned. Where the heck was it? She could have sworn she’d pocketed her cell phone before leaving—

  “Ah, jeez,” she said, slowing from speed walk to stop. Rooted to the floor in the middle of the corridor, Tania tipped her head back and closed her eyes. The name-calling came next. “I’m an idiot. A total freaking schizo.”

  She’d plugged in her iPhone for a quick recharge while she’d used the landline, then forgotten it. On the kitchen counter. Again. It happened at least once a week. But unlike those times, she didn’t have the luxury of turning around and driving back to her apartment. And a two-hour drive to collect her cell phone? Just plain stupid on the strategy front.

  With a sigh, Tania flipped her bag shut and made for the exit. As her feet picked up the pace, she rethought her plan. A forgotten iPhone wasn’t the end of the world. She might not have her contact list at her fingertips just this second, but her iPad sat in her car, waiting to be used. God, she hoped she’d synced the thing lately. Otherwise she wouldn’t have the reporter’s phone number or contact information.

  Cold metal chilled her palm as Tania pushed through the prison’s front door. Thunder boomed overhead. Her brows collided. Weird. Another storm, one more violent than the one that had rolled through on her drive up to Gig Harbor. She glanced skyward, squinting when lightning forked, stroking the underbelly of angry clouds. The first raindrop splattered the concrete steps in front of her. Not wasting a second, she jogged past the perfect flower beds and down the stairs.

  Halfway across the parking lot, a truck engine roared to life, the deep rumble joining another round of thunder. Flashing bright white, high-beam headlights lit up the pavement in front of her. A prickle of warning ghosted along her spine. Tania ignored it and, head down, angled her body against the autumn wind gusts.

  She needed to grab her iPad and get over to the hotel, into her room, and on the phone. The sooner she reached Gig Harbor and nailed down the reporter, the safer her sister would be.

  Chapter Six

  A curse echoed down the stairwell behind him. Mac didn’t slow down. Or bother to look back, either. He hauled ass, arms and legs pumping, combat boots hammering the stair treads as he descended into the bowels of Black Diamond. The landing zone. He needed to reach the LZ first...wanted to be in dragon form and airborne before Rikar got hold of him.

  Or tried to ground him for the night.

  Reaching the landing between flights, he grabbed the steel railing and pulled into the turn. Taut muscle stretched. Pain screamed up his arm and across his chest as the soles of his boots slid against the floor, slingshotting him onto the next set of stairs. Another flight down. More ground-eating strides. Each of his footfalls echoed, joining the slam-bang of shitkickers worn by the warriors chasing him down the stairwell.

  The second he cleared the last corner, Mac went airborne, leaping over the last section of treads. Wind whistled in his ears. He landed at the bottom with a bone-jarring thud, feet sliding on the polished concrete of the next landing.

  Two flights behind and playing catch-up, Rikar dropped another f-bomb. Mac ignored him. His XO could go to hell, along with the unhappy collection of kick-ass hot on his heels.

  Screw ’em all.

  To hell with protocol. To hell with his fledgling status and the fact he couldn’t cloak himself yet. Tania was out there somewhere: alone, vulnerable, easy prey for Ivar and the Razorbacks. No way would he sit on his hands inside the lair and do nothing. Not while the other Nightfuries went out and hunted for her. Not when he could find her faster.

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Loaded with pissed off, the growl sliced through the cool air. Bastian. Terrific. Just what he didn’t need: the Nightfury commander in on the chase, watching him break rank and disregard a direct order. Mac gritted his teeth. No doubt about it. The second B got hold of him he was in for a serious ass kicking. The trick, though...the ace up his sleeve? Don’t get caught. Get good and ghost—out of the lair and airborne—before the other warriors laid hands on him.

  Rikar hollered at him. “Mac...hold up a second!”

  His XO’s voice reverberated in the enclosed space, ping-ponging off stone walls and polished concrete. Mac glanced over his shoulder. Shit. Not good. Rikar was closing in fast, leading the other warriors roaring down the stairs behind him like an organized hurricane, glacial eyes glowing, expression set, his I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up attitude locked in place.

  Jesus. He probably should back down. Talk Rikar into letting him go instead of pulling a flash-and-fly. Mac upped his pace instead. He couldn’t chance it. If anyone else touched Tania—another member of his pack, a Razorback—he would...

  Lose it. Go totally freaking AWOL.

  Which was so messed up.

  Being territorial and possessive wasn’t his usual MO. He didn’t do commitment, never mind the hassles that came with it. But he couldn’t deny the pull that drew him into Tania’s sphere, telling him she was his responsibility. That he needed to keep her safe. And along with the mind-fuck of obsession came the sensation. Like a blip on a radar screen, her bioenergy lit him up, plugging him in until he felt the throb of her heartbeat in his veins. And as it pounded on him like a drum, Mac tossed his normally nonchalant attitude and abandoned his principles.

  Sayonara, scruples. Hello, insanity.

  Heartbeat raging against the wall of his chest, Mac shook his head, trying to clear it. He took the next flight three stairs at a time. His teeth slammed together as he launched himself off the next landing. Down...down...down. His shitkickers bang-bang-banging. Maybe if he jarred himself badly enough, knocked some brain cells together, he’d understand.

  His reaction—the pressing need to shield Tania—didn’t make any sense. Only bonded males reacted to a woman this way. How did he know? Dragon combat training. It wasn’t just about physical prowess and aptitude. Forge expected him to hit the books too. And he had...hard, wanting to learn everything he could about Dragonkind and his magic. So, yeah, he knew exactly how a male acted—and reacted—when energy-fuse took hold. Shit, he lived with two prime exampl
es inside Black Diamond every damned day.

  His commander and his XO epitomized the bonded male crap: protective, loving, considerate to the point of Pukesville. Now, it seemed, he’d landed in the same muck hole. Nothing else explained his desperation. Or the fact he could feel her.

  Except...

  Mac frowned. How was that even possible?

  Energy-fuse didn’t just happen. The emotional pairing was difficult to achieve. So rare the knowledge of it had been lost over time, until Bastian rediscovered the bond with his chosen female. Now Rikar and Angela enjoyed the energy mating too. Fantastic in so many ways. Not the least of which was the fact Mac got to keep Ange in his life—his sister by choice if not blood. But his partner’s luck with her man didn’t explain Mac’s reaction to Tania. Energy-fuse required a couple of things. One...acceptance from a male’s notoriously fickle dragon half. And two? Contact. A male needed to get close to a female; so close skin met skin and passion exploded as he tapped into the Meridian through her, feeding from the electrostatic current that kept his kind healthy.

  Excellent in theory. The problem? He’d never touched Tania. Had never been close enough to kiss her, never mind make love to her.

  More’s the pity.

  ’Cause, wow...he thought about it. A lot. And his dreams? Oh baby. Nothing PG about them. Hot, sweaty, so beautifully satisfying the images of him entwined with Tania seemed real, like memories instead of fantasies. God, sometimes he swore he could taste her; he actually relived the softness of her skin, the decadence of her scent as she moaned his name and begged him for more.