Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)
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Chapter Nineteen He tasted like fine whiskey and hot sex. A combination she loved. Nothing wrong with a single malt after work. Probably something wrong with having hot sex with Forge. But with his mouth on hers as he backed her across the gym, Hope couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t try to look behind her. She didn’t ask where he was taking her. Or what he intended. None of it mattered. The moment he kissed her, the outside world fell away. All that remained was him—the wild taste of him, the heady feel of him, the delight as he dragged her so far under she couldn’t catch her breath. The idea of rethinking her decision disappeared. It was done. Over. A lost cause. Ethics thrown under the bus along with her ability to say no. She’d gone and done it. No second-guessing necessary. Hope didn’t want to change her mind. She’d already tossed caution to the wind and said yes. Might as well commit. Might as well go with the flow. Might as well enjoy the ride and reap the reward. Tangli
Chapter Twenty Stretching out his shoulders, Forge turned left into the corridor and strode toward the clinic. Hardwood floors gave way to smooth concrete floors. The high polish gleamed dark gray as the round lights embedded in the floor threw splashes of light onto granite walls. Chisel marks stood in stark relief against the pale paint, reminding him of home and his painful history. Bowing his head, Forge cupped the back of his skull. He pressed down. His chin touched his chest. Taut muscles squawked. He kept his feet moving, knees bending, bare soles whispering in the quiet, pace steady despite his tension. Goddamn history. The past never left him alone. As unrelenting as a hungry wolf, it circled, making him recall the good times, taunting him with the bad. Not that he could remember all of it. Which made him want to forget all the more. A picture of Hope rose in his mind. Forge shook his head. Guess forgetting wasn’t an option anymore. No sense turning away from the truth. Sooner
Chapter Twenty-One Standing in the antechamber connected to his laboratory, Ivar tapped his fingertips against the keyboard space bar. The bank of monitors mounted to the wall woke up, the prompt for his password an island surrounded by an ocean of blue screen. He stared at it a moment, worry sitting like a hair ball in the pit of his stomach. He’d landed less than five minutes ago. The instant the timer on his watch went off, and the first round of Dragonkind Olympics had concluded, he’d dragged Hamersveld out of the hot tub and flown home. The male wasn’t happy. Ivar didn’t care. His XO needed to get his head screwed on straight. Choosing males to breed his HE females when the Meridian realigned might be important, but the development of his antiviral drug took precedence. Females were dying—babies, toddlers, teenagers, mothers or not. The virus he’d released in Granite Falls didn’t discriminate. Which meant, as much fun as the competition was turning out to be . . . Playtime was ove
Chapter Twenty-Two Crouched atop a ridge on Bainbridge Island, Forge looked out over Puget Sound. City lights winked in the distance. Waves crested and rolled in the bay, merging with unseen undercurrents before flowing past Seattle and out to sea. The icy swirl threw damp tendrils into the air, coating his scales with water, obscuring his vision with fog, making his unease keep time with frothing whitecaps. Refolding his wings, he adjusted his stance for what seemed like the thousandth time. Raising a paw, he flexed his talons. Black, razor-sharp tips gleamed in the moon-glow. The show of strength didn’t temper his worry. The relentless shift and shuffle didn’t settle him either. Step closer to the edge of the cliff. Climb to the row of boulders above the beach below him. Hop back down. Resettle once more. No matter what he did—or how often he changed position—nothing eased the disquiet. Not surprising in the grand scheme of things. Waiting always set his teeth on edge. So did sitting
Chapter Twenty-Three Folding his wings, Ivar fell out of the sky. Dropping through thick clouds, he aimed for the break between rooftops, pointing his paws toward the expansive lawn below. Wind blasted over his scales. The rattle and shake soothed his temper, the chatter from the guards landing behind 28 Walton Street did not. Multiple paws set down, crushing frozen grass under-talon. A spiked tail clipped one of the rusty oil tanks sitting in his appalling excuse for a backyard. The quiet clank annoyed the hell out of him. Bad form, he knew. He swallowed a growl along with his irritation. His soldiers weren’t doing anything wrong. In fact, each male was doing it just right. Getting a gold star. Receiving an A-plus in the procedure department—whatever (who the fuck cared?)—as the pack went about the usual business of arriving home: folding wings, shifting into human form, gathering at the rear entrance . . . waiting for him to set down. Different night, same routine. No one entered the
Chapter Twenty-Four Head bowed, dressed in his ceremonial robe, Zidane knelt in the middle of the sacred chamber. Hewn from solid granite, the circular room lay at the heart of the mountain. Hot water flowed through channels carved into the rock wall, streaming into a pool flanked by ancient stone stairs. Steam writhed around him, dancing like ghosts as sweat trickled over his nape, down his back, making the heavy fabric stick to his skin. His fire dragon loved the attention, all the inferno-like heat. His mood, however, continued to deteriorate. Hands fisted at his back, Zidane gritted his teeth. Kristus help him. He hated religious ceremonies. The shit-show always went on forever. And now, after an hour of being locked in the chamber, he couldn’t stave off the discomfort. Or his annoyance. Everywhere he turned, something else irritated him—the stone floor digging into his shins, the cloud of jasmine clogging the air, the burn in his lungs, the ritualized chant making his temples thro
Chapter Twenty-Five The chocolate mousse tasted so good, it nearly killed Hope when her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Alone in the kitchen, elbows planted on the massive center island, she peered into the empty dish. All gone. None left. She frowned. Well, mostly. A few streaks of dark chocolate remained, marring white china, taunting her with the promise of another bite. God, that would be good. The absolute best given the guilt banging around inside her head . . . and her heart. Death by chocolate. The proposition sounded fantastic right now. Giving her spoon a lick, Hope glanced around the kitchen. Pale walls gave way to designer cabinets and an ocean of Carrara marble countertops. A host of halogens spotlit the six-burner gas stove and all the details most people missed. But not her. Hope saw every little thing: the quality of the construction, each perfectly mitered corner, the precision of the paint job. Everything in its proper place. Nothing to provoke criticism. The ki
Chapter Twenty-Six Bare feet cooling on mosaic tile, Hope pulled the blanket over the tops of her shoulders as Forge backed away. Her focus on his face, she crisscrossed the corners, gathering the wool in her fists, and pressed the soft fleecy side to her skin. The preemptive strike against the chill didn’t help. Without his warmth surrounding her, cold air attacked, shivering up her spine. He took another step away. And then another, leaving her standing alone in the center of the circular room. Unease slithered in, winding her so tight she felt fragile. Almost brittle. Seconds away from breaking. The internal turmoil clued her in, jump-starting her brain. Her mind spun, hopping from one thought to the next. Something was wrong. Terrible, in point of fact. After what she’d witnessed—and how he’d made her feel: close and connected, needed and valued, loved and cherished—his retreat signaled trouble. All right, so the dream sequence (dragon attack . . . whatever!) worried her. So did he
Chapter Twenty-Seven Boots planted on the edge of the basketball court inside the gym, Forge searched for his female in the chaos. His gaze jumped over Sloan and Bastian. Heads together, bent over a computer, the pair commiserated, yakking about God knew what and . . . shite. He didn’t care. Not right now. Not with Hope in the wind and—fucking hell. He turned his back for one second and she disappeared. Scampered from view. Made herself scarce . . . whatever. His brow furrowed, he leaned right, looked past Haider and Nian, ignored Wick’s raised brow and Venom’s knowing grin. He scowled. Where the hell— The sound of her voice cranked his head around. He found her in less than a second. Back to being quiet, she sat cross-legged on an exercise
mat with the other females. Chin tilted down, she dragged her hands through her strawberry blond hair. A quick twist of her fingers. A faster flash of an elastic, and she tamed the unruly mass, imprisoning the strands in a messy bun atop her head. A
Chapter Twenty-Eight Tucked against Forge’s side, Hope stepped off the elevator. The movement jarred her. Her senses jangled, making her temples throb and her whole body hurt. Clenching her teeth, she took a deep breath and looked around, trying to get her bearings, allowing Forge to lead, struggling to stop the blinding whirl inside her head. But nothing she tried worked. The tumbling force inside her tightened its grip. One mental revolution spun into another. Now her mind burned and the awful buzz spread, infecting muscles and bone, bringing tears to her eyes. Hope blinked each away, but . . . God. She couldn’t stop the mental blur. The whiplash slashed her. No relief in sight. No safe port in the storm. Just the roar in her veins and the splinter of once-organized thoughts. “F-forge?” “Shh, jalâyla. We’re almost there.” Almost where? She wanted to ask him, but as her vision blurred, the hardwood floor beneath her feet warped. Her knees dipped. She stumbled. Forge cursed and, withou
Chapter Twenty-Nine Crouched in front of the dresser in her room, Hope reached into the bottom drawer. She nudged her boxing gloves aside. Bypassed her favorite skipping rope. Shoved a pile of workout clothes out of the way. Her fingertips brushed the box she’d hidden at the very back. Heartsore, still reeling from Daimler’s disapproval, she hesitated a second, palm pressed to the warped wooden top, wondering if she should just leave well enough alone. Some things deserved a quiet death. Her childhood was no doubt one of them, but as memories called to her, she couldn’t resist. Or turn away. She pulled the box out instead and, with a slow pivot, turned toward the bed. The thick duvet with pretty blue stars lay flat and smooth, the picture of perfection with its mound of pillows as she walked toward it, and into the teeth of her future. A funny thought, particularly since the past lay heavy in her hands. Not that it mattered. The juxtaposition, the span between then and now had shrunk.
Acknowledgments It took awhile for me to write Fury of Surrender, the sixth novel in the Dragonfury Series. Longer than I expected. I ran into one roadblock after another in the writing of it. Sometimes, I’ve learned, that happens to a writer. Life gets in the way, on purpose, forcing us to refocus, shining a brighter light on all we strive to accomplish. I learned a lot from Forge and Hope. Most of it about forgiveness and being as kind to yourself as you’ve been taught to be to others. Time well spent. Lessons well learned. And a book I absolutely adore. I hope you enjoy Fury of Surrender as much as I have and still do. Hugs, and happy reading! Tremendous thanks to my literary agent, Christine Witthohn: for your patience and encouragement over the last year, for shepherding me when I thought I’d lost my way. You are, without a doubt, the best of the best. Many thanks to my editors, Anh Schluep and Jennifer Glover, for taking the words on the page and making Fury of Surrender into a f
About the Author Photo © 2009 Julie Daniluk Coreene Callahan is the bestselling author of the Dragonfury novels and Circle of Seven Series, in which she combines her love of romance and adventure with her passion for history. After graduating with honors in psychology and taking a detour to work in interior design, Coreene finally returned to her first love: writing. Her debut novel, Fury of Fire, was a finalist in the New Jersey Romance Writers Golden Leaf Contest in two categories: Best First Book and Best Paranormal. She lives in Canada with her family, a spirited Great Pyrenees mix, and her wild imaginary world. Visit her online at www.CoreeneCallahan.com and on Twitter @coreenecallahan.
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
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 inside the home he shared with the other Nightfury dragon warriors. Was accustomed to seeing the tidy show of wealth, so no need to be pissed off by it. Not today, or ever, except . . .
He didn’t know how else to stem the growing tide of unease.
Like a tidal wave, worry washed in. The force of it rolled over him, slowing his pace, clogging his throat, making him yearn for the safety of his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much. A quick pivot. A minute or two of walking. A solid door between him and what he’d learned to fear over the last week and a half.
Forge shook his head. Nay. No way. Not now. He wasn’t a coward and refused to run. Not after forcing himself to step over the threshold and close the door behind him. The thud of the wooden edge against the jamb had seemed final. He wanted it to be final. Needed it to be. No more hiding. No more avoiding. No more holding it in until he thought he might burst at the seams.
Onward. Upward. To his own death if necessary.
Gaze glued
to the framed Matisse hanging at the end of the hall, Forge struggled to keep his legs moving. But it was hard. His feet felt heavy, each stride taking real effort. Bend knee. Lift foot. Move forward. His boot sole said hello to the floor. A second later, the other landed.
One step, two step, three step, four.
The counting didn’t help.
He muttered each number aloud anyway, walking toward the elevator that would take him into the underground lair. A few more bedroom doors to pass, and he’d be there, facing off with a steel cage he didn’t want to enter. Not that he’d been given much choice, but as his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor, a hollow spot opened behind his breastbone. The usual ache settled in and built a home, making him wonder if Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was right.
Forge frowned. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe all he needed was time. A little R & R. A slice of respite, the chance to catch his breath, open his mind wider, and remember.
He fisted his hands. His knuckles cracked under the strain. The snap ’n pop broke through the quiet and—Christ help him. He hated that word: remember. It sounded so simple. Reach in, grab hold, and pull the information out of his mind. Easy-peasy. Nothing complicated about it. But no matter how many times he tried to retrieve the memory, he came away empty handed. Zero information. Few visual clues, a dark hole where recollection should live.