Mac palmed the nape of his neck. “You okay?”
“Aye,” he said, voice steady, lying like an accomplished sociopath. Glancing sideways, he nailed Mac with an intense look. “Keep me out of V-fib.”
“It won’t come to that.” His friend gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Not tonight.”
“Your word.”
“You have it.”
Hard-core commitment in three little words. An oath between warriors.
Nothing trumped it. But as the glass door slid open and Forge stepped into the clinic, heart pounding, fear rising, uncertainty gathering like storm clouds, he started to pray. A little ask. A lot of faith, hoping he managed to walk out again unscathed. Any other day it wouldn’t have mattered. Bashed up and bruised, bleeding like a sieve—who the hell cared? He owned skills, handled whatever the enemy threw at him. Tonight, however, his prowess in a fight meant nothing. The challenge he faced involved a laundry list of variables he couldn’t control. The biggest of which stood across the room: arms crossed, shoulders pressed to the wall, expression neutral as he looked him over.
Forge stared back, refusing to show weakness.
Silence stretched. Bastian held his gaze. A full minute passed before his commander pushed away from the wall. He rolled one shoulder, then the other, the movement designed to break the tension as he moved across the clinic.
Not that it did the same for Forge.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Each step B took cranked him tighter. A paradox. A real kick in the arse. Particularly since he liked the Nightfury commander. Respected the hell out of him too. Bastian might exude a brutal amount of vicious, but he was a true leader of males: cunning, caring, lethal when it counted. The closer he came, though, the harder the invisible strings pulled, making Forge feel as though he’d been stretched tight on a rack.
The chair between them, B stopped a few feet away. “Ready?”
One word. A simple question delivered in a quiet voice. Nothing threatening about it, but . . . bloody everlasting hell. Forge clenched his teeth. Nay. He wasn’t ready. Never would be either.
Pride wouldn’t let him admit it. So instead of telling the truth, he stepped toward the chair. “Aye.”
A snort sounded to his right. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
The remark snapped his head around. His eyes narrowed on Rikar. “Fuck off, Frosty. No one asked you.”
Leaning against the prep counter, Rikar chuckled. “There he is—all fire, brimstone, and pissy attitude. Thank God. I was worried for a moment.”
Teeth clenched, Forge glared at his XO. “How much time do we have, B—enough tae beat the shite out of him before we get started?”
“There we go.” Frost dragon out in full force, snowflakes tumbled over his shoulders as Rikar grinned. “Now he’s ready.”
Bastian’s lips twitched. “Afterward, Forge. I’ll even hold him down for you.”
“Two against one,” Rikar murmured, interest lighting his eyes. “Unfair.”
“But necessary.” Abandoning his position by the door, Mac stopped alongside him. He treated Forge to an affectionate slap. Skin stinging beneath his T-shirt, his upper body rocked forward. The loud whap bounced off the walls as Mac tossed a perturbed look in Rikar’s direction. “Last time you fought dirty. Nearly froze my balls off before I got ahold of you.”
“I love fighting dirty,” Rikar said with an unapologetic smile.
Mac growled. “Next time I’m bringing a blowtorch.”
“Better make it a Flame Thrower,” Bastian said, his gaze on Mac. He frowned. Mac stiffened, and Forge sensed the silent tug-of-war. The clash of wills set up shop inside the room, making the rounds, giving B’s thoughts away, an argument entitled: Time for fledgling warriors to leave for safer surroundings. “Mac—”
“I’m staying.”
Rikar glanced at B. After getting a nod, the Nightfury XO turned his attention to Mac. Uncrossing his arms, he pushed away from the counter. “I know you think you can handle it, Mac, but it’s best if you leave. Once the session starts, we won’t be able to control the magic. It’ll detonate. You’re not experienced enough yet to channel the whiplash. You’ll end up getting hurt.” Rikar gave Mac a pointed look. “Wait outside.”
Mac shook his head, refusing to back down.
Bastian cursed.
Forge jumped into the breach. “Mac stays.”
“Fucking hell,” Rikar muttered, icy eyes meeting his from beneath lowered brows.
“He’s strong enough,” he said, holding his ground, wielding his authority as Mac’s mentor, giving his friend a vote of confidence. Aye, it was risky. But then, danger didn’t discriminate. Everyone involved risked injury—him included—considering the warriors in the room and the potent magic each possessed. The influx would be brutal, the energy blast so massive most males wouldn’t be able to withstand it, but . . . too late to back out now. He’d given Mac his word and intended to keep it. “He stays—for now.”
“Shit.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Bastian shook his head. “Not a good idea.”
“Give me a little credit, B. I know what I’m doing.”
Bastian grumbled something inaudible.
Rikar sighed, but gave in. “Your call.”
Aye, it was, along with setting the ground rules. “Rikar?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s your responsibility,” Forge said, laying out his wishes. Promise or nay, he would only risk his friend so far. The second Mac faltered, he expected Rikar to do what he wouldn’t be able to while deep in mind regression—shield Mac from harm. “Throw him into the hallway if it gets tae intense.”
“You got it,” Rikar said, cracking his knuckles.
Mac scowled. “Motherfuck.”
“No arguments, Irish.” Reaching out, he shoved his friend. Mac stumbled sideways. Forge walked toward the chair. “You want tae be here, you follow the rules.”
Mutiny on his face, Mac nodded.
Forge tipped his chin in acknowledgment. Good enough. One pissed-off water dragon pinned down. Time to get the show on the road. Or rather, his arse in the hot seat.
Feet planted beside the chair he hated more than Razorbacks, Forge grasped the headrest. Leather whispered against his palm. A chill chased uncertainty down his spine. He pushed it aside, refusing to allow fear to take hold, and sat down. Black boots stark against tan upholstery, he settled in.
Metal creaked.
The chair groaned beneath his weight.
Taking a fortifying breath, Forge leaned forward and grabbed one of the ankle shackles. The first went on quick. The second made his hands tremble. Flexing his fingers, he finished feeding the strap through its holder. Glancing to his left, he held out his arm, offered his hand, asking Rikar for help without words. With a nod, his XO buckled him in, working with stark efficiency to secure the cuffs around both wrists.
Forge tested the bonds. Thick, smooth leather pulled at his skin. Panic threatened. His heart started to pound, hammering the inside of his breastbone. A large hand landed on his shoulder. Reacting to the slight pressure, he sat back, allowing the chair to support him, and looked up.
Serious green eyes met his.
“Easy, brother.” Palm pressed over Forge’s heart, Bastian gave him a reassuring pat. “I’ll start slow. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Relax into it. It’s all good. You’re safe here.”
Safe. Right. He wanted to argue, rip the shackles off, and call bullshite. Self-preservation told him to do it. Duty refused to let him. He’d volunteered. Forge huffed. Shite. He’d spent the better part of three days convincing Bastian it was the only way. His commander hadn’t wanted to risk it but, in the end, relented. He knew what Forge did—mind regression remained the best and only way to get the information the Nightfuries needed, so . . . aye, no choice. Time to double down and trust B to control the fallout.
Fighting instinct, Forge forced his eyes closed.
Bastian started talking. About no
thing important. Little things. Everyday happenings in the lair: his mate, the baby growing inside her, the son he couldn’t wait to hold. The inflection of his voice remained consistent, the deep timbre smooth and even, no jagged undertones or spikes of intonation. Just the relaxed tone of one male chatting with another.
Soothing. Calming. Velvety sound mixed with a reassuring beat of blended syllables.
Magic flared inside the room.
Heat blazed a trail down his spine.
Taut muscles released.
Forge breathed out. Breathed in. Each inhalation a steady draw, every exhalation a relief. His heart slowed, thumping a sluggish beat inside his chest. Prickles crept down his arms. His fingertips twitched. A sinking feeling took hold. The chair, then the room, dropped away, leaving him floating above the floor. Words came again, sounding far away as hands slid over his nape, then settled, cupping the back of his skull.
The intrusion into his space made him flinch.
The voice murmured a reassurance.
Deep between layers of consciousness, Forge paused mid-breath to think about it: fight or accept. Push the hands away or ease into the cradle of them. The first option seemed like the best. His dragon half disliked the invasion, wanted him to shred the shackles and break free. The other half of him, however, urged him to make the leap. He knew the voice, trusted the male, and half-conscious or not—more out of it than in—Forge understood the silent message. He could let go, allow his human side to lead and the warm, soupy waves to pull him under.
Total relaxation engulfed him.
All worry drifted away.
“Good. Now . . . ,” the voice said, touch growing firmer. Twin points of pressure gathered against his temples. Prickles ghosted along the sides of his head, immersing him in a cocoon of warm comfort. “You’re at home, inside the mountain lair, about to fly out for the night. Your brothers are there, your sire too . . . what’s happening, Forge?”
“Dragon combat,” he mumbled, the words slurred. “First shift. New tae me. Need training.”
The mesmerizing voice came again. “Show me.”
Magic streamed into his veins.
An odd vibration exploded inside his head. The tremor gathered speed, tumbling between his temples. His mind spun away. Images flared, brightening the dark screen on the forefront of his brain. Happy times. Treasured memories of his mother: her and his sire kissing in the kitchen, the laughter and warm hugs . . . the sugary scent of shortbread cookies as she pulled baking sheets from the oven.
Forge hummed in contentment. Hmm, shortbread. His absolute favorite. He loved the treats she made. Enjoyed beating his brothers to the kitchen and—
The scene shifted.
Pictures whirled across his mental landscape. The reel stopped, setting him down in another time and place.
No longer in the kitchen inside his mountain home, he stood outside, atop a cliff, bare skin steaming in the cold, toes an inch from the edge. He leaned forward and peered over the jagged outcropping. His mouth curved. Oh aye. A thousand feet up. Nothing but the brutal bite of winter wind between him and sharp stone protruding from the ground. Exhilaration pumped excitement through his veins. God, he couldn’t wait for his sire to give the word and say GO. He needed to shift into dragon form and spread his wings. Wanted to fly so badly he tasted the anticipation.
His sire whispered, “Now.”
Forge transformed. His body lengthened beneath the spread of dark-purple scales. He flexed his talons, testing his claws, then leapt into the void. The craggy face of Ben Nevis stared him down. Ignoring the mountain’s mood, he dropped into nothingness. Frigid air caught in the webbing of his wings, lifting his bulk into an updraft and the swirl of heavy snow.
He heard his brothers shout in approval.
Forge growled in answer, but didn’t look back. No need. He knew they followed. Sensed each male’s flight path, along with the one taken by his sire. Divide and conquer. Split the odds and attack from different directions. Forge bared his fangs, humming in enjoyment. It had begun—the training that would help him become a warrior. Satisfaction took hold, growing roots inside his heart as he banked hard, rocketing out of a mountain pass. Rough terrain gave way to rolling hills before meeting the edge of swampy moorlands. He scanned the horizon, hunting for his brothers, anticipating the first attack.
His sonar pinged.
Tingles streamed around his horns. The warning jarred him. His eyes narrowed. Strange, but . . . Forge frowned . . . something was off. Not quite right. The buzz in the air felt wrong somehow, nothing like the unique energy signals his brothers emitted. A shadow presence uncloaked in the corner of his mind. The dark form stepped forward and peered into the scene, trying to get a better look. Forge flinched, disliking the intrusion, but kept flying. He needed to know his brothers were safe. That whatever he sensed wasn’t what it seemed—a threat, the invasion of his pack’s territory. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the horizon, searching for the source.
Nothing and nobody. Except . . .
The wind died down. An unnatural stillness settled over the landscape. A torrent of energy flowed over the moor. Not understanding, Forge drifted toward a copse of oak trees. Over there. Somewhere. He was sure the signal was—
A fireball exploded across the night sky.
His brothers yelled his name. He glanced over his shoulder, hunting for them in the gloom. His temples throbbed. The outsider inside his mind moved closer. The fireball stopped mid-flight, pausing in the middle of his mental screen. With a snarl, his dragon woke and spun full circle. Eyes aglow, the beast locked onto the intruder. The shadow presence froze. The monster inside him bared its teeth.
A male started talking. Fast words. Smooth, even tone, calling on his human side.
Forge tried to reach it. He wanted to do as the voice commanded: stay inside the dream and his own head, not succumb to the beast inside him. But it was no use. The dragon had slipped from its cage. Now he rampaged, refusing to listen, roaring with rage and brutal intent. A surging wave of magic hit. Sound went cataclysmic. The boom shattered the screen inside his mind. The image exploded like broken glass, decimating him with shards of memory shrapnel.
Pain ripped through him.
Desperate to protect him, the beast shoved him aside and took over. Inferno-like wrath bled into his veins. Claws deployed, his dragon attacked the shadow figure, trying to burn him alive as his mind whiplashed and his body seized.
Chapter Two
Heart pounding like a motherfucker, Mac bared his teeth on a snarl. “Goddamn it, we’re losing him.”
Fear for his friend made his throat close and the words fade. He couldn’t help the vocal lockdown or stop his mental slide into panic. Forge was in serious trouble. Flaming out. Unconscious. In agony from the torque and tear of mind regression.
Working to stabilize him, struggling to hold him down, Mac gathered his magic. The spell sped through his mind. His water dragon half zeroed in—a kind of X marked the spot—before unleashing the magical torrent in a raging rush. A cool wash splashed through his veins. Rain gathered inside the clinic, coating the pale walls, flowing up instead of down. Mist settled on his skin. The waterworks focused him. He tunneled deeper, trying to connect with Forge through mind-speak, his voice spiraling into his friend’s psychological space.
Nothing.
No answer. No change in Forge at all.
The male plummeted into physical free fall instead, muscles seizing, heavy frame rattling, the slam-bang of his spine hammering the seat back. The chair shook, bouncing across the floor. Metal feet shrieked against concrete. The leather shackles restraining Forge groaned as he flailed. Mac cursed and dug in, tunneling deeper into Forge’s mental landscape. The tattoo he didn’t want, but couldn’t ignore, throbbed. Pain clawed over his shoulder. He shoved the discomfort aside. Not now. He couldn’t quit now. His friend needed him and—
He pumped more magic into Forge.
His mind bled energy, forcing everything he had i
nto his friend. The heavy chair frame shuddered. “Come on, buddy. I’m here. Grab hold, let me pull you out.” The words spun out of his skull to invade his friend’s. Forge gasped in agony. He arched in the chair, head thrown back, a silent scream locked in his throat. Mac held the line, but . . . holy shit. He needed help. A miracle or something to stop the onslaught and save his friend. Not an easy task as a seizure shoved Forge toward cardiac arrest. Exactly what he promised his friend wouldn’t happen.
Motherfuck. It was a nightmare. A goddamned nightmare. He’d given Forge his word nothing bad would happen. Now everything was upside down and backwards, with his mentor one breath away from a heart attack.
Tightening his hold on Forge, he snarled at Bastian. “Unhook, B. Let him go.”
“I’m trying. If I exit his mind too fast, I’ll damage his brain.” Both hands cupping the sides of Forge’s head, fingertips pressed to the base of his skull, Bastian bared his teeth. Magic whiplashed, howling through the room, buffeting medical machinery. Fluorescents flickered overhead. The electrical buzz amplified, whipping into a high-pitched whine. “Rikar—he’s overheating. Cool him off while I get the hell out.”
A death grip on Forge’s legs, Rikar murmured.
Frost rose in a crisp swirl.
Arctic air blew into the clinic, freezing the raindrops hanging in mid-air. The temperature dropped. Ice spread over the walls, cracking the plaster, frosting the sliding glass door. Mac breathed out, frigid air puffing between his lips as B withdrew—tentacle by mental tentacle—from Forge’s mind. The seizure downshifted from catastrophic to chaotic. Forge shuddered, and Mac went to work, monitoring his vitals, dousing the psychological burn, keeping his heart beating and—
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 4
