Thank God. It was working.
Little by little, Mac infiltrated the mental cage protecting Forge’s mind. Snow swirled overhead. The chill slid like a knife over his nape. Still unconscious, Forge relaxed a little more, accepting Mac’s presence inside his head. His friend calmed, then settled, collapsing against the chair, muscles trembling but no longer seizing. One hand pressed to Forge’s nape, Mac attacked the leather cuffs, unshackling his wrists. “Rikar—get his ankles.”
Hands working fast, Rikar undid the ankle shackles.
The second the last buckle gave way, Mac rolled Forge onto his side. Recovery position, a CPR move, the same one a lifeguard would use after saving a drowning victim.
Breathing hard, worry in his eyes, Rikar stared at Forge. “Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck,” Bastian whispered, the strain in his voice unmistakable. Big hands clenched into fists, he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Rikar blew out a long breath. “Anything new, B?”
“No. Same images . . . a woman, his mother, I think, and him flying. The blur of rough landscape beneath wing tips.” Pale eyes aglow, Bastian dropped his head and rolled his shoulders, combating his tension. “Same as before. I can’t move into new memories. His dragon half won’t let me.”
Mac glanced at his commander. Upset clouded B’s expression, the toll of trying to extract the information he needed from Forge written all over his face. Mac understood. Bastian didn’t like the mind regression sessions any more than he did.
“B,” he said, a soft undercurrent in his tone. Bastian responded to the warning. Fierce green eyes narrowed on him. Holding his gaze, Mac cranked his hands into fists and pushed to his feet. “That was the last time.”
Regret in his gaze, B shook his head. “We need to know what happened in Scotland, Mac. It’s important. If we can prove Rodin was involved, we can bury the bastard for good.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Rodin right now.”
“Settle down,” Rikar murmured, playing mediator, throwing him a back-the-hell-off look. “B’s right. It’s the only way to—”
“It isn’t working,” Mac said, feeling sick to his stomach. Forge might be desperate to remember—to give the Nightfury pack what it needed—but he couldn’t stand any more. Couldn’t handle seeing his friend suffer night after night, so it was done. Finished. No more. No fucking more. “We’re killing him. Forge isn’t going to remember this way. We need to change tack . . . look for another solution.”
Bastian sighed. “What kind?”
“A simpler one. A gentler one.” Grabbing a pillow off the floor, he settled it under Forge’s head. His friend groaned. Bastian winced, and Mac examined a new possibility. It could work. Might be exactly what the doctor ordered. Which meant . . . now or never. The faster he got what amounted to a crazy idea in Dragonkind circles out into the open, the better for Forge. “A human one.”
Rikar blinked in surprise. “Are you serious?”
Mac nodded. “We need to do something. He won’t survive another round.”
Bastian rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you have in mind?”
“A hypnotherapist.”
“You know one?” Rikar asked.
“Yeah. A consultant for the SPD and the DA’s office,” Mac said. “She’s good.”
Bastian paced to the other side of the room, then pivoted, and came back. “How good?”
“Best I’ve ever seen.”
“So, what?” A thoughtful look on his face, Rikar crossed his arms. “We bring her here?”
“Yeah.” Eyes narrowed, Mac examined the variables. “Under controlled conditions.”
Running down the list of complications, he searched for problems in the plan and headed for the bank of cabinets across the room. Set above a stainless-steel countertop, iced-up cupboard doors gleamed in the low light. He reached out and flicked one open. Frost burned his fingertips. Hinges squawked, working against frozen metal, sounding loud in the quiet. Finding what he needed, he grabbed a washcloth and whispered a command. Water bubbled from his palm, soaking the cotton. He wrung it out with his mind and returned to Forge. Brows furrowed, trying to be patient, his buddies watched him place the cold cloth on Forge’s forehead. Still unconscious, the Scot muttered something in Gaelic. Mac spoke low, reassuring his friend before turning back to the other males in the room.
“Here’s how it’ll play out.” Making a checklist, Mac ticked off the necessary boxes. Ones called cover-your-ass in the human world and . . . all right. His idea wasn’t perfect, but hell, it was better than nothing. Better than putting Forge in the hot seat again. With a little foresight, he could control the outcome with a few concessions. The first? The entire Nightfury pack—females included—must agree to the plan and toe the information line. The second? Once inside Black Diamond, the therapist would be locked down, no contact with the outside world. “No talk of Dragonkind. We tell her we’re a covert military outfit sanctioned by the government. That she’ll be working on-site and off the grid to help one of our own retrieve a memory. No more, no less.”
“Keep it simple.” With a quick pivot, Rikar ass-planted himself on the countertop. Combat boots banged against the lower cabinets. “Control the variables. Dress it up, sell the story by making her sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“In other words—lie our asses off.” Bastian’s mouth tipped up at the corners. “No need to mind scrub her afterward.”
Mac nodded. “Exactly.”
Rikar’s eyes narrowed. “Could work.”
“It’ll work,” Mac said. “One small problem, though.”
Bastian raised a brow, asking for clarification without words.
“I’ll need Ange with me when I talk to her . . . to sell it properly.”
“No,” Rikar said, a lethal undertone in the denial.
Mac eyeballed his first in command. “Rikar—”
“My mate is not going out after dark.” Frost gathered over Rikar’s shoulders, misting the air around him. He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“She’ll be armed with twin Glocks,” Mac said, unleashing logic. Not that it helped. He knew what worried Rikar. The male would protect his mate at all costs, but well . . . hell. Talk about overprotective. Angela was ex-SPD. A sniper with serious skills and enough moxie to kill rogues with nothing but bullets and a long-range rifle. “I’ll be with her. The Razorbacks are in hiding, so—”
Rikar growled at him. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“You sure you need her, Mac?” His gaze locked on Rikar, B went the reasonable route, treading carefully. No one, after all, wanted a pissed-off frost dragon roaming around the lair. “The therapist won’t come with you willingly?”
“It’s a gamble. Hope Cunningham is smart. She’s always been leery of me.” He shrugged, telling the truth even though it pained him. He’d never done anything to make Hope fear him, but she did. Maybe it was the lethal vibe he carried around like luggage. Maybe it was his height and size. Could be he reminded her of someone in her past. Who knew? He’d never asked, leaving the chitchat to his partner whenever they’d needed the therapist on a case. “She knows and trusts Angela. Has worked with her countless times with violent-crime victims, so getting her to ask Hope is our best chance. She’ll listen to Ange.”
Silence swirled as Bastian considered him. “You really think she can help? That Forge will respond better to her?”
“I know it,” Mac said, hoping he was right.
Arms crossed over his chest, B glanced at his best friend. “Ange goes.”
Rikar cursed.
Mac exhaled in relief.
“But everyone goes,” Bastian said, setting the ground rules. “The whole pack flies out. Mac—you and Ange take the Denali. We’ll set up post around you . . . total protection detail. Myst will stay with Forge while we retrieve the female.”
A muscle jumped along Rikar’s jaw. “I don’t like it.”
“I know, but it’s worth
a try.” Bastian pushed away from the back wall. Strides even, pace sure, he crossed the room and stopped beside the chair. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling at regular intervals now, Forge lay on his side. Unconscious. Vulnerable. So unlike his usual vicious self Mac’s chest tightened. Staring down at the Scot, B reached out and cupped the back of his warrior’s head. Forge’s eyelashes flickered an instant before he fell into a deep sleep. An ache in his voice, Bastian murmured, “Better than this shit. Better than hurting him again.”
Mac nodded. Fantastic. He had a consensus along with a preapproved game plan.
Now for the tricky part—precise execution. The kind of implementation he prayed Angela could pull off. Hope Cunningham wasn’t a pushover. She ran a thriving practice. Had a busy life helping all kinds of people. Mostly trauma victims. Not an easy thing to abandon for a couple weeks. But Forge needed help, so like it or not, the hypnotherapist was coming to Black Diamond. Even if the use of duct tape and caveman tactics became necessary.
Chapter Three
Her technique was all wrong.
Hope Cunningham didn’t care. She hit the heavy bag anyway. Over and over. Again and again. Slam-bang-thump. She went twenty rounds with black leather, punishing it with singular purpose. Proper form be damned. It didn’t matter. Neither did the unfinished pile of case files stacked on the desk in her office. Not tonight. She needed an outlet, a way to stem the flow of recall. Of heartbreak and loss. Of guilt and inadequacy. Of playing the blame game.
Five years, and she couldn’t shut it off or push it away. Same time, different year. February, twenty-eight days of god-awful. Not that her least favorite month cared about her preferences. Days away from the anniversary, the memory tortured her. Like a knife blade, recollection cut deep, sliced hard, leaving her nowhere to run. The visual played like a movie inside her head: the rapid staccato of gunfire, the terrified screams, the smell of blood in the air . . .
Her twin brother bleeding out on a library floor.
Protected by boxing wraps, her fists flew, flashing with brutal intent in the dim light thrown by crappy overhead fluorescents. Jab, left cross, uppercut. Crack-whack-thud. Sweat rolled down her spine. The leather bag swayed, reacting to her assault by swinging back toward her. Guard up, she dodged right and hammered it again. Her knuckles connected with the target zone. Pain streaked up her arm. Violent sound shredded the quiet, banging around her home gym. Her garage, in point of fact. Decked out with free weights, rubber flooring, and her kickboxing equipment, it was a mecca for the emotionally scarred. A haven for the physically frustrated. Paradise after a long week spent sitting in an office sorting through other people’s problems.
Ironic when she thought about it.
She helped others move toward emotional stability and on with their lives every day. And oh, how she loved her job. She snorted a little. Job. Right. Not even close. Serving others—helping people move past horrific trauma—was more calling than occupation. One she took seriously, refusing to allow her patients to shy away from difficult truths. She encouraged them to be open and honest. Provided a safe haven for each one, a place to do the hard work and face a situation head-on. What did she always say? Ah, yes. Admitting to a problem was the first step in solving it . . . to recovery and mental health. A lovely turn of phrase. Too bad she never took her own advice. She ignored her problems instead. Most of the time, she pretended they didn’t exist. Her approach went something like . . .
Push the memories away and pray none ever came knocking.
The story of her life.
Her motto in a nutshell: Shut it down, turn away, bury the hurt deep.
Hope cursed under her breath. A total bullshit strategy for a psychologist who specialized in helping violent-crime victims.
Gritting her teeth, she brought her feet into play. She kicked high. The top of her bare foot slammed into the bag. Thick rope groaned. Eyes locked on her target, she spun and thrust backward. Her heel rammed into leather. With a quick pivot, she changed position, pretended she fought a real person, one in need of a serious beating. Kick after kick. Punch after punch. She brutalized the bag, making her muscles shriek with fatigue. God, how she wanted it. Needed it. Craved the oblivion exhaustion would bring. Maybe then she’d be able to forget. Maybe then she’d be able to sleep. Maybe then absolution would come and her father would forgive her.
The thought stalled her mid-punch.
Swaying on her feet, fists raised and heart hammering, Hope squeezed her eyes shut. Wishful thinking. Nothing but a pipe dream. It would never happen. A vice admiral in the US Navy, her father didn’t believe in forgiveness. He doled out discipline instead of second chances. Gave orders instead of hugs, and shame instead of support. Not that she blamed him. He was who he was, no changing him. And honestly, she deserved the silent treatment. All the unreturned phone calls too. For so many reasons, but mostly because she hadn’t guessed. Hadn’t known her brother was in trouble . . .
Or about the stockpile of weapons in his closet.
Unforgiveable. Inexcusable. Her mess from start to finish.
Her father was right. She should’ve known.
Palming the back of her neck, Hope laced her fingers and hung her head. Knotted muscles groaned. She welcomed the pain. It was better than the alternative—letting emotion out of its cage—but . . . God. Shame on her.
She should have known.
Adam had been more than just her twin. He’d been her best friend. They’d done everything together: gone to the same university, shared an apartment off campus, belonged to the same collegiate clubs. Her friends had been his, and his friends, hers. But that was over now. None of the old crowd talked to her anymore. No one wanted to know—or remember—the clueless girl with the homicidal sibling.
Strange, but she was okay with that.
Hope understood the reaction and her exile. Empathized with the victims. Understood and accepted the animosity of a community in mourning. She grieved too. Ached so hard, she couldn’t cope half the time. Even all these years later, grief ate at her, hollowing her out, delivering loads of guilt and an extra helping of hurt. Forget the UPS man. Mental anguish was more efficient. Like clockwork, it arrived on time, the instant she opened her eyes each morning. Nothing had been the same since Adam walked into the busy college library and opened fire. Eleven dead. Twenty-seven injured. Her brother’s standoff with police. The shoot-out. Her twin lying lifeless on the floor while she huddled beneath a desk one floor up, desperate to survive a mad gunman she hadn’t realized was related to her.
And there it was . . . the terrible truth.
Adam had unraveled right under her nose, disappearing down a rabbit hole she hadn’t known existed—and hadn’t seen coming. She breathed deep, the harsh inhale half huff, half sob. Some kind of human behavior specialist she’d proven to be. Pitiful. Oblivious. Such a disappointment to the psychology faculty. Her professors had singled her out during her sophomore year, praising her talent—telling her how gifted she was, what a rarity in the realm of psychological profiling. Law enforcement agencies came calling, courting her, trying to recruit her before she finished her degree.
Leveling her chin, she frowned at the weights across the room. Color-coded dumbbells stood like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder on the black rack. Hope shook her head. So neat. So tidy. So freaking solid. Unlike her. Unlike her brother. Damn, damn, and damn again. She should be angry at Adam, for so many things. For pulling the wool over her eyes. For pretending everything was all right. For ruining her chances with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Somehow, though, she wasn’t.
Despite his crime—and the body count—she loved him anyway. Missed him every day. Remembered the good times, his smiling face, before it all went so horribly wrong.
Her chest tightened. The missed opportunity—her lost career—didn’t matter. It never would. A hole—Adam had left a giant, gaping hole in the center of her life. One she didn’t know how to fill.
Sweat tric
kled over her eyebrow.
Hope swiped at the droplet before it reached her eye and dropped her hand. She tipped her head back. The ceiling came into focus, perfect plaster glossed over by white paint. No flaws in sight. Unlike her mess of a life. God, she needed it to stop. She wanted the guilt to go away. Yearned to be happy again, instead of—
Bright light flashed outside, shining into the garage.
Hope glanced toward the row of high windows. Quieting the thump of her heart, she turned toward the door leading outside and listened. Gravel crunched beneath tires in the driveway. A motor rumbled a moment, then went quiet. The cooling engine ticked. Two doors opened, then closed, the slams echoing in her quiet corner of Suburbia and . . . huh. Visitors on a Saturday night.
Unexpected, but not unusual.
The curse of having her office attached to her house. Nature of the beast. Par for the course. Home offices presented a myriad of problems. The biggest one? Everyone she worked with knew her home address. She’d set strict ground rules when she moved to Seattle and set up her practice four years ago. Made sure to put protections in place: serious electronic locks between her office space and home, a state-of-the-art security system, the SPD on speed dial. So far, none of it had been necessary. Her patients followed her rules to the letter, calling first, making an appointment, respecting her privacy. Colleagues, however? Not so much. Some dropped by without warning. Cops with an urgent case, more often than not.
Relief streaked down her spine, shoving her off memory lane.
Finally. At last. A distraction, one with the potential to pull her from the past. From the anniversary that dogged her every move. From having to face what her brother had done one more time. Again, always, for the fifth year in a row.
Grabbing a towel off the workout bench, Hope looped it around her neck, then ripped the Velcro holding her boxing wraps in place. With a rough tug, she unraveled the long cotton strips, freeing her hands. Her skin sighed in relief as the pressure lessened on her knuckles. She flexed her fingers. Footfalls sounded on the flagstone walkway leading to her front door. Leaving the wraps in a pile on the floor, she pivoted toward the interior side door and crossed the garage.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 5
