Tania smiled, relief on her pretty face. “You think so?”
“Aye. No doubt at all.”
“Told you so, my lady.” The words melded with a thump across the room. Hinges squeaked. The door from the butler’s pantry swung open and closed. With a happy hop, Daimler bustled into the kitchen, mixing paddles covered with strawberry icing in hand. “It’s going to be wonderful. Everything is in order. The backhoe and bulldozer arrive tomorrow. The plants are scheduled to arrive next week.”
“Wicked,” Myst said, accepting a mixing paddle from Daimler.
“Perfect.” Licking icing from the second paddle, Tania moaned in delight. “Thanks, Daimler.”
“Shite,” Forge muttered, giving the Numbai a meaningful look. “Better keep the bulldozer away from Wick.”
“I’ve already spoken to Master Bastian.” Daimler grinned, gold front tooth winking beneath bright halogens. “Master Wick will not be permitted to handle the equipment without supervision.”
Handle. Forge snorted. That was one way to put it. Another would be duck and cover . . . or die. A sound strategy. One that made perfect sense.
Wick enjoyed throwing things. Heavy machinery topped the list. The male couldn’t resist the allure of a good tractor-toss. Or KO’ing rogues with a dump truck to the teeth. Slam-bang. Poof-gone. Nothing but piles of ash in his wake. He should be grateful for Wick’s predilection. The enemy didn’t stand a chance when the warrior picked up a front-end loader. The problem? Whenever his friend went kamikaze with construction equipment, the Nightfuries scattered, ramping into serious flying to stay out of the way, but well . . . shite. Nobody was perfect, and Forge refused to hammer Wick for his weakness. Particularly since Forge indulged in his favorite way of killing Razorbacks all the time—by slamming the assholes skull-first into the sharp corners of skyscrapers.
Daimler cleared his throat.
Forge glanced his way.
Amusement in his eyes, the Numbai met his gaze and switched to mind-speak. “Looking to escape?”
“Christ save me from obstinate females. I cannae get away.”
“Gage is in the garage.”
Surprise blindsided him. Forge blinked. “He didn’t go with the others?”
The Numbai shook his head. “The youngling is still fearful. Osgard doesn’t do well alone yet. He’s most comfortable when Gage remains close.”
“He’ll adjust.”
“Of a certainty he will, but in the meantime . . .” Daimler tilted his head toward the exit. “Off you go, Master Forge. I’ll distract the ladies while you make a break for it.”
Bless him. The Numbai was straight up fantastic with a hefty helping of outstanding. “Have I told you how much I love you lately, Daimler?”
The tips of his pointy ears turned red a second before Daimler rolled his eyes, turned to the lasses, and murmured something about marzipan decorations. Myst and Tania both pivoted in the Numbai’s direction. Talk of a triple-decker cake and the need for taste testing ensued, distracting the hellions with the promise of chocolate. Focused on the trio, Forge slid off the stool. His feet touched down on the limestone floor. He shifted sideways. Slow and steady. No sudden movements. Stealth was the name of the game. He needed to fly under the females’ radar. Otherwise, the pair would pounce, and he’d be stuck in the kitchen instead of safe inside the garage.
The trifecta approached the pantry door.
Forge skirted the end of the island. The promise of freedom looming, he sped toward the exit. His heart thumped, setting a boom-boom-slam rhythm inside his chest. Dragon senses set to maximum, he glanced over his shoulder. No imminent threat of pursuit. No flap of feminine outrage. Nothing but smooth sailing. Expelling a ragged breath, he listened harder, hoping his luck held.
Nothing.
So far, so good. All quiet on the female front.
Entering the corridor, he slowed to a jog. Fantastic. He’d made it. Was almost out of range, ten feet and one turn away from escaping for good. He should’ve realized Gage had stayed home instead of flying out. Since his return from Prague, the warrior rarely left the lair. Some might argue Gage’s capture—and subsequent torture by an Archguard death squad—had taken its toll, making him gun-shy, less willing to leave Black Diamond for extended periods. Forge knew better. Not much fazed Gage. The male was solid, the best kind of deadly. Fast in flight. Brutal in a fight. Smart with heaps of cunning piled on top. So only one conclusion to draw. His stay-close-to-home policy didn’t stem from any lingering effects of captivity, but from another source altogether . . .
Osgard (the youngling he’d rescued from the Archguard) and the lad’s fear of strangers.
Turning the corner, he strode toward the end of the passageway. The quiet calmed him, settling into his bones, seeping into his chest to surround his heart. Forge sighed. About time. He needed a reprieve. Longed for peace of mind and craved the comfort of camaraderie. Normally, he got that from Mac, but with his apprentice out of the lair, Gage would have to do. Forge’s lips twitched. Hell. No contest there. The male, and his sarcastic, pissy attitude, was a good substitute. A battle of words—and the clash of a high-level intellect—was what he needed to feel like himself again. And well, working with his hands—helping Gage rebuild the Corvette ZR1 Tania had totaled on a midnight run outside the lair—wouldn’t hurt either.
Forge’s mouth curved. Christ, he couldn’t wait to razz Gage about it again. Was looking forward to the argument and the male’s reaction to a female cracking up “his baby.” Anticipation slithered down his spine. He focused on the end of the hall. The walls dead-ended into square, precise corners, gleaming wainscoting, no seams at all. At least, to the naked eye. Eyes narrowed on one corner, he unleashed his magic. Heat flowed through his veins, fanning out behind him as he murmured a command.
Gears ground into motion. A series of locks clicked. Hinges moaned as the hidden door popped open. Forge shoved it aside, stepped over the threshold and onto the landing. He flicked the door closed behind him. Twelve steps down and he stood in the underground passageway. Wide with a high ceiling, the tunnel connected the aboveground lair to the garage, allowing movement between the two during the day.
A necessary thing. Useful too, considering Gage refused to move his bedroom into the lair. He preferred the apartment inside the garage, and no matter how much Daimler nagged—or mayhap due to it—the male remained entrenched. Forge grinned. Bad-tempered bastard, stubborn to the bitter end.
Not bothering with the light switch, Forge moved into darkness. His night vision sparked. Details jumped out at him: the grainy texture of cinder-block walls, the cobwebs hanging from unlit wall sconces, the staircase sitting at the opposite end. Without breaking stride, he closed the distance and took the stairs three at a time. His boots banged against metal treads, killing the quiet before he reached the top. He pushed the heavy door open and—
“Hand me the three-quarter-inch wrench, kid.”
The deep growl spiraled across the huge space. Steel rattled as tools got shoved aside.
“Here.”
Metal smacked against skin. “Thanks.”
Standing behind a wall of tall toolboxes, Forge bowed his head. The grind of a socket wrench joined the buzz of industrial lights overhead. He sighed as tension seeped from his muscles. Hallelujah. Nice. Normal. The striking sound of sanity.
Another low murmur.
His sonar pinged, giving him Gage’s location in the fifty-car garage.
Kicking aside a stray bolt, he sidestepped the last toolbox. His gaze swept the scene. Crumpled hood of the canary-yellow ZR1 in the background, Gage stood off to one side, beside a sturdy table with an engine mounted on it. Hands blackened by grease, the male stripped the motor, removing parts only to set each down next to its compatriot sitting on the steel tabletop. Murmuring to Osgard, Gage held up a part, explained its purpose, teaching the youngling as he went. With a look of extreme concentration, the lad nodded, took the broken piece, and placed it in the discard pile
.
He stopped six feet away. “Getting it sorted?”
At the sound of his voice, Osgard jumped. Fearful blue eyes swung his way.
Forge gritted his teeth, trying to keep his anger at bay. Goddamn the Archguard. The abusive bastards had done a number on the lad. Now Osgard didn’t trust anyone but Gage. He needed time, patience, and loads of persistence. Forge recognized the way forward. So did Gage and the rest of the Nightfury pack, but . . . God. He forced his fists to unclench. It was painful to watch the youngling struggle. Even more difficult not to push the lad and get involved. But Gage was right—the less pressure on Osgard, the better. Which left everyone with one strategy . . .
Respect the healing process. Wait until Osgard was ready.
Staying still, Forge waited, giving the lad time to adjust to his presence. Focus riveted to him, Osgard took a step back. A wrench in one hand, Gage reached out with the other. He grabbed the lad’s arm to hold him in place. With a “Settle down, kid,” the warrior glanced Forge’s way. An intense bronze gaze met his. “What the fuck do you want?”
“A safe place tae hide.”
Gage huffed. “The female horde driving you crazy?”
He shrugged. No sense lying about it. “Aye.”
“Stay the hell out of the kitchen, man. Safer that way.”
Good advice. Next time he’d heed it and make a fast getaway. Ignoring Osgard, hoping the lad didn’t spook, Forge walked to the table edge. Attention on the engine, he tipped his chin. “The ZR1’s?”
“Yeah. Damn female cracked the engine block.”
“Running grill first into a tree will do that tae a ’Vette.”
“Fuck.” Gage scowled. “Wish I could be pissed at her.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Nah,” Gage said. “She’s too pretty. Can’t even bring myself to yell at her.”
Forge laughed.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t take it out on Mac, though.” An unholy gleam in his eyes, Gage treated him to a speculative look. “Might have to appease my curiosity and beat the shit out of him, see what all the water dragon fuss is about.”
“Good luck with that.” Forge shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “The wanker knows kung fu.”
“Really?” Gage grinned. “Starting a fight just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Stifling a laugh, Forge shook his head. Christ. Trust Gage to take on what most warriors wouldn’t touch. Mac packed a serious punch. Toss in the fact most Dragonkind males feared water and . . . aye. A smart male knew when to quit. Or at least, stay the hell out of a water dragon’s way.
Picking up a wrench, Forge cranked the socket all the way round, listening to the zzz the metal gears made. “Want some help?”
Gage raised a brow. “Hell, you must be hard up. Need something to do that bad?”
“Whatever you need done.”
Releasing Osgard, Gage eyed the lad. “Stay put, Oz. Still need your help. Forge might be scared of a couple of females—”
Forge scoffed in feigned protest.
“—but he isn’t in the habit of kicking the shit out of snot-nosed kids.” Gage frowned, amusement in his eyes as he glanced at Forge. “Are you?”
“Nay,” Forge said, playing along, helping Gage ease the lad’s fear. “Bronze-eyed bastards, however? I make no promises.”
Gage chuckled.
Osgard stared at him a second, then relaxed, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “What’s next—the carburetor?”
“Good plan.” Patting the lad on the shoulder, he handed Osgard a screwdriver. Gage picked up another and went back to work. One minute turned into more, the silence comfortable as the three of them settled in, pulling apart the engine a piece at a time. Time lengthened, and Forge unwound, the whisper of hands on tool handles, the clink of steel on steel, the smell of motor oil smoothing the rough edges of his mood. After a while, Gage pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped off the pliers he held. “Heard what happened in the clinic tonight. You okay?”
“I’ll live.”
Gage glanced at him. “Not what I asked.”
“Only answer you’re going tae get.”
“Fair enough, but if—”
“No need tae talk about it.” Attention on the engine, Forge lifted his hand. A small screw fell into his palm. He set it aside, adding it to the growing pile on the table. “It’ll get sorted . . . or it won’t. Enough said.”
Silence settled, whispering around the workstation.
Standing on the other side of the table, Osgard shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the lengthening quiet. Forge watched him, heartstrings pulled taut as the youngling fiddled with the screwdriver, turning it over in his hand. The movement signaled the return of nervousness, and . . . ah, hell. He wished he could take it away. Wished like hell the lad hadn’t been hurt at all. But the world wasn’t that kind of a place. Bad things happened to good males all the time. He should know. He lived with fate gone wrong every day. Knowing it, however, didn’t make his regret any less real. Given a chance, he would shoulder Osgard’s pain and make it his own.
Pressing the blunt point of the screwdriver into the pad of his thumb, Osgard lifted his chin and . . . looked straight at Forge. Pale-blue eyes met his, darted away, then came back. A heartbeat passed. Osgard cleared his throat. “Did it hurt?”
Surprise jolted through him, making Forge slow to comprehend. “What, lad?”
“Mind regression,” Osgard said, tone quiet and curious. “What was it like?”
Gage raised a brow, daring him to answer.
Forge stifled a shiver. His throat closed as his muscles went taut. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to remember the session, never mind talk about it. Particularly after he’d told Gage to mind his own business. But as he stared at Osgard, he refused to do the same with the lad. He’d asked a question, a good one, braving his displeasure, offering his trust. The question played like a well-planned chess move. Most males would’ve scoffed at the idea. Not Forge. He recognized the game. Osgard was reaching out, testing the boundaries to see how another male—a bigger, much stronger one—would react to being put on the spot. Bridges were built that way, honesty arching into trust, so like it or nay, he needed to answer. If only to teach Osgard he had nothing to fear.
Steeling himself, Forge opened his mouth to explain.
The whine of machinery shattered the moment. The garage door opener activated. Heavy chains clanked. Lights at the far end came on, expelling the dark, as one of the heavy industrial doors opened.
“Find me later, lad. I’ll tell you all about it,” Forge said, focus split between Osgard and the slow rise of the garage door.
Osgard nodded.
“Good deal,” Gage murmured, slapping Forge on the shoulder.
The love tap spoke of approval. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach receded. Forge exhaled, the breath slow and measured. Shite, that felt good. Talking about mind regression might suck, but gaining the lad’s trust would be worth it. Was far more important than his continued comfort, and as the black SUV rolled in, headlights flashing, oversize tires squeaking on the concrete floor, Forge let the shame of his failure go. He couldn’t change it now. Or ever. Time to move on. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the next step and reclaim his memories. Right now, he had a different mystery to solve. Namely? Why the hell Angela sat behind the wheel of the Denali.
Wiping his hands on a rag, Forge stepped away from the table and turned toward the SUV. Intense aquamarine eyes met his through the windshield. He scowled at his apprentice. Planted in the passenger seat, Mac raised a brow in challenge. Forge growled under his breath. Damned fool. What did the male think he was doing? He might be new to Dragonkind, but Mac knew better than to take a female out of the lair after dark. It was unsafe. A total jackass move and—
His sonar pinged.
Sensation burned across the nape of his neck.
The flap of multip
le wings thumped through the quiet.
Dust kicked up in the driveway beyond the garage door.
White scales flashed, glowing in the gloom as Rikar landed outside. Dragon claws ground against gravel. Rubber squealed as Angela hit the brakes inside the garage. Engine rumbling, she put the truck into reverse and backed the SUV into its designated spot.
Forge frowned in confusion. What the hell was going on? Rikar flying in support could only mean one thing—the warrior had been on board with his mate leaving the lair . . . at night. At fucking night. The shift in procedure signaled trouble. What kind and for how long? Forge curled his hands into fists. Shite. Excellent question. One in need of answering, and fast. Particularly with Gage’s and Mac’s gazes locked on him, as though waiting for a reaction.
His instincts screamed in warning.
Something was up.
Something was off.
Something nasty with his name written all over it.
Muscles locked, Forge met Mac’s gaze, glanced at Gage, then turned his attention to the driveway. Bastian landed next to Rikar, midnight-blue scales in stark contrast to the Nightfury’s first in command. Rikar shifted into human form. B followed, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his leather trench coat, stomping his feet into his boots as Haider, Sloan, and Venom touched down behind him. Bringing up the rear, Wick dropped out of the sky. Black amber-tipped scales rattled in the wind rush. His huge paws slammed into the ground. A brutal cacophony of sound echoed, rumbling through the garage. Tools jumped on the workbench, steel clanging against steel, as Forge sidestepped Gage and headed for his apprentice.
Popping the door open, Mac slid out of the Denali. The truck door slammed behind him. A shimmer in his ocean-blue eyes, he hammered Forge with a be-reasonable look. “You’re going to listen to me before you lose it.”
The statement of fact rubbed Forge the wrong way. His eyes narrowed. “You think?”
A muscle ticked along Mac’s jaw. “I know.”
“What the fuck did you do?” he asked, soft tone full of all kinds of lethal.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 8
