Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  “Dig deeper, Sveld. Get Denzeil involved,” he said, ignoring Hamersveld’s grimace. He didn’t care how much his XO disliked the Razorback second in command. The pair would get along—and help each other—or he’d kick both males’ asses. Ivar held his friend’s gaze, a warning in his own. “Play nice. Let D assist. He’s good with computers and we need to know what’s going on before Zidane lands in Seattle and fucks everything up.”

  Hamersveld nodded. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Do that.” Stepping away from the table, Ivar headed for the exit. “I need to fly. You coming?”

  “Only if you head toward the Sound.”

  “Done.” Fucking water dragon. Nothing was good enough if it didn’t involve water.

  Heavy footfalls sounded behind him as Ivar punched through the double doors. Out. He needed out. Into fresh air. Surrounded by cold winter winds as he spread his wings, soared across open skies, and came up with a new plan. One that would neutralize Zidane and keep Rodin from ruining everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish.

  Chapter Seven

  Standing in one of the guest bedrooms, Hope pulled a dresser drawer open and tossed the last pair of socks inside. It landed on top of the pile and bounced off, rolling into her boxing wraps. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the cotton coil, the familiar sight helping her feel more grounded in unfamiliar surroundings. Her gaze jumped to the boxing gloves tucked into the back of the drawer. Old faithfuls, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. She released a pent-up breath. Thank God she’d thought to bring the pair. Something told her she would need them before her time inside Black Diamond came to an end.

  An uncharitable thought? Hope pursed her lips. Probably, but with her instincts howling, erring on the side of caution seemed the best way to go. Something about the house didn’t ring true. Not that she could put her finger on what exactly, but . . .

  She glanced around the room. Yeah, without a doubt. The vibe seemed off. Not bad, just odd. Powerful somehow, as though electricity escaped the outlets and buzzed in the air. The strange hum permeated the house, amping her up, making the nape of her neck tingle.

  With a frown, she slid the drawer closed and turned toward her suitcase. Staring at it, she reached out to shut the top and . . . hesitated. She should close it. Right now. Zip the Samsonite up tight, tuck it under the bed, and abandon what lay inside one of the interior compartments.

  “Crap,” she whispered, her eyes locked on the interior pocket.

  Hope sighed, the sound a manifestation of her misery. She never traveled without it. The desire to have it close, where she slept, beat on her like an ill-tempered gladiator. No rhyme. Zero reason. Well . . . she frowned . . . except for one. She couldn’t wipe the memory of her twin from her life any more than she could deny her next breath. Family honor refused to let her. Her conscience toed the line, kicking up memory after memory. Now the fun times taunted her, demanding she remember the good things and let go of the bad.

  Damn Adam and his selfishness anyway.

  Blinking back tears, she crouched beside the bright-pink suitcase. She stared at the zipper, then gave in to the inevitable and reached out. The padded pocket gaped open, revealing the treasure inside—a barn owl made of clay, fired in a kiln in art class, painted with care by a seven-year-old boy determined to wrap something up for his sister’s birthday.

  A lopsided head made an appearance as Hope pulled her owl out of its hiding place. Despite the tightness of her chest, she laughed a little. She always did when she looked at its crooked feathers and big eyes the same color as her own. The same color as Adam’s. Green, so green it hurt to look at them sometimes.

  Hope ran her fingers over the imperfections, finding each one charming, and pushed to her feet. She glanced around. Pale blue walls, creamy wainscoting, a bed piled high with pretty throw pillows. She walked toward it, her attention on the mirrored side table. Stepping off hardwood and onto the area rug, she sat on the side of the mattress. Covered in a white duvet cover embroidered with navy stars, the thick comforter gave beneath her weight. Reluctant to let go of her owl, she slid the pad of her thumb over its feathers, feeling each contour, reliving the day Adam had handed her the T-shirt-wrapped bundle held together with pink ribbon. She forced herself to put it down. The clay bottom settled on the tabletop, reflecting her owl’s face and the lampshade spread like a canopy above it.

  She adjusted its position. First this way, then that.

  A touch more to the left.

  A tiny push closer to the lamp base and . . .

  Perfect.

  The second she opened her eyes in the morning, her owl would be the first thing she saw. A little something from home. A trace of the familiar while staying in a strange place with even stranger people. Or rather, men. Angela, after all, seemed okay. Nothing out of the ordinary with her. One hundred percent normal, the same way her friend had always been: tough, steady, kick-ass, with a hit of get-the-hell-out-of-my-way. A comforting thought considering the collection of testosterone that had gathered inside the garage.

  “Jeepers, Bart,” she said, talking to her owl, calling him by name. She couldn’t help it. Her habit of naming everything—her car included (thank you, Lucinda)—never said quit. With a frown, she reached for the closest throw pillow. Fat and feather filled, its soft body settled in her lap as she replayed the scene in the garage. “Talk about serious firepower. You should’ve seen the size of them.”

  Bart didn’t answer.

  Hope didn’t expect him to; one-sided conversations were a habit with him. But as crazy as it sounded, talking at him made her feel better. Helped her work through problems. Difficult ones, like what to do about the dark-haired guy who’d gone head to head with Mac in front of the SUV. Staying away from him sounded like a good idea. His lethal vibe—the intensity of his expression, the pain in his eyes, and the tension of his body—in the garage had nearly put her on her ass. Add the way he looked—tall, dark, and GQ gorgeous—into the mix and . . . holy crap. It was a miracle she’d managed to stay upright. Thank goodness Angela had dragged her away before she’d—

  Hope shivered. God, she didn’t know what she might have done. Approached him, perhaps. Told him everything would be all right. Maybe even given him a hug. God knew he needed one . . . desperately. She knew what psychological pain looked like. Had read it in his tight expression and the controlled way he moved. The observation made her heart ache. No one should have to suffer that kind of agony. She might not know him, but already, she wanted to help, to heal the wound she sensed he hid from the world.

  Well, that, and maybe get closer to him.

  Hope grimaced, but couldn’t stymie the thought . . . or control her reaction. He was a wide-shouldered, long-legged, hard-bodied dream. In a word, her type (and every other woman’s on the planet). One look, the second his gaze had met hers, and—Ka-blam! Her long-deprived libido jolted awake.

  And now stood at attention along with her hormones.

  Dumb things. So inconvenient. The worst timing in the history of mankind. She wasn’t here to hook up, especially with a super-hot guy who might end up being her patient.

  The thought rattled her.

  She shook her head. Bad Hope. Bad, bad idea. Lusting after Mr. Dreamy, sleeping with him—

  “Strike that thought.” Hope scowled at Bart, fighting a shiver of appreciation. No. No way. She wasn’t that girl. No chance in hell would she allow her mind to wander in that direction. In his direction. She was here to help a wounded warrior, not to get her rocks off.

  A great game plan along with excellent advice.

  Something to strive for and stick to, but wow, her inner alley cat wasn’t going to make it easy. Military men tended to tick all of her I’m-attracted-to-you boxes. More shades of her past, her father’s fault too.

  He’d taken her to visit the SEAL training facilities once, during March break her first year of high school. Talk about memorable. She’d never seen anyone
—never mind an entire group—work so hard before, be so dedicated, take protecting others so seriously. The experience opened her eyes, leaving her with a greater appreciation of the men and women her father commanded, sent into danger, every day. After witnessing that kind of commitment, she came to some immediate conclusions about Angela’s friends. She recognized an elite fighting unit when she saw it. A lifetime of watching the vice admiral provided insight. Sharp instincts laid out the rest, leaving no doubt. The men Angela and Mac worked with operated at a whole other level, a higher one, a place only the upper echelon of covert ops ever reached.

  Which could pose problems on the therapy front.

  Mac and his buddies weren’t the type to open up. Men like that preferred to stonewall, avoid, deny any and all problems. Forge, whoever he was, would no doubt react the same. He’d put up a fight. Talking to a psychologist wasn’t easy for anyone, but for a silent, stoic, self-contained man? A solider with serious prowess and even more pride? Hope pursed her lips. Breaking through his barriers—getting him to trust her, no matter how great her skill—would be difficult. Nearly impossible.

  Excitement sparked in the pit of her stomach.

  Butterflies erupted, shoving her into the kind of nervousness professional athletes suffered before a big game. Finally. A challenge. Someone she could truly help. A way for her to make a difference. But first, she needed a therapy treatment plan. A flexible one, something she could adjust mid-session and on the fly, a strategy that would come alive and grow roots the instant she met her patient. So . . .

  Time to get creative.

  No more playbook. Toss out the operating manual and—

  A knock echoed through the room.

  Pushing off the side of the bed, Hope pivoted toward the door. “Come in.”

  The door swung wide.

  A blond carrying a baby stepped over the threshold. Hope assessed her with practiced eyes. Pretty. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Standing with the easy confidence of a woman who knew herself well.

  “Hey there.” The blond paused halfway into the room. Her eyes bounced from the empty suitcase to the dresser before landing on the nightstand . . . and Bart. “Oh good, you’re settled in.” Perched on the blond’s hip, one tiny fist shoved in his mouth, the baby gurgled something unintelligible. He grinned at her around his knuckles. Hope smiled back. She couldn’t help it. The sparkle in his eyes warned of future mischief. God, he was so cute with his chubby cheeks and dark Mohawk-styled hair. Her visitor adjusted her hold on him, kissed the top of his head, and met her gaze. “I’m Myst. This little guy is G. M. Did you get some rest?”

  “A little.” Four hours to be exact. Too much to be considered a nap, too little to be labeled a full night’s sleep. Enough, however, to wipe away the blur of fatigue. Surprising, really. Most nights she needed a full eight hours to feel rested. Hope glanced at the perfect collection of throw pillows, the ones she replaced after her nap, then at the digital clock on the nightstand. Five thirty-five a.m. Earlier than she normally crawled out of bed. Somehow, though, half the shut-eye had done the trick. She felt rested and ready . . . for anything. “Are you the welcome wagon?”

  “Part of it,” Myst said. “Hope you don’t mind, but I schooled Ange so I could meet you first. Beat her at rock-paper-scissors for the chance to come by and say hi before all hell breaks loose.”

  “Hi . . .” Hope blinked as the last of her greeting sank in. Ah, crap. That didn’t sound good. “All hell breaks loose?”

  “Yeah. I mean, none of the guys are easy, but Forge can be . . .” Myst treated her to a look of consideration. “How should I put it?”

  “Difficult?” Hope said, helping her out, the lion with a thorn in its paw analogy front and center in her mind. “A hard-headed asshat?”

  Myst huffed in laughter. “Exactly. Super stubborn.”

  “Kind of figured that after what happened in the garage.”

  “Intense?”

  Hope held her index finger and thumb an inch apart. “Just a tad.”

  “You don’t scare easily, do you?”

  “Nope. Got the kickboxing certifications to prove it.”

  Myst’s mouth curved. “You’re going to fit right in. The other girls are going to love you—and oh, don’t worry. If you’re as good as Mac says, Forge won’t stand a chance. You’ll get through to him.”

  “I hope so,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “The room okay?” Myst asked.

  “Great. Really beautiful.” Almost as pretty, although not nearly as colorful, as her bedroom at home. She pointed to the open door leading into the en suite bathroom. “I have everything I need. Ridiculously soft towels included.”

  Myst chuckled. “Daimler goes a little overboard with the fabric softener. Something about our delicate skin.”

  “Daimler?”

  “He runs the show around here. Makes sure the house is clean and stocked,” Myst said. “You’ll meet him in a bit. He’s a chef, cooks to-die-for gourmet meals. Cakes and cookies too, chocolate upon chocolate.”

  “Your favorite, I take it.”

  “You got me pegged.” Expression sheepish, Myst propped her baby-free hip against the side of the bed and dangled a set of plastic keys in front of G. M. The baby latched onto the ring, shoved it into his mouth, and started chewing. “Just wait until you try his triple-decker fudge cake. You’ll melt into a messy puddle of gratitude.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “He is. It is,” Myst said, turning toward the door. “I’m salivating just thinking about it. How about we go and see if he made some last night.”

  Sidestepping the bench at the end of her bed, Hope grinned. “We going to steal a piece?”

  “Total covert operation. But fair warning . . .” Myst glanced over her shoulder, eyes full of devilry. “If we get caught, I’m putting it on you.”

  “Oh sure.” Hope grumbled, making a show of it, playing along, liking Myst already. “Throw the new girl under the bus.”

  “All’s fair when stealing chocolate.”

  Her lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”

  “You should, with all the girl power PMSing in this house.” Stepping into the hallway, Myst turned left.

  Trailing behind her new friend, Hope followed her over the threshold. Wide hallway. Dark hardwood floors. A multitude of honey-colored doors with white trim marching down the corridor’s length. Her mouth dropped open as she got a load of the painting hanging to her right. A Jackson Pollock? The next one over—Robert Falk? Knockoffs or originals? Her gaze danced over brushstrokes and swirling lines. Jeepers. She couldn’t tell, but . . . wow. The pair sure looked like the real deal.

  Ignoring the artwork, Myst kept walking. “A word to the wise, Hope. If you aren’t quick enough, you’ll be blamed for every cookie that goes missing before mealtime . . . and Daimler will ban you from the kitchen.”

  “Bad mojo.”

  “The worst. You’ll go into serious sugar deprivation before he lets you back in.”

  She passed a painting full of ballet dancers. Hope blinked. Holy crap. That one was a Degas, no question. “Sounds like Daimler’s the hard-ass, not Forge.”

  “When it comes to pilfered desserts?” Myst threw her a warning look. “Believe it.”

  Well, all right then. First lesson learned: when stealing sweets, don’t get caught. Or at least, be quick enough to eat the evidence and blame someone else for her crime. Got it. Welcome to the house of hard-core operatives and covert cookie wars. No problem. Throw out her scruples. Her sense of fair play too. Never let it be said she wasn’t a good sport. Or a total sugar addict, jonesing for her next chocolate fix.

  “Hey, Myst?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got a few questions.”

  Myst slowed to walk alongside her. “Shoot.”

  “How many on the team?”

  “Nine. Although . . .” She paused mid-step, switching G. M. to her other hip. “Nian’s here now, so I gues
s that makes ten. Five of the guys are married and—”

  “Black Diamond is home base?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And all the wives live here?” she asked, the oddity setting off her internal sensors.

  “Yup.”

  The casual affirmative confirmed her suspicions. Black Diamond landed nowhere near the norm. For one, the group was bigger than she expected. Most special ops units had six or seven members. Ten guys pushed the envelope, but the whole living with their spouse thing . . . inside a mission base? Weird. She’d never heard of covert operatives doing that before.

  When she stayed silent, Myst continued. “Bastian’s commander of the pack. I’m his mate.”

  Hope’s brows collided. Pack commander? His mate? The strange phraseology tweaked her psychologist antennae. Her feet slowed, brushing against the hardwood floor. Myst stopped beside her. Hope stared at her escort, trying to figure her out. Myst blinked as though surprised by what she’d said and . . . bull’s-eye. Right on target. She was right. Something was off. Brain in overdrive, she chewed on the inside of her lip. What the hell was the crew at Black Diamond hiding?

  Reacting to her confusion, Myst cleared her throat.

  G. M. dropped the ring.

  Plastic keys rattled as the colorful collection hit the floor. An adorable frown on his face, the baby squawked. With a soothing murmur, Myst crouched, grabbed the toy, and wiped it off. Handing it back to G. M., she pushed to her feet.

  “Listen, Hope,” she said, tone reasonable as she backtracked. Hope could see it happening, the furious pedaling of a woman about to gloss over what she’d let slip. “We do things a bit differently here. What I meant to say was—wife. I’m Bastian’s wife. The pack thing? Well, the guys use that because each one has a specific role to play, like in a wolf pack.”

  A lie. A nice juicy one. And an excellent try.

  Not about Myst being married. She believed that, but the rest was well-spun fiction. How could she be sure? Part of her job entailed separating lies from the truth. Body language. Inflection and tone of voice. How a person’s eyes moved while interacting with others. She’d spent hours studying people—the microexpressions most missed—and could spot deception a mile away. The kind that, right now, was written all over Myst’s face.