Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  A welcoming place.

  A gathering place.

  The place the Nightfury pack assembled each day to spend time together, sharing meals along with the latest news.

  “You know,” Rikar said, standing behind his fancy-ass chair, looking thoughtful. “I PVRed the game. The Blackhawks played Dallas last night.”

  “Blackhawks?” Nian asked, plate and utensils in hand. “What the hell is that?”

  Every gaze snapped toward the recent addition to the Nightfury pack.

  Forge stifled a laugh and watched his brothers-in-arms’ reactions. Nian held his ground, refusing to hide his curiosity. His lips twitched. Brave lad. Ballsy stance, considering the warriors in the room, and the male’s precarious welcome inside the lair. Born into the aristocracy—the youngest member of the Archguard high council—Nian remained an unknown variable. Haider might have saved his life in Prague, pulling him out of a kill room and Rodin’s reach, but no one knew whether or not to trust the male.

  The jury was still out in Forge’s mind.

  The lad seemed solid enough. Smart. Strong. In search of a home—the same way he had a few months ago. Just like him, Nian needed a second chance. Forge wanted to give him one, despite Bastian’s reservations—and the fact Gage wanted to kill him. Shite. The warrior asked B for the green light and Nian’s head almost every day. Some leeway with Nian, though, would go a long way. The male longed to be part of a pack, with warriors who valued him. Forge understood the need for acceptance, empathizing with the male’s search for a place to belong.

  He’d been in the same position just months ago. Cut off from his birth pack. Alone in the world. So lonely he’d thought he might die. And just like Nian, the condition had been of his own making.

  After the murder of his family—and waking in a swamp, buried nostrils-deep in water and mud—he could have gone home. Reached out to his cousins. Stayed safe inside the Scottish pack. Suspicion had kept him from it. Someone inside his birth pack had given the enemy his family’s precise location on the moors that night. A harsh conclusion to draw? Maybe, but Forge didn’t think so. Nothing else explained the ambush and subsequent attack. Both had been too well coordinated, no simple one-off for the bastards leading the charge. The rogue pack had done what they’d intended to do—kill his sire, murder his brothers, take out the entire branch of his family tree in one well-planned assault.

  Surviving his family hurt. His inability to protect his brothers and sire still bothered him. A warrior now, he could see the array of options from which he could’ve chosen. Pick one. Follow through. His sire’s words, but in his inexperience, he hadn’t considered a single one. Forge swallowed a curse. He never should have retreated. No matter how shaken, or badly wounded, he should’ve stayed and figured it out. Found the traitor. Avenged his family. Killed all those involved—cousins included. The shame of leaving it undone weighed on him. His family had died on his watch. Through some stroke of fate, he had not. Now he couldn’t imagine returning to the place of his birth, to the memories or the dragon warriors who called Aberdeen home.

  Which had left him adrift in the wilds of humanity.

  He refused to see the same happen to Nian. No matter his history, the lad deserved better than exile and abject loneliness. Dragonkind males didn’t do well in isolation, and well, if B required a concrete reason to keep the lad around, Forge could offer one. His rationale wasn’t all hearts and roses. He recognized faster than most how things changed for the worst. No one knew what the future held. So aye, having a member of the Archguard in their back pocket could only amount to a good thing.

  “I can’t believe you don’t know who the Blackhawks are,” Rikar said, staring at Nian as though he’d grown a second head. “Where the hell have you been—under a rock?”

  Nian shrugged. “A close second—in Prague. I had businesses to run and Rodin to watch. No time for fun.”

  “That needs to change. How about we start right now?” Devilry in his mercury-colored eyes, Haider glanced at Rikar. “A hundred bucks says Chicago lost.”

  A rabid hockey fan, Rikar scowled at the male insulting his beloved Blackhawks. “Too easy, Haider. You don’t want your money? I’ll take it.”

  Haider scoffed. “The only one losing money tonight, Rikar, is you.”

  “It’s on.” Moving with stark efficiency, Rikar reached for the food dishes. Ceramic lids clinked as they hit the tabletop. He grabbed two plates. A stack of pancakes covered with maple syrup went on one. A mound of eggs and bacon topped with five pieces of cinnamon toast got piled onto the other. Giving the caloric nightmare disguised as flapjacks to Angela, he leaned in, kissed his mate on the mouth, and handed her utensils. “Come on, angel. We’re eating in front of the TV.”

  Sloan reached for his computer. “I could tell you who—”

  “Don’t,” Rikar growled.

  Haider glared at their resident computer genius. “You’ll ruin the bet if you tell us who won. Butt out, man.”

  Rolling his eyes, Sloan set the laptop down.

  “See ya.” With a laugh, Angela turned from the table and followed her mate.

  “I want to see this.” Snagging a couple of plates, Gage passed one to Osgard. “Load up, kid, and be quick about it. Rikar and Haider might beat the shit out of each other during the game. No way I’m missing that.”

  A rumble of agreement rose around the table.

  Standing to one side, Forge watched the other Nightfuries dig in, loading up plates, feeding their mates, grabbing cutlery before hightailing it out of the dining room. As Wick and J. J. disappeared around the corner of the fireplace, he glanced at Hope.

  Laughter in her eyes, she shrugged and, flatware in hand, made a beeline for the pancakes. “I don’t know anything about hockey, but I’m game to learn. You grab the—”

  Bastian shoved a chair against the table. The hard rap echoed. Hope froze mid-stride, her attention locked on the Nightfury commander. “Hope, I’m Bastian, Myst’s mate. Welcome to Black Diamond.”

  “Thank you, ah . . . sir,” Hope said, standing military straight, hand twitching as though she fought the urge to salute.

  Forge didn’t blame her. B might be reasonable—most of the time—but he looked lethal. Flat-out scary to anyone who didn’t know him. To be expected. A commander of warriors, he wore intimidation like a second skin. And a female meeting him for the first time? Aye. No doubt at all. Anyone—male, female . . . the groundhog nesting in the yard outside—would do well to stay wary with B in the vicinity.

  The hard-core attitude served Bastian well. Was one of the reasons he led the Nightfury pack with efficiency. Strength, honor, and razor-sharp intelligence rounded out his virtues, making him a male to be reckoned with. Warriors respected him. Their enemies feared him. Everyone listened when he spoke. Even so, B’s tactic with Hope bothered him. He didn’t like the uncertainty on her face. Or the idea another male stood so close to her. Close enough to touch, a fact his dragon half refused to accept.

  Bastian ran his hand along the back of the chair and took another step, closing the distance.

  The urge to plant his fist in his commander’s face grabbed hold. Forge shifted to stand beside Hope, lending his support, willing to shield her with his body. “Careful, B.”

  One side of Bastian’s mouth tipped up. He switched to mind-speak. “Watch yourself, Scot. You’re getting awfully territorial.”

  “Fuck off,” he said, borrowing Wick’s favorite expression. Bastian raised a brow. He ignored it in favor of getting back on track. It was either that or let loose and knock his friend’s teeth down his throat. “We’ll fill our plates and join you in the living room.”

  “No, you won’t. Not you two.” The last to leave, B picked up his plate and started for the exit. “Stay here. Eat. Talk. Get to know one another.”

  Forge tensed. Oh Christ, nay. Alone in a room with Hope. Nothing and no one to stop him from touching her again. Shite. His stomach flip-flopped. Anything but that. The female
turned him inside out without even trying. No way would he survive sitting across a table from her without his control slipping. Or suffering a serious case of blue balls.

  Panic rose at the thought.

  Looking for a way out, Forge challenged his commander. “Is that an order?”

  Bastian paused mid-stride, green gaze level, expression full of don’t-fuck-with-me. “Do you need it to be?”

  He scowled at his commander. Arsehole. Clever, clever bastard. Bastian was too smart by half. The male had outmaneuvered him, leaving him between a rock and a hard place. Stay or go? Courage or dishonor? Be a warrior and accept his fate or rail against his future for the next few weeks. Forge rolled his shoulders. It seemed foolish to fight, but God, he wanted to start one. Bay at the moon. Let his fists fly. Complain at the unfairness of it.

  Bastian waited for an answer.

  Forge shook his head, answering without words. No sense prolonging the inevitable. Hope was here to help him recover his memory. Mac said she was good at her job. He prayed for his sake his apprentice was right. He needed a breakthrough. Craved answers. Longed for the pain to end more than he wanted to avoid a female that made him feel too much. But as B left the room and he looked at Hope, Forge knew whatever experiment/therapy she planned would end in disaster. For him? With absolute certainty. For her? No way around it. Now only one question remained. The fifty-million-dollar one—could he keep it professional and stay out of her bed? Good question, given he’d spent less than five minutes in her company and already wanted to lay Hope across the dining room table and treat her like a meal.

  Chapter Nine

  Worrying blew . . . big time. So did being hungry every minute of the day. Toss in the fatigue that always accompanied his near-starved state and—yeah. It sucked to be him.

  Sitting on the sofa in the great room, Mac tried to watch the game. One–nothing Blackhawks. He didn’t give a shit. Unusual to say the least. He enjoyed hockey. Got a kick out of Rikar’s obsession with the game and all the body contact. His mouth curved. Hell, those guys could hit. Sometimes with enough force to break bones.

  Always fun to watch.

  A plate balanced on one knee, Mac picked up his fork. Eggs. Bacon. Crispy potato wedges. All of it smothered in maple syrup, the real kind, one hundred percent authentic. Mouthwatering aromas rose on a curl of steam. He frowned at his stack of pancakes. The commentator droned on about a penalty—a stick infraction, some kind of shot to the head. Mac sighed. Enough stalling. Might as well get on with it. No sense beating the issue to death. He might not be able to stop worry from eating him alive. He could, however, fill the bottomless pit he called his belly.

  His stomach growled.

  Frustration tightened his muscles.

  An awful ache bloomed beneath his skin. Nothing new there. Every time he moved, the discomfort reminded him he wasn’t normal. Hell. Mac huffed. He was always in the dark. Left to flounder, a male without any idea of his origins or what the ink etched into his skin signified. He hadn’t signed up for it. Hadn’t sat in an artist’s chair or picked it from a book full of example tattoos downtown. The damn thing arrived with the change, his first shift into dragon form. Still, he wished he knew what it meant. Or that one of the other Nightfury warriors did. Information, a boatload of knowledge, would go a long way to easing his worry right now, but . . . no dice. None of the other Nightfuries owned a tattoo or had the first clue why navy-blue ink covered one side of his torso.

  Rotating his elbow, Mac stretched his muscles, causing himself pain just to be contrary, and stabbed a forkful of eggs. With more determination than enthusiasm, he shoveled the load into his mouth. Chew and swallow. He took another bite. And then another, making steady work of the abundance on his plate. He’d go back for seconds. Maybe even thirds before his hunger subsided and let his appetite rest.

  “Good?”

  The last bite halfway to his mouth, Mac glanced to his left. His heart skipped a beat. Damn thing always did when he looked at Tania—his mate, his love, the only woman in the world for him.

  Seated beside him, she nibbled on a piece of bacon.

  Her gorgeous brown eyes met his.

  Meal forgotten in a blast of molten lust, he reached out and gripped the nape of her neck. Thick and luxurious, her hair caressed the back of his hand. Mac leaned in. He couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to either. He needed a kiss, a little taste, a lot of contact . . . everything she had to give. Touching her—making love to her—was his manna. Pleasing her never got old. She nourished him in ways he couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to do without.

  His mouth met hers. He licked in, seeking her tongue. She opened and, fingers buried in his hair, gave him all he asked and everything he needed.

  “Yum. You taste like pancakes and . . .” Her lips brushed his again. She flicked him with the tip of her tongue. “Hmm, sex.”

  “Insatiable woman.”

  “When it comes to you? Absolutely.” She leaned away. A twinkle in her eyes, Tania raised a brow. “Are you complaining?”

  “No way. I can’t get enough of you, mo chroí.”

  “I know.” Tania grinned and came in for another kiss. Mac groaned into her mouth. She tasted delicious, the perfect combination of smart, sweet, and smoking-hot female. “You’ve got that look. Finish eating, and we’ll go.”

  To bed.

  She didn’t say it. Fuck, she didn’t need to. Mac knew what his mate wanted. What she needed, craved—all the explosive pleasure he adored giving her. He wasn’t any better. His yearning for her surpassed normal. Each day. Every night. He wanted her with a fervor that bordered on insanity. A state of being that troubled him a little. He was so needy, and his female was a giver. Tania never said no. Most males would’ve been happy about that. Mac worried instead. He fed every day, activating energy-fuse, connecting to the Meridian through her, drawing the nourishment he required to stay healthy and strong.

  Sometimes, though, Mac worried he took too much.

  As a general rule, Dragonkind males fed once a month. Some of his kind could go much, much longer without finding a human female with strong enough energy to feed. Not him. His hunger never abated. It gnawed on him with steely teeth instead. Normal, Rikar assured him, given his abrupt transition into Dragonkind. He was a fledgling—a warrior in training—and what his pack called a late bloomer. A male who’d experienced his first shift years later than usual. Why his dragon DNA had lain dormant was anyone’s guess. But the second he’d encountered his own kind—by way of being attacked by an asshole Razorback at his old SPD precinct—the transition began. Scary at the time. Still disconcerting months later, considering he had yet to find his footing.

  Mac scowled. Fucking tattoo.

  “Don’t worry.” Wrapping her arms around him, Tania snuggled into his side. His whole being sighed in relief. Taut muscles relaxed. He closed his arms around her before the thought to hold her even occurred to him. “Forge is going to be fine. I like Hope. She seems okay. I’m choosing to trust her with him.”

  “I hope you’re right. Forge is pretty pissed off.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Tania whispered, nestling her head beneath his chin.

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “How?”

  Tania snorted, the inelegant sound conveying better than words she thought he was an idiot.

  Mac lifted his head to peer down at her. “I know that look . . . pure mischief. Tell me how you know, honey.”

  “Well,” she said. “He seems quite taken with her.”

  “So?”

  “I have a feeling he’ll forgive you the second he gets her into bed.”

  Surprise overrode mental acuity for a second. He frowned. “She’s not here for that. He isn’t supposed to—”

  “What—screw her?” Tania snorted. “Oh, that’s going to happen. Forge won’t be able to keep his hands off her, and Hope won’t be able to resist him. He’s got that whole Highlander thing going on. Wicked hot.”


  Mac opened his mouth. Words escaped him. He closed it again. Wicked hot? Seriously? What the hell was Tania thinking? He gave his mate the stink eye.

  The love of his life rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Put the jealousy away. Just because I can appreciate Forge’s hotness doesn’t mean I want him. You’re the only guy who gets me hot, Mac.”

  And wet.

  Again, she didn’t say the words. No need. The meaning was implied. All of a sudden, Mac felt better. Excellent. Ego salvaged. Male pride soothed. Jealously tucked back where it belonged. Just in case, though . . .

  He nipped her bottom lip, tasting her again. “Let’s go. I need to fuck.”

  Tania blushed. “Mac!”

  “How many orgasms do you want?” he asked, teasing her as she glanced around to see who might’ve overheard. Gage met her gaze and grinned. Tania went from rosy to bright red. Mac chuckled and, dipping his head, nuzzled her ear. “I’m going to make you scream my name. Everybody’s going to hear.”

  “Oh my God! You—”

  He kissed her hard, interrupting her mid-scold.

  She gasped in outrage.

  Setting his plate aside, Mac grasped her hand and pushed off the couch. A quick tug brought his mate to her feet.

  Glaring at him, Tania laced her fingers with his. “You are so bad.”

  “You love it.”

  “Don’t know what it says about me, but . . . yes, I do.” She sighed. All show. How did he know? The blistering heat in her eyes told the tale. She wanted him as much as he needed her. And yeah—he smiled—talking dirty turned his female on. “Come on, Lover Boy. Let’s get you looked after.”

  “And you thoroughly fucked,” he said, keeping his voice low, for her ears alone.

  Tania turned an even brighter shade of red. She cursed him under her breath. Mac laughed. Bewitching. Beyond beautiful. He adored the way she reacted—with feminine disapproval and an overwhelming dose of lust. He could see it on her face, in her eyes, in the shift of her scent. White-hot arousal, pure and simple, gorgeous and full bodied. A few well-placed words, and his female went from simmering to wild and ready.