Framed by tall bookcases, B shook his head. “It’s past mid-day, brother. You’re fried. You need to sleep. We all do.”
We. The word stuck in his throat.
The warriors had done better than average, pulling a third of the books off the shelves, riffling through old documents in the archives before calling it quits. The bonded males—Rikar, Wick, and Venom—had left first in search of their mates. Not far behind, Gage, Haider, and Nian packed up, promising to renew the hunt after getting some much-needed shut-eye. A wise choice. Exhaustion wasn’t good for a male. Forge knew it, but couldn’t make himself leave. He wanted to stay, just a little bit longer. Mac needed him. He needed to help, so . . .
“One more tome, B, and I’ll shut it down for the day.”
A muscle jumped along Bastian’s jaw. “If you think I’m leaving you alone here, think again.”
“But Mac—”
Sloan snapped a book closed. “Is alive.”
Forge glanced to his right, meeting Sloan’s gaze. “Has he woken?”
“No, but his vitals are strong. Tania is keeping him stable,” Sloan said, using medical jargon he’d learned somewhere in Texas, under the watchful eye of a human doctor.
How he’d managed to get a college degree in the human world Forge didn’t know. Sloan never talked about his time down south. Not that Forge blamed him. Rumor had it, he lost a female along with his newborn son during his time in the Lone Star State. No one knew much, or anything for sure, but after experiencing the joy Mayhem brought to his life, Forge understood the male’s grief. So nay, he wouldn’t be asking anytime soon. Bringing it up—poking at Sloan’s wound to assuage his curiosity—didn’t seem like something a smart male would do and hope to keep his head on his shoulders.
Setting a thick hardback on top of the pile beside him, Sloan rolled off the floor and onto his feet. With a grunt of discomfort, he stretched out the kinks and crossed to the door. “She’s feeding him the energy he needs.”
“For how long?” Concern tightened his chest. Forge breathed through the lockdown, holding panic at bay. “She can’t feed him indefinitely. The longer Mac’s unconscious—the more he takes—the closer she’ll come tae energy deprivation. She won’t last, Sloan.”
“Mac and Tania are mated, Forge. The marriage ceremony is done. Their life forces are joined,” Bastian said, regret in his eyes, real worry on his face. “If he dies, she dies. No way around it. The best we can do now is let her feed him and keep hunting. Pray like hell we find a cure for him—and help her—before it’s too late.”
Forge snarled in response.
Sloan growled a curse, seconding his unspoken opinion.
“I know.” Bastian flexed his hands, his whitened knuckles standing out in stark relief against his skin. “It’s fucking frustrating, but we’ll screw up . . . miss something important . . . if we’re too exhausted to see it. So, get a few hours of sleep. We’ll come back after the evening meal and look through the remaining tomes with fresh eyes.”
The practical approach made Forge feel sick. How could he leave, give up the hunt without finding a single clue, when Mac lay unconscious in a recovery room? While Tania’s life hung in the balance? He couldn’t lose another female. Couldn’t bear the idea of Tania joining Caroline. Of her entombed in a casket and being lowered into the cold, dark—
“Forge,” Bastian said, a warning in his voice.
“Bloody hell. All right.” With a quick shift, he stood. The chair slammed into the table behind him. The wooden seat back clanged against stainless steel a second before it tipped sideways and hit the concrete floor. Throwing his commander a dirty look, Forge left his seat where it lay and, walking past half-empty bookcases, moved toward the door. “I need tae see my son anyway. Is he with Myst?”
Hot on his heels, B rolled in behind him. “I tucked my mate into bed hours ago. She needs her rest.”
Another thing that made perfect sense.
A pregnant female required three things—tons of time with her male, good food, and plenty of sleep. Bastian ensured Myst got all three. Stretching out sore muscles, Forge shook his head. The two were fun to watch. Myst kept her mate on his toes. She enjoyed pushing B’s buttons . . . and his boundaries. His commander, though, never wavered—no matter how often Myst insisted she needed M&M’S to survive. Not that Bastian cared about the amount of chocolate she ate. Or didn’t know Daimler played a role in her sugar addiction, supplying enough sweets to keep her happy. The skirmish had nothing to do with her health, and everything to do with the enjoyment a male took in teasing his mate.
Forge stifled a snort and rounded the last corner. Stairs led up toward a single door. He took the treads three at a time and, unleashing his magic, punched in the security code with his mind. The electronic lock disengaged. The door into the main corridor of the underground lair swung wide. He stepped over the threshold, turned right, and walked toward the elevators. Daimler, the sneaky bastard played along. The Numbai was hard-core, pretending to deny Myst whenever Bastian stood in earshot. The secret chocolate stash he hid in the pantry, however—for what he called “emergencies”—told the real tale, keeping Myst and the other hellions well stocked no matter the circumstances.
Five females strong. A force to be reckoned with.
A concept Daimler grasped with ease.
Amusing most days. Dangerous sometimes too, ’cause . . . aye. The second Myst discovered her mate’s game, Bastian would be in trouble, and all hell would break loose in the lair. And speaking of which . . .
He glanced over his shoulder. “Myst isnae with my lad?”
Bastian shook his head. “Hope offered to put G. M. to bed . . . and stay with him.”
Forge’s brows collided. Shite. “Stay with him.” Translation: in close proximity, within easy reach, nothing but a sliding door between Hope and his bedroom. The realization shoved good sense out of the way. His mind blanked. Lust-fueled fantasies sped into the void, offering a slew of terrible suggestions. Bearing down, Forge fought to bring his brain back online. No such luck. His imagination remained mired in a savage place full of mental pictures—Hope on his bed, her body bared, her red-gold hair a tousled mess, her lips swollen from—
Christ help him. He was in so much bloody trouble.
Mouth gone dry, Forge swallowed. “I am so fucked.”
Bastian laughed. “Go with it, brother. Why fight it? You want her—take her.”
So simple. Beyond dangerous.
Forge knew himself well. Naught but trouble lay in that direction. After learning about her brother, he recognized her vulnerability. Just as he had with Caroline. Aye, she was different, stronger willed than the female who’d borne his son, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt her . . . and send them both spinning into disaster. So aye. Like it or nay, sleeping with Hope—pleasing her, loving her—would be wrong. So bloody wrong. Instinct joined his conscience, sending a clear message. He needed to leave her alone. She’d told him no. He ought to respect her wishes. Forget about seduction, abandon the field, and retreat to safer ground.
Excellent notion.
Honorable intentions.
Slight problem with the plan.
He wanted Hope with a desperation that shook his resolve. She made him feel things he didn’t understand and couldn’t begin to control. It was odd and aye, even a wee bit scary. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for her. His reaction wasn’t safe or prudent. But as desire rumbled through him, his dragon half fixated on her. Awareness prickled through him. Need boiled beneath his skin. Hunger rose like a tidal wave as he glanced toward the ceiling. She was up there, just seven floors above him, naught but a short ride away.
Rolling his shoulders, Forge slowed his pace. He stopped in front of the elevator that would carry him to the aboveground lair—closer to the female on his mind. With a murmur, he issued a mental command. Heat rushed along his spine. Gears ground into motion, bringing the cage to his level.
A ping echoed inside the diamond-sh
aped vestibule.
Double doors slid open.
Forge remained rooted to the floor. Getting onboard was a bad idea. He should turn around and walk away. Head deeper into the underground lair until the rest of the Nightfuries got up for the evening. Use his brothers-in-arms as a buffer. Do the right thing and spare Hope the furious nature of his need. He stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall inside the elevator. A second of hesitation and . . .
He stepped inside.
Well, hell. So much for restraint. Uncage the beast and get out of his way. Lust ruled him now, shoving him toward the need to know what touching Hope would feel like. She was a powerful pull, and as the elevator ascended, Forge acknowledged his weakness along with his downfall. He needed her. Longed to experience Hope in all her glory. Be fed by her energy. Be held in her arms and surrounded by her warmth. Nothing less than full surrender would satisfy him. So . . . soft and sweet or a hard, fast loving? One hundred percent her choice. Forge didn’t care how it happened, just as long as she said yes and he mastered her in the end.
Chapter Twelve
Holding G. M. in her arms, Hope waltzed across the nursery. Thick area rug underfoot, the scent of baby powder in the air, she hummed Vivaldi, moving to the concerto of violins playing inside her head. She counted out the beat, twirling between each step. An easy three count: one, two, three—pivot, slide, spin into a gentle turn. One, two, three—sway with the baby cradled against her, keeping him happy and herself content.
Pulled free of a ponytail, her hair swung loose. The soft strands brushed across her shoulders as she sidestepped the end of G. M.’s crib. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile bobbed. Eeyore nodded at her. Ignoring the encouragement, Hope danced by the toy box full of stuffed animals, skirted the changing table, then whirled around the rocking chair.
Sucking on his thumb, G. M. sighed in contentment.
Joy bubbled up, settling into her bones, invading her heart. God, what a pleasure. It had been ages. Way too long since she’d held a baby.
Her gaze on her temporary charge, Hope watched his eyelids grow heavy. He was so cute. Such a beautiful little boy with violet eyes and a dark head of hair. Cuddling him closer, she nuzzled his cheek and hummed more of her song. He blinked, a slow up and down, then gave in and closed his eyes. She slowed her pace. His eyes popped back open. He frowned at her. Hope smiled back and kept dancing. Almost there. It wouldn’t be long now. One more circuit. Another turn or two around the room, and she’d have him right where she wanted him—fast asleep in her arms.
Stubborn little guy.
Hope shook her head. Such a difficult customer. She’d been at it for an hour, but he was all cried out now, so tired he struggled to keep his eyes open.
He squirmed, whimpering, still fighting sleep.
“I know, handsome boy,” she whispered, rocking him in her arms. Hope understood his upset. She felt the same way, couldn’t shake the memory of Mac lying unconscious on the floor. Or the sense that something terrible was about to happen.
The tension in the house backed up her theory.
Not great for her. Even worse for G. M.
Babies were sensitive, often reacting to the emotional state of those around them. The upheaval wasn’t good for him, and Black Diamond had been unsettled for hours. All the guys jacked-up. All the women in the house worried. Nowhere near the kind of vibe G. M. needed right now.
Humming more of her song, she patted his bum and added a jostle to the dance. “Shh, it’s all right. Close your eyes and go to sleep. It’s all right now.”
He seemed to take her word for it.
The instant he relaxed and slid into sleep, her own fatigue rose, making her aware of the aches and pains from the hour spent soothing him. Hope rolled one shoulder, then the other. Sore muscles protested. The twinge nipped along her spine, then spread to her arms. She stifled a groan. Man, she really needed to work on that—do more bicep curls, work in an extra set of push-ups . . . hold a baby more often. Her mouth curved. A little angel in her arms every day. Wonderful plan. The idea ranked high, right up there with making time for an afternoon nap.
Stifling a yawn, Hope glanced at the clock hanging by the door.
Nearly one in the afternoon.
She looked down at G. M. Still sucking on his thumb. A furrow between his brows. Not in a deep sleep yet. He needed a few more minutes. A little more cuddling. A gentle jostling rhythm. Just enough to ensure he didn’t wake when she laid him down.
Bypassing the crib, Hope headed for the rocking chair. A smooth about-face, and she sank onto the padded seat. Grabbing a throw pillow off the floor, she shoved it between her elbow and the armrest. Her biceps relaxed. She sighed in relief as the cushion helped support his weight, allowing her to adjust her hold, settling him at a more comfortable angle in the crook of her arm. Pressing her toes into the rug, she pushed off. The chair rocked. Back and forth. To and fro. Over and over. Again and again.
Minutes passed. The sway rolled into a soothing rhythm.
G. M. snuffled in his sleep.
Exhaling long and slow, she leaned into the chair back. The cushions cupped her nape, supporting her head, letting her float. Another minute, maybe two, and she’d go. She couldn’t sit much longer and stay awake. G. M. was almost ready. Her room wasn’t far, just a few doors down the hall. Hardly any . . .
Her eyes drifted closed.
“Hope?”
The voice came from far away, through a tunnel of thick fog. A few things registered. Deep voice. Scottish accent. Delicious, woodsy scent. “Forge?”
“Aye, lass.”
Hope tried to open her eyes. A no-go. Her eyelids refused to cooperate. Some idiot had glued her eyelashes together. “What—where?”
“Shh, now. Donnae move,” he murmured from somewhere close by. Above her? Beside her? Hope frowned. She couldn’t tell. It felt as though Forge was inside her head, each word a faint echo, soothing her back to sleep. Something brushed over her temple. The gentle stroke moved across her cheek, then turned to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Stay just as you are, jalâyla. You’ve naught tae worry about. I’ve got him.”
Him? Him-who?
Half-aware, so tired she couldn’t open her eyes, Hope let the question go and drifted back toward slumber. A warm weight lifted from her arms. Muted footfalls moved away. A rustling sound. A masculine murmur. More footsteps. A big hand cupped her shoulder, another slid behind her knees. The feeling of weightlessness as her body left the comfort of chair cushions.
Hope jerked.
“Easy.” Strong arms tightened around her. “Curl into me, Hope. Put your arms around my neck. Let me care for you.”
She hummed. Oh, how nice. A rare gift—someone who wanted to care for her. A man who enjoyed being in charge.
Unable to resist, Hope turned into his embrace and snuggled closer.
He rumbled in her ear, the sound full of approval. “There’s a good lass.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know. Poor me,” he said, but despite his words, he didn’t sound disappointed. He seemed amused instead. “’Tis a crying shame.”
“Why?”
“I had plans for you this eve.”
Oh well. Guess that explained it. Nestling her face against his throat, she sighed. “Sorry.”
“I’m not,” he said, laying her down on something soft.
A mattress? Cotton sheets? Hope murmured in pleasure. Sure felt like it, but honestly, who cared? Forge had set her down somewhere comfortable. Somewhere safe. No need to investigate further.
Turning onto her side, Hope snuggled into the pillow.
“That’s right, jalâyla—sleep. There’ll be time and plenty for what I need later.”
His words rang an unfamiliar bell. As it tolled inside her head, her eyes opened. She frowned. Nothing but blur. She closed both again.
What he needed. Later.
Right. Okay, good. Whatever he said and—
The mattress dipped.
&nb
sp; A warm weight settled behind her. Forge’s muscled arm arrived next, crossing over her belly, drawing her into the curve of his body. Her back pressed to his chest—spooning, her favorite position, the perfect one to indulge in while sleeping with a man. Cuddling with her, he rubbed his face against her hair. Hope grumbled, but let it happen, enjoying his heat and strength while telling herself she shouldn’t. Wanting Forge was foolish. Letting him get too close was a mistake. She knew it. Felt it. Was aware of the danger on a visceral level but . . .
To hell with it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to figure it out.
She would set him straight tomorrow. Put her foot down. Take him to task. Outline their relationship in clear terms and get back on track, ’cause . . . yeah. Being held by him felt too much like heaven, and his later sounded too much like a promise.
Awareness arrived like sunlight through heavy storm clouds. In chaotic bursts and rapid-fire flickers. Thin light bled through darkness only to fade away, into a black sea of nothingness. Another bladed burst. More searing prickles. Hope flinched as the flash struck, sharp, insistent, lightning bolt bright, dragging her out of shadows.
It didn’t hurt. Not really. The rush was more jarring than painful, and yet . . .
She frowned. It was odd. Unnatural. Beyond the realm of reality. She recognized the place. She hovered on the edge of sleep, warm and foggy, in the layer where slumber transformed into dream. Vivid imagery swirled over the screen inside her head, painting her mental landscape, making her senses swim and her mind sharpen. She hung on the horizon, gliding, flying, soaring through frigid night air, beneath a dark blanket of pinpoint stars. Satisfaction trickled down her spine. Contentment burned through her veins. Hope hummed and, spreading her wings wide, pitched into a slow roll.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 16
