He knew Sasha could do it.
Her bio-energy—the way she’d fed his dragon half—more than proved her efficiency. At least, when it came to him. Still, he hesitated to repeat the experience. Sinking inside her might be heaven, but the risks involved unnerved him. Her grip on him wasn’t natural. The intensity of his reaction to her made no sense. He couldn’t explain it, which left him wondering what the hell was going on. She wasn’t a high-energy female. Would never draw males with the power of her connection to the Meridian or cause warriors to fight over her.
Excellent argument. Perfect logic. No need to explore further.
And yet, she drew him like a magnet to metal.
His yearning to see her caused him to stare out the window of his aboveground lair, eyes fixed on the house across the street. Day after day. Night after night. He couldn’t stay away from that damn window. Or quell his relief when she pulled her beat-to-shit Jeep into her driveway, arriving home safe every evening. Wheeling around a steep cliff, Ivar frowned. What was it about her? Why was he still thinking about her? What would it take to expel her from his mind?
The questions circled.
No answers arrived to snuff out the mystery. Which meant one thing. He must brave the effect Sasha had on him and see her again. Wings spread wide, Ivar rocketed over a narrow valley and toyed with the idea. Touching her again carried risks. The kind a wise male wouldn’t ignore, but he couldn’t subdue the idea. Or stop the excitement skittering down his spine. Eagerness followed, lighting him up from the inside out.
He huffed in exasperation. Guess that answered that. No reason to doubt what his dragon half wanted—the blond temptress living across the street. Primal need wasn’t something he could ignore. Neither was curiosity. Both demanded he approach her again. Screw the danger. Fuck all the questions. The only one that mattered was how Sasha would react when he banged on her door a second time and—
“Ivar.” Edged by a Norwegian accent, the voice vibrated through mind-speak. “About time you got here.”
Jarred by the interruption, Ivar refocused and . . . realized two things at once. First, he’d arrived at his destination. Second, he had no clue how he’d gotten there. He couldn’t remember a thing about his flight north. He stifled a curse. Talk about stupid. He needed to pay more attention. Otherwise, he’d end up dead, without ever having registered the threat.
Flexing his talons, Ivar cracked his knuckles, enjoying the snap as brisk winds died between the rise of serrated mountain peaks. “Had things to do in the lab.”
“Any progress?”
“Nyet,” he said, but he was close. So fucking close. A whisper from unlocking the viral sequence and killing the disease for good. “I’ll know for sure by morning.”
Night vision sharp, Ivar fine-tuned his infrared and flew over the last rise. The forest retreated, giving way to sheer granite faces before dipping into a deep V between mountaintops. Snow blew from the ragged peaks as a nasty northeasterly picked up again. Ice crystals melting on his scales, he scanned the rocky ledge to his left.
His gaze narrowed on the waterfall cascading over the cliff face.
Steam frothed into the frigid air.
Ivar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. He should have known. A perfect paradox—hot, flowing water in the heart of winter. The equation wasn’t that complicated: water times an unexpected place equaled Hamersveld. Every. Single. Time.
Ignoring the wet chill, he went wings vertical and circled back around, searching for his XO in the mist. Nothing. No ping. No nasty water dragon vibe. Zero visual aids. Ivar scowled and searched the outcropping again. “Where the hell are you?”
Hamersveld chuckled. “Here.”
Like a theater curtain opening onstage, the waterfall parted.
Ivar blinked. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
Ivar didn’t have a clue, but well . . . shit. Finding his friend in human form, shoulders deep in a hot tub dug into solid rock—steam rising, hot water bubbling around his bare chest, an unapologetic gleam in his black, blue-rimmed eyes—surprised him. Why? Ivar huffed. The hell if he knew. Hamersveld didn’t follow rules of any kind. If anything, the male excelled at breaking new ground . . . literally, judging by the uneven edges of the stone whirlpool.
Slowing his flight, Ivar hung above the ledge. His back talons touched down, scraping over granite. Pebbles jumped, then rolled, somersaulting over the cliff edge. Stone cracked against stone, echoing across the valley as he folded his wings in a fast tuck. Air rushed from beneath the webbing. The blow back ruffled one side of the cascade. Water sprayed upward, splashing over wet rock. A snarl reverberated, bouncing off the cliff face, joining the pitter-patter of falling water. Raptor-sharp white teeth flashed in the gloom. Ivar’s eyes narrowed and—
A flinty, yellow-eyed glow sparked in the low light.
Ivar clenched his teeth. Lovely. Just perfect. Foul-tempered miniature dragon at one o’clock, perched in the jagged rock above the whirlpool, guarding his master’s back.
“Good to see you too, Fen,” Ivar said, sarcasm out in full force.
Fen curled his scaly lip, then looked away, dismissing him like dog shit on a sidewalk.
Ivar resisted the urge to squash the little bastard. One flick of his tail. A single thump of his talon and—bye-bye birdie. No more singing for miniature dragons. He imagined it a moment, enjoying the high-pitched squawk, the flow of the wren’s blood, but—Ivar quashed the impulse. Killing Fen would be the height of foolishness. Hamersveld would never forgive him for hurting his wren. His XO might thrive on violence, but he loved Fen more. A pity. Dissecting the wren—learning the subspecies of Dragonkind’s secrets one scalpel slice at a time—would almost be worth the grief of losing a friend.
Glancing away from the perpetually pissed-off wren, he refocused on Hamersveld and raised a brow. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Absolutely.” Gaze leveled on him, Hamersveld smirked. “What’s the point of being out here in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere if I can’t have a little fun?”
Ivar glanced around, taking in the terrain. Pretty desolate. One hundred percent inhospitable. Ivar tipped his head, making his horns tingle. Huh. Guess Hamersveld had a point. He eyed the hot water. Bet that would feel good. Might even help him unravel from all the time spent bent over a microscope. “Got room in there for two?”
“Hop in,” Hamersveld said, dropping mind-speak.
With a nod, Ivar shifted from dragon to human form. He didn’t bother with clothes. Instead, he stood naked in the moonlight, skin steaming, and pressed his chin to his chest. Sore muscles squawked. He gritted his teeth, embracing the pain before switching tack and rolling his shoulders. Tight knots released. Relief wormed its way into his joints as he tipped his head back. The waterfall roared from a hundred feet up, splashing down, beading on Fen’s pale scales, making the rock slick and the air cooler. Mist collected and rolled down his spine. Wiping water from the back of his neck, he walked toward his friend.
Rough stone scraped the bottoms of his bare feet.
Ivar ignored the discomfort and, reaching the edge of the tub, stepped in. Heat engulfed him as he sank into the pool opposite Hamersveld. Hot water bubbled up, frothing into white ribbons around him. Sitting on a smooth granite ledge, he stretched his legs out. Nice and comfortable. The perfect size and temperature, a magic-driven spa in the middle of nowhere. Ivar sighed and—
“Better?”
“God, yeah.” Groaning, Ivar slid deeper, immersing himself to the chin, before tipping his head back. Uneven stone cupped the back of his neck. Warm water lapped over his shoulders. The failures of the day fell away. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat, then cracked one lid open. “Status report.”
“All set. The competitors are in place.” Stretching his arms out, Hamersveld set his elbows on the edge of the whirlpool. “Show’s about to start.”
Glancing right, Ivar looked out over the vall
ey floor. Shaped like a bowl, the spines of parallel mountain ranges tapered, giving way to a braided river surrounded by huge evergreens. “I assume this is the best vantage point.”
“Why do you think I chose this ledge?”
Why, indeed. Ivar smiled and let the last of his tension melt away. God, it was heaven. The absolute best. He might have to tell Hamersveld he loved him.
“Now, now . . .” An amused gleam in his eyes, his XO shook his head. “Don’t go getting all gooey on me.”
Ivar laughed. “You going to get it started or what?”
With a huff, Hamersveld fired up mind-speak. “Azrad—you’re up. Get moving. The rest of you—get ready.”
Surprised poked at Ivar. He blinked. What the hell did the rest of you mean? He treated his friend to a sidelong glance. “You sending Azrad against the entire pack?”
“Nothing so harsh.” One side of Hamersveld’s mouth creased. “Azrad will have help from Terranon and Kilmar—one fighting triangle against twelve of our best fighters.”
Four to one odds. Pretty fucking harsh. What was Hamersveld trying to do—get his most skilled warriors killed? He scowled at his XO. “What the hell do you think you’re—”
A green, yellow-tailed fireball exploded across the night sky.
Singing with violence, the inbound missile rocketed across the valley. Treetops caught fire. Tendrils of smoke seethed, writhing over the river’s edge. The smell of diesel mixed with burning wood and the pungent scent of napalm.
“Ah, the sweet smell of Terranon.” Hamersveld hummed, the fireball highlighting the anticipation in his eyes as he glanced Ivar’s way. “Hold tight, brother. Here we go.”
The high-speed missile struck the cliff opposite them.
Rock shrieked.
Green goo exploded, spraying in all directions.
Expanding like lime-colored foam, the acidy-ooze raced over the rock face before catching chemical fire. An unearthly shriek ripped through the valley. Multiple dragons broke cover and took to the sky. Ivar sucked in a breath. Holy hell. Getting out of the way sounded like a great plan. He’d have done the same to avoid touching the mysterious green muck. The stuff looked nasty and smelled even worse, and as Ivar watched the carnage unfold, he couldn’t help but feel hopeful. The battle was shaping up. His warriors looked strong, ready to fight, better prepared than the last time he’d supervised dragon combat training. The improvement seemed promising. He hadn’t expected anything like—
Another fireball roared through the darkness.
More yellow than green this time, the noxious mass streaked toward the other end of the canyon. Several warriors shifted mid-flight. Flying in formation, three males uncloaked, cutting the pack off before they could regroup. Growls filled the air. The trio went wings vertical, splitting the larger pack in two. Claws shrieked against scales. The scent of blood filled the air. Males screamed in agony.
Ivar shivered. Holy shit. It was like watching a train derail—in slow motion. Gooey green fire burning across cliff faces. Rock shrapnel flying. Half a mountainside destroyed. Twelve Razorbacks in complete disarray. One fighting triangle in control.
Without slowing, the trio banked right. Azrad broke from the group. Black scales glittering, spider tattoo glowing red on the side of his neck, he went after his next target solo. He struck hard, the crack echoing off sheer granite faces as he peeled the male like an orange.
Blood spilled over pale-blue scales.
Azrad swung back around, slicing another warrior open with his quadruple-bladed tail.
Ivar’s mouth fell open. “Jesus.”
“Told you.”
“He’s going to kill everyone.”
“No, he won’t. Maim a few, sure, but he never quite kills them,” Hamersveld said, reassuring him as Azrad sideswiped another male. Ivar flinched as the warrior howled in pain. “Settle in, brother. Enjoy the show. It’s only going to get better.”
No doubt. Proof flew a few hundred yards away, making mincemeat of his pack. Gaze riveted to Azrad, Ivar watched him take on three males at once. Quick shifts. Fast spirals. Tight turns. The acrobatics were nothing short of amazing. Awe inspiring in some ways, disconcerting in others. Something about Azrad didn’t sit right. Ivar took another look, staring openmouthed as Azrad gutted another male and . . .
A strong sense of déjà vu hit him.
Ivar frowned. What was it about the warrior? He shook his head and tracked Azrad as he swung around. Shift. Parry. Strike and . . . weird. With his black scales, smooth moves, and strange markings, Azrad seemed familiar somehow. As though he’d seen the big male somewhere before.
His eyes narrowed. Azrad sent a fifth warrior spinning before latching onto another. His newest victim squawked. Covered in dragon blood, Azrad’s talons sank deep a second before he released his captive. His longer-than-usual claws pulled free of the male’s rib cage. Still alive, but badly wounded, the bleeding warrior’s wings folded. He plummeted out of the sky. Ivar leaned forward in the hot tub, wincing when his warrior hit the ground with a crunch.
Baring his fangs, Azrad chased down another.
The sense of recognition grew stronger.
Ivar tightened his grip on the edge of the whirlpool. Jesus. The male was aggression personified, an excellent candidate for his breeding program, the perfect warrior to pair with an HE female. But first, some vetting needed to be done. One way or another, he must discover why Azrad looked so damned familiar.
Chapter Seventeen
Sitting with her back to the wall inside her temporary bedroom, Hope turned the rolled boxing wrap over in her hands. Slap a sticker on her that read “Cooked” and call it a day. She was in big trouble, the kind of screwed that left her wondering when and where she’d lost her mind. She snorted. When and where weren’t the issue. The who, however, remained a serious problem. One unlikely to go away anytime soon.
Stay put, he’d said.
No way she could’ve done that, not after . . .
Hope frowned at her knuckles. Screwed didn’t quite describe what she was at the moment. Or rather, what she was doing.
Hiding might be a better characterization.
In full retreat was an even better one.
The fact she was doing it while wedged between her bed and the night table with her butt planted on the floor summed up her situation nicely. Hope cringed. All right, best add pathetic to the heap of shame and get on with her day.
Cursing under her breath, she examined the Velcro holding the boxing wrap closed. Nice. Neat. All the tidy edges lined up. No chaos in sight and . . . yeah. She ought to be like that, more in control, less of a mess. Bumping the boxing wrap against her bent knee, Hope stared at the cloth roll a moment, then tossed the tight coil onto the bed. It bounced across the comforter, a quick tumble that led her gaze to the wall opposite her.
She saw the framed mirror, but not really. Nothing had come into complete focus since she picked herself off the floor and fled Forge’s room. Bowing her head, Hope exhaled a long, measured breath. All right, so she’d messed up. Crossed a line. Been blindsided by a gorgeous guy with a sexy streak a mile wide. In no way her fault. Picking at her chipped nail polish, Hope frowned. Okay. Not true. It was at least half her fault, and all the excuses in the world wouldn’t fix it. Which meant she needed to man-up and stop hiding like a frightened kitten under a piece of furniture.
It was disgusting, and . . .
Sad to say, but her usual MO.
Despite encouraging others to tackle issues head-on, Hope retreated when faced with her own. She liked to hide until she thought things through and figured out how best to deal with the problem. Not the most mature way to move through life, but . . . God. Rapid change and inconstancy frightened her. Which made all kinds of sense given the man responsible for her upbringing. Her father might be good at his job, but he’d sucked as a parent, leaving her and Adam floundering in a sea of uncertainty most days. Still, running away when she felt unsure didn’t make the cut.
/> Not that she could’ve done what Forge asked.
Naked, naked . . . naked in his bed. The idea turned on its axis, spinning her back to Forge’s bedroom—to waking in his arms, to being surrounded by his heat, to hearing the rumble of his oh-so-sexy baritone.
Hope swallowed a groan. God help her. The way he affected her was unnatural. She never acted like a cat in heat with anyone before, but no matter how she looked at it, her reaction to Forge felt like that—wholly combustible.
Closing her eyes, Hope pressed the pads of her thumbs to her temples. The pressure didn’t help. A headache hung in her periphery, banging on her mental door, demanding she let it inside her head. She wanted to do it, open the floodgates, welcome the distraction, flip the covers back, crawl into bed and never come out. But burying her head in the sand—or rather, under cotton and feather-down—wouldn’t solve anything. She had a job to do, one that didn’t include getting kinky with Forge.
An excellent argument.
Her body protested, squawking in disagreement.
“Goddamn it. I need my head examined.” Fighting the ache, she rubbed her forehead. “Or maybe a libido-ectomy.”
Hope tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. Perfect solution. The complete removal of her wanton-sex-switch might be the only thing that saved her. Particularly with lust still raging through her veins.
“Freaking guy,” she muttered, trying to forget his touch and the heat of his hands, but—balls in a banana sack. Nothing worked. Every time she thought about Forge, pleasure unfurled beneath her skin, making her teeth clench and her principles waver.
Hope snorted. So much for professional ethics. Hers had gone the way of the winds. Now she felt battered by the storm and in need of an outlet. Fisting her hand, she examined her knuckles. Perfect white points waiting to be used. She needed to hit something. The heavy bag in her garage whispered her name. Longing grabbed hold, making her itch for her small house in the suburbs. Safety lived there, the promise of a normal, everyday routine, the perfect hideaway, the only place in the world that made sense . . . and her attraction to Forge didn’t exist.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 21
