“I need tae revisit the library.”
Flipping into a somersault, Venom eyed them through glowing red eyes. “Why?”
“A book,” he murmured, ignoring his pack, searching his memory. “I read something in one of the tomes. Something I think will help Mac.”
“Go,” Bastian said. “Explain on the way.”
With a nod, Forge ignored his injuries and wheeled around. Leaving the other Nightfuries in his wake, he flew hard for Black Diamond. He didn’t have a second to lose. The answer lay in the underground vault, the library full of ancient tomes. Within easy reach. As long as he moved fast and perfected the setup in time, Mac stood a chance of surviving. But first, he needed to get home and talk to Hope. Telling her the truth so soon hadn’t been part of the plan, but the time for hiding was over.
Circumstances changed.
Time frames got moved up.
Females ended up shocked along the way, but that couldn’t be helped. Not this time. Not with Mac’s life on the line, so . . . fuck it. He would come clean and be honest with her. It was only fair given he needed her help.
He would’ve done it anyway . . . eventually.
Mating a female without sharing the truth of Dragonkind simply wasn’t done, but as the forest fell away, giving way to the river, worry got the best of him. Hope might hate him afterward. She might never accept him as her male, but . . . Forge clenched his teeth . . . no help for it. He needed every female inside the lair on board for his plan to work. Otherwise, he didn’t have a chance in hell of saving Mac’s life, and he’d lose his best friend forever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Folding his wings, Ivar fell out of the sky. Dropping through thick clouds, he aimed for the break between rooftops, pointing his paws toward the expansive lawn below. Wind blasted over his scales. The rattle and shake soothed his temper, the chatter from the guards landing behind 28 Walton Street did not.
Multiple paws set down, crushing frozen grass under-talon.
A spiked tail clipped one of the rusty oil tanks sitting in his appalling excuse for a backyard. The quiet clank annoyed the hell out of him. Bad form, he knew. He swallowed a growl along with his irritation. His soldiers weren’t doing anything wrong. In fact, each male was doing it just right. Getting a gold star. Receiving an A-plus in the procedure department—whatever (who the fuck cared?)—as the pack went about the usual business of arriving home: folding wings, shifting into human form, gathering at the rear entrance . . . waiting for him to set down.
Different night, same routine.
No one entered the lair until he did.
On a normal night, Ivar would’ve approved. Given his warriors a big thumbs-up. Right now, he just wanted them gone.
Five feet from the ground, he spread his wings, slowing his descent. His talons touched down without making a sound. The warriors in his personal guard stopped talking and turned to look at him.
“Inside—all of you,” he murmured, tucking his wings. As the webbing brushed his flanks, Ivar rolled his shoulders, trying to shed the tension. “I think I’ll stay outside awhile.”
Rampart, the bravest of the four, stepped forward. A frown on his face, he shook his head. “It isn’t safe outside, commander. The Nightfuries—”
“Don’t know where I sleep.”
The guard opened his mouth again.
Ivar’s eyes narrowed.
Without saying another word, Rampart snapped his yap closed and, with a flick of his fingers, ushered the others into the lair before stepping over the threshold himself. The door closed with a soft click. Ivar released a pent-up breath. Finally—some relief. A little peace and quiet. Tipping his head back, Ivar glanced up, into the night and inky darkness. A clean slate. No stars tonight. Nothing but thick clouds in a stormy sky. With a shrug, he pressed his chin to his chest, stretching sore neck muscles. Just as well. He didn’t need any witnesses, celestial or not, when he crossed the street to visit Sasha.
Calling on his magic, he transformed into human form and conjured his favorite pair of Lucky Sevens. A T-shirt went over his head as motorcycle boots settled on his feet. His leather jacket made an appearance next, hugging his shoulders, smelling of home, making him recall better times . . . like when he’d lain in a sex kitten’s arms and listened to her sigh his name.
The image prompted his get-up-and-go.
Checking none of his warriors lingered, he glanced toward the door. Nothing. Nobody. All quiet on the home front. Without looking back, he crossed the backyard and walked around the corner of the old firehouse. Kicking a beer bottle out of his way, he jogged up the flagstone path flanking the building. Boot soles cracking over shattered glass, he stepped onto the city sidewalk and veered left, heading toward the bungalow sitting across the street.
An ancient Jeep sat in the driveway.
Ivar huffed. Fucking rust bucket. Sasha needed to invest in a new vehicle. Something more reliable, preferably one with a working warranty. Skirting the back bumper, he kicked one of the tires. Rust fell from the undercarriage, leaving a lump of corroded steel under the driver’s side door.
Ivar scowled at it. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Forget about letting her in on the purchase. He’d buy a new Jeep for her himself. Wouldn’t be too much trouble. Step one—lift and carry, dump the POS into the deepest lake he could find. Steps two, three, four, and five—purchase, plate the Wrangler in her name, wrap it with a red ribbon, and set it in her driveway. Easy as breathing. End of story. No need for her to know who’d KO’d the old and given her the new.
Still glaring at the thing, he strode up her front steps. Wood creaked beneath his weight. He switched focus. His gaze landed on the door and—
Her keys were in the lock.
Right out in the open for anyone walking by to see . . . and enter.
Concern burned through him. His brow furrowed, Ivar scanned the street over his shoulder. Searching for threats, he reached out and grabbed the leather keychain. Metal jangled against his palm. Finding no one in the shadows, he turned the key, then clenched his teeth. Not even locked. Sasha had entered, forgotten to pull the key free, and not flipped the dead bolt on the door behind her.
“What the hell?” he whispered, worry turning to fear.
Sasha might live in the suburbs, but it was still the city. Females weren’t always safe. Danger lurked around every corner and—Jesus. She needed her gorgeous little ass spanked. Or, at the very least, a lengthy talking-to, one that would no doubt devolve into a lecture about personal safety.
Turning the knob, Ivar pushed the door open. Stagnant air rushed out to greet him. His fear evolved into terror. Oh Jesus. He knew that smell. Had scented it less than an hour ago at Cascade Valley Hospital inside the quarantine area. Heart pounding, boots thumping, Ivar crossed the threshold into the house. He scanned the darkness. One large room, three functions—kitchen, living, and dining—but no Sasha.
Sidestepping the peninsula, Ivar swung left, walked down the narrow hallway, and turned into her bedroom. The smell of sickness grew stronger. His heart shuttered inside his chest as he spotted Sasha. Curled in a ball, buried under a mound of blankets, she lay in the center of her bed.
“Sasha!”
She moaned in answer.
His heart started beating again. Alive. She was alive—in pain sure, but still breathing. Guilt struck, eating him whole as he stopped beside the bed and sat down. The mattress tilted. Sasha rolled toward him. Ivar reached for her, peeling the quilt away, needing to see her face. His hand brushed hot skin. A fever, a dangerously high one in need of treatment and a high dose of antiviral.
Something he could give her. Right now. Before she sickened further and ended up beyond help.
The thought sent rage racing through him. Compulsion—his need to protect her—did the rest, centering him as he reached into his mental vault. The lifesaving formula came when called. Preparing the compound, he calibrated the dose to her exact needs. Height. Weight. Blood type. He hit all the markers,
ensuring what he intended to give her would kill the bug he’d created . . . and she’d somehow caught.
Frowning, Ivar filled a syringe inside his mind. Where the hell had Sasha been? He kept track of her movements, stalking her from afar, ensuring she stayed safe while out in the wilds doing her research. None of the reports had placed her anywhere near Granite Falls.
Not that it mattered. Not anymore.
She was sick. He was here to help. Thank the goddess he possessed what she needed.
“Kitten?”
Her eyelashes flickered before she opened her eyes. “Ivar?”
“Da, I’m here.”
A tear rolled over the bridge of her nose. “You came back.”
Wiping the droplet away, he nodded as her eyes drifted closed again. “I have medicine for you.”
“Doctors said they couldn’t help.”
“I know, but I can,” he said, stroking the damp hair from her temple. “Trust me, kitten. It’ll help.”
“Okay,” she whispered, so trusting that guilt ate him alive.
Son of a bitch, it was his fault, every bit of the mess. He’d created the problem, and now carried the blame . . . was the reason Sasha lay feverish in her bed. His throat tightened. Fucking hell. His arrogance knew no bounds. The fact he’d fixed it—designed the antiviral, delivered the drug, and given it to sick humans—didn’t wipe his slate clean.
She suffered, and now, so did he.
Biting the cap, he pulled the plastic off the needle. The work of seconds, he unwrapped her. Sasha whimpered in protest. He murmured, soothing her as he pulled the last blanket away and her oversized T-shirt above her hips. Pale skin glowed in the low light. His dragon half seethed, wanting to be let out of its cage. Ivar reined in the inclination and, conjuring an alcohol swab, disinfected a patch on the curve of her bottom.
“A little pinch,” he murmured, voice deep enough to reassure her. “Breathe in, little one.”
Sasha inhaled.
Pushing the needle into her skin, he delivered the dose.
She flinched. “What is it?”
“An antiviral. You’ll feel better in a day or two.”
“I hope so.” She coughed, the hacking sound making him hurt for her. “’Cause this sucks.”
“I know, kitten.”
Desperate to soothe her, he cupped her cheek. The contact settled her and helped him. Although, her feverish skin still bothered him. She was too hot for his liking. Maybe she needed a couple of ibuprofen. He didn’t have any, but humans seemed to always have some on hand, so perhaps Sasha kept some in her medicine—
“Will you stay?” she asked, wrapping both her hands around his.
His thumb brushed over her cheek. Her bio-energy flared, catching magical fire around her. Her aura flamed, turning a deep scarlet red. Ivar froze as the burning rush slid along his arm, over his shoulder, and up the side of his throat. Pleasure pricked through him. He caressed her again. Her energy fired hotter, tempting his inner beast, forcing hunger to the surface. Ravenous need took hold, arousing him so fast his grip on her tightened. The slight show of force shut Sasha down. Between one breath and the next, her bio-energy retreated and her aura cooled, settling back into normal ranges.
Staring at her in disbelief, Ivar shook his head. Holy fuck. Incredible. Sasha was high energy, a zinmera, a female so rare most males never saw her like in their lifetime. Power personified, females of Sasha’s caliber manipulated the Meridian, lowering energy levels when uncertain—or faced with a threat—disguising the power, camouflaging themselves, fooling a male into believing her beneath his notice.
A great defense mechanism. A necessary one given Dragonkind’s track record with high-energy females.
Ivar drew in a deep breath. No wonder Sasha turned him inside out. His reaction to her made all kinds of sense. Despite being hidden from view, his dragon half had sensed the power, scenting her bio-energy even when she muted it.
Curling closer to him, Sasha tugged on his arm. “Will you stay with me?”
The request clogged his throat the first time. Her second appeal nearly slayed him where he sat. God help him. He wanted to stay—he really did—but instinct told him he shouldn’t. Her status as a high-energy female changed everything. And not for the better.
An image of cellblock A rose in his mind’s eye.
A month ago, he would’ve scooped her up and carried her home. Found a never-before-used cell and locked her inside it, but . . .
The thought turned his stomach.
No matter how unwise, he refused to strip Sasha of her freedom. She was a gorgeous female with an indomitable spirit, a wildlife ecologist with a burning desire to heal the planet. No way could he cage her. She belonged in the world, out doing her job, not in a state-of-the-art jail cell waiting to be bred.
The realization stunned him. The emotion behind his certainty scared him. His world had shifted, setting him adrift in a sea of confusion. Now he didn’t know what to do—embrace the changes taking hold inside him or cling to his old way of being.
A fork in the road. Two different directions to go, and for the life of him, Ivar couldn’t figure out which way to turn.
An ache bloomed in the middle of his chest. Rubbing the tight spot, he returned his focus to Sasha and raised his hand. Fingertips hovering above her head, indecision took hold. Impatient to claim her, his dragon half settled the matter, making him give in and stroke his fingers through her hair.
The light caress caused her to stir. Opening her eyes, she met his gaze, all soft brown eyes and pretty pink cheeks. “Ivar—please?”
“I’ll stay for a little while. Just until you fall asleep.”
“I don’t like that plan.”
“Play your part in it anyway, Sasha,” he murmured, walking a fine line, caught between what duty demanded and his need to keep her safe. “The rest will take care of itself.”
A nice sentiment. If only that were true.
But as he twirled her blond hair around his fingertips, Ivar recognized his words for what they were—a lie. Things rarely worked out in a female’s favor. Not with Razorback warriors involved. Something always went wrong. So only one conclusion to draw. If he kept visiting her, his pack would discover the truth—that he protected an HE female outside of cellblock A. No one would understand his reaction to her. Ivar huffed. Hell, he didn’t understand it, and as Sasha snuggled closer, trusting him with her safekeeping, Ivar turned toward a hard truth instead of away.
He couldn’t continue to see her.
Every minute he stayed endangered her life. Which meant he needed to get up and go. Walk away from Sasha and never look back. Right now, before his guards came searching for him, and the female he wanted but knew he could never have ended up trapped.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Head bowed, dressed in his ceremonial robe, Zidane knelt in the middle of the sacred chamber. Hewn from solid granite, the circular room lay at the heart of the mountain. Hot water flowed through channels carved into the rock wall, streaming into a pool flanked by ancient stone stairs. Steam writhed around him, dancing like ghosts as sweat trickled over his nape, down his back, making the heavy fabric stick to his skin. His fire dragon loved the attention, all the inferno-like heat. His mood, however, continued to deteriorate.
Hands fisted at his back, Zidane gritted his teeth. Kristus help him. He hated religious ceremonies. The shit-show always went on forever. And now, after an hour of being locked in the chamber, he couldn’t stave off the discomfort. Or his annoyance. Everywhere he turned, something else irritated him—the stone floor digging into his shins, the cloud of jasmine clogging the air, the burn in his lungs, the ritualized chant making his temples throb and his head ache.
Impatience stabbed at him.
A snarl rose at the back of his throat. He swallowed it at the last second. No matter how uncomfortable, he refused to make a sound and show weakness. Not while his sire stood watching. Not while Dragonkind priests circled like sharks. Not
when he was so close to achieving his goal—free rein in his quest to annihilate the Nightfury pack. But as the discomfort mounted, the urge to move and stretch overwhelmed him.
His thigh muscles quivered in fatigue.
Grinding his back molars, Zidane pushed away the pain. Fucking Archguard. The idiots never did anything with expediency. He understood the drill. Had spent his life surrounded by the absurdity, but—hovno, what idiocy. Dragonkind elite needed to pull their heads out of their asses. All the pomp and circumstance wasn’t necessary. Say a few words. Have a few drinks. Anoint him with holy water. What was so difficult about that? And why was it taking so fucking long? The question banged around inside his head. A second later, the chant came to a close.
The chamber went quiet.
Praying it was over, Zidane lifted his head. The idiot priests started up again, male voices rising in unison, baritones thick with promised blessings. With a sigh, he bowed his head again. His neck muscles whined in protest. The rest of him did too, screaming in pained silence as, long robes swishing over the stone floor, the priests walked a circuit around him. One revolution, then another as each doused him with blessed water. Droplets rained down on his skin, merging with sweat as the holy males widened the circle to include the warriors kneeling at his back.
He sensed his warriors shift, moving from knee to knee, behind him.
Hands still pressed to the small of his back, Zidane flicked his fingers. The signal settled his pack, quieting the group as he refocused on the ceremony. Might as well commit every detail to memory. Paying attention never hurt. And honestly, much as it pained him to admit it, he wanted to remember the ritual. Be able to recall the ancient rite word for word, syllable by syllable, one sentence after another when he was old and gray. The details mattered. Being selected to command a kill squad, after all, didn’t happen every night.
Satisfaction curled through him.
Finally . . . an edict made in his favor. Signed, sealed, and delivered by the Archguard.
The vote had taken longer than expected. A whole forty-eight hours of waiting and watching—of hoping and praying—but in the end, his sire had gotten the job done. The decision to exile the Nightfury pack hadn’t been unanimous. Far from it. Bastian was too well loved to throw to the wolves without question.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 29
