Split down the middle, elite members of his kind had argued in favor of the Nightfuries. Many still grumbled, taking Bastian’s side, disagreeing he deserved death for defying the Archguard’s order to deliver Forge to Prague. The introduction of new evidence—namely, the attack on Rodin’s pavilion by Bastian’s warriors . . . a fantastic lie presented at a critical juncture of the assembly—shoved the vote over the edge, leaving Rodin to win by a narrow margin.
Ah, the manipulation of the masses.
Zidane hummed in enjoyment. Lucky for him, his sire knew how to fight dirty . . . and some males could be bought like common whores. Money changed minds—was a powerful motivator under the right circumstances. Not that he cared about Rodin’s methods. The politics of it wasn’t his problem. His sire could deal with the fallout if the truth ever surfaced. Right now, only the outcome mattered.
Xzinile for the Nightfuries. A preapproved hunting license for him.
Pressing his chin to his chest, Zidane suppressed a smile. Start a running tally. Put one down in the win column. Zidane—one. Bastian—zero.
The priests stopped chanting.
Zidane held his breath, hoping, praying, waiting for the moment when—
The bell tolled, ringing once, twice, a third time before the chamber fell silent.
Wooden legs scraped across the stone floor as a male rose from his chair. “Rise, Commander. Stand and be recognized.”
Bringing his arms forward, Zidane pressed his hands flat against the floor. Cold granite cooled his palms as he pushed to his feet. Stiff muscles squawked. Uneven stone met the soles of his bare feet. Burying the discomfort, he raised his head. Spread over the altar at the front of the chamber, a thousand candles burned bright. He squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden burst of light. Leveling his chin, he squared his shoulders and met his sire’s gaze from across the room.
Rodin’s dark eyes flashed with yellow fire. “Do you accept the responsibility given you? Will you carry out your task with honor?”
“I do,” he said, saying the words expected of him, even though he didn’t believe any of it. Honor belonged to the weak, not him. Never him. He was a destroyer of warriors, the methods he employed never involved a code. Morality had no place in his world. “I will.”
“Then let it be so.” Raising his hands, Rodin turned his palms up and, holding each one high, bowed his head. “Go, Commander. Take your warriors. Make good on your promises. May the goddess guide you on your quest.”
Zidane nodded. “The will of the Archguard be done.”
“Iazen,” the priests shouted in Dragonese, giving a final blessing, voices rising like a thunderclap against the high ceiling.
Fisting his hand, Zidane placed it over his heart. He thumped his chest three times. The drumbeat woke his dragon half. The beast seethed in its cage, begging to be set free as the males in his kill squad struck their own chests. The thud echoed, reverberating inside his heart as he turned to face them. His gaze landed on the last warrior in line. His first in command raised a brow, asking for orders without words.
“Ready the plane, Yakapov,” Zidane murmured. “We leave for Seattle within the hour.”
“Very good, Commander.”
Zidane hummed as his warriors moved to obey. Seattle, the Emerald City, where Bastian still thrived, but wouldn’t for long. The place he planned to make his new home. His mouth curved. Very good was right. Indeed, nothing could be better. Without looking back, he left his sire behind and strode across the chamber toward enormous double doors, already dreaming of dead Nightfuries and the battles to come.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The chocolate mousse tasted so good, it nearly killed Hope when her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Alone in the kitchen, elbows planted on the massive center island, she peered into the empty dish. All gone. None left. She frowned. Well, mostly. A few streaks of dark chocolate remained, marring white china, taunting her with the promise of another bite. God, that would be good. The absolute best given the guilt banging around inside her head . . . and her heart.
Death by chocolate. The proposition sounded fantastic right now.
Giving her spoon a lick, Hope glanced around the kitchen. Pale walls gave way to designer cabinets and an ocean of Carrara marble countertops. A host of halogens spotlit the six-burner gas stove and all the details most people missed. But not her. Hope saw every little thing: the quality of the construction, each perfectly mitered corner, the precision of the paint job. Everything in its proper place. Nothing to provoke criticism. The kind of room that invited a person to sit down and stay awhile. A place where honesty reigned and secrets came to die.
The idea made her tense.
Nothing she’d done at Black Diamond resembled anything close to perfect. Not that she expected perfection. Far from it, but as she looked around, getting stuck on the details, she realized what she was doing—falling into old habits, critiquing everything in sight, fighting to regain control of her environment after feeling so out of control with Forge. The thought made her chest tighten and memories rise. Hawkeyed observations—a top-notch defense mechanism, a throwback from a lifetime spent trying to please her father. Details mattered to him, and so, as a child, she made them matter to her too.
Not a bad thing. Precision suited her personality and being observant helped her excel as a therapist. But only if she stayed true to herself. Honesty was key. A willingness to acknowledge her flaws and see her mistakes played a role too, but . . . God. So many mistakes. Too many missteps. She’d made all the wrong moves with Forge. Now, she didn’t know how to reset her strategy.
Or even if she could.
Particularly since she wanted to make love to him again. Then maybe once more—or fifty times—after that.
Playing with her utensil, Hope scowled at the chocolate streaking her bowl. Frigging Forge. What was it about him? Why did he send her into such a tailspin? Why did her heart ache and her mind hurt whenever he left her? The last question made her growl. Left her. Talk about using the wrong words. Forge hadn’t abandoned her. He’d gone to do his job (whatever that entailed), yet even knowing that, she felt . . . yes . . . abandoned. Left behind. Out of the loop, as though she lacked crucial information—the kind she required, but he hadn’t shared.
Mind churning, she examined the thought. Ridiculous assumption or well-founded suspicion? Instinct at its best or insecurity at its worst? Hope frowned. She couldn’t say for sure. Couldn’t prove he withheld information, but for some reason, she sensed the evasion. She could see the gap in her knowledge base and didn’t like it. He was hiding something from her. A big something, a something she needed to know in order to help him.
“The evasive jerk.” Eyes narrowed, Hope glared into her empty dish.
“Go ahead. Lick the bowl.” Standing under the archway leading into the dining room, Angela grinned at her. “I know you want to.”
Did she ever, but somehow, it didn’t seem prudent. Or even close to polite, and given all the lines she’d crossed since arriving at Black Diamond, stepping over another one seemed unwise. Setting her spoon down, Hope pushed the bowl away. Fine china slid across smooth marble and bumped into her coffee cup. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry I’m late. I got held up on a video conference.” Hazel eyes pinned to her, Angela crossed the kitchen. Skirting the massive island, she headed for the coffee maker. A mug got pulled from an open shelf. Glass clinked against metal as coffee got poured into it. Caffeine fix in hand, her friend turned, leaned her hip against the countertop, and gave her a good once over. Hope tensed. Taking a sip of coffee, Angela raised a brow. “What’s bothering you, Hope?”
She wanted to say, “Everything.” Somehow, though, admitting the weakness out loud felt like defeat. She should be able to figure out Forge on her own. Was trained to deal with difficult situations, to help when no one else could. So instead of telling the truth, she tossed her far-too-observant friend an annoyed look. “Always the detective.�
�
“Always the evader,” Angela said, countering with a jab of her own.
Playing it cool, she rolled her eyes. No need to come clean. No need to admit a thing, but as she opened her mouth to reply, her brain derailed, making her blurt, “I slept with Forge.”
Angela blinked.
Hope froze. A second later, she cringed. Dear God, why had she said that? Such a stupid thing to admit given her purpose inside the house. Silence beating on her like a baseball bat, she stared at her friend, waiting for the reprimand, the shock and disapproval, her inevitable firing and—
“Good for you,” Angela said, calm as you please.
“What the hell?” Her friend should be taking her to task, not giving her approval. Drawing a deep breath, Hope pulled her wayward brain back onto the tracks. “How can you say that?”
“Maybe because it’s true?”
“No answering a question with a question.” Off balance, struggling to find mental equilibrium, she glared at Angela. “That’s one of our rules.”
Cupping her mug in both hands, Angela huffed. “We have rules?”
“Shut up.” Agitation reaching new heights, Hope pushed away from the countertop. She crossed her arms, then shuffled her feet. When that didn’t help, she pointed her finger at her friend. “You know we do—unspoken ones.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Crap. Cornered. Nowhere to go, even fewer places to hide. Hope sighed. Her friend was right. No sense denying it. “Mine, I guess.”
“You’re good at keeping people at bay,” Angela said, taking a sip of coffee. “You’ve always boxed out really well.”
“Part of the job. I can’t help people if I don’t remain objective. Emotion clouds judgment and—”
“Forge is making things cloudy?”
“Yes . . . goddamn it. He’s driving me nuts. I can’t get a read on him. One minute I think I know him better than anyone I’ve ever met, and the next, he’s confusing me. It’s all screwed up, Ange. Everything’s murky. I can’t see a clear path through any of it.” Frustration spun her around the lip of hopelessness. How could she help if nothing made sense? Forge blew her off course at every turn, and with her itching for him, the situation seemed unlikely to improve anytime soon. Deflated, Hope sighed. “I think I may be in over my head here.”
“You’re not.”
“What?”
“In over your head.”
Hope frowned. “How can you tell?”
“Your reaction to him might feel extreme, but his need for you is just as powerful, and that’s a good thing.”
Uncertainty sank deep, dragging Hope back into confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t think we’re meant to,” Angela said, amusement in her tone.
“Gee, thanks. That’s so helpful.”
Her friend laughed. “These guys aren’t like any others you’ve met, Hope. I warned you it wouldn’t be easy, but I think you’re on the right track.”
“Sleeping with him is considered the right track?”
“Absolutely.” Turning her mug in her hand, Angela treated her to a thoughtful look and . . . uh-oh. Hope knew that expression. She’d seen it countless times whenever her friend launched an argument she planned to win. “You’ve worked with a lot of people, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so, tell me—when does therapy stop being about someone going through the motions and start to be what you would consider successful?”
Good question. Only one answer. Elbow on the counter, Hope met her friend’s gaze. “When a patient trusts me enough to share their truth.”
“Good. Now, let’s turn this on its head,” Angela said. “Think of it this way—the closer you get to Forge, the more you touch him skin-to-skin, the better he’ll respond. The more he responds, the safer he’ll feel and the more deeply he’ll trust you. The instant that happens, he’ll stop hiding his truth. Get it?”
No . . . not really. The argument bordered on convoluted. Back-assward in every way. One hundred percent bizarre in a field full of weird things, and yet, the words stop hiding his truth resonated. She wanted him to trust her. Hell, she wanted him . . . period. So instead of brushing Angela’s advice aside, Hope did as suggested and turned it on its head, examining the idea from all angles. Instinct told her the approach made sense—touching him as often as she could would work. It went against everything she’d been taught, all of her considerable experience, but . . . Forge was unlike anyone she’d ever treated.
She sensed his struggle. Along with the secrets he kept.
Oh sure, he stood more than ready to jump into bed with her, but he had yet to talk about his past. She needed those details, for him to open up and be honest with her. Hypnotherapy worked well when she understood a patient’s personal history. When she knew what psychological pressure points to push and which to leave alone. It was a process, an intricate dance between her and the person she was trying to help. Which left her with a problem, one Angela suggested she held the power to solve. So . . .
Time to decide—put up or shut up.
Taking a deep breath, Hope reached for her coffee cup. As she pulled it across the countertop, dark liquid swirled against white ceramic, making her mind spin and her heart race. Holy crap. Was she really going to go against convention and do this? The question hung in the void less than a second before the answer pushed it aside. YES. Without question. She was diving in headfirst—going to embrace the illogical, let go of the guilt, and make love to Forge again.
“Helluva way to help him,” she whispered, startled by the idea even though she knew it was the right way to go. Shaking her head, she glanced at Angela. “You realize everything here is upside down and backwards, right?”
“You’ll get used to it,” Angela said, an instant before her attention snapped toward the hallway leading out of the kitchen. The movement spun her friend around, into a 180-degree turn. Surprised by the sharp pivot, Hope stilled with her mug halfway to her mouth. Skirting the end of the island, Angela glanced over her shoulder. Intent hazel eyes met Hope’s. “Along with the tingle.”
“The what?”
The second she asked, a prickle danced up her spine. Heat shimmered across her lower back, chasing the vibration, lighting fire to the need banked but still burning in her blood. A second starburst streamed over her skin, heating her body until the pinpricks morphed into pleasure. Her heart started to pound: harder, faster, hammering the inside of her chest.
Hope quivered as another round hit.
“Holy crap,” she gasped, not understanding. Nothing new there. Every time she turned around something inside Black Diamond confused her. “What is that?”
“Rikar . . . or in your case—Forge.” Feet already in motion, Angela jogged toward the exit. “Oh, and Hope?”
“Yeah?”
“Get ready.”
“For what?” she opened her mouth to ask.
Angela made herself scarce, disappearing from view on the way to God only knew where. Hope scowled. Blast it all. Now what? Every time she thought she might be getting somewhere, someone pulled the rug out from under her. Or rather, she got left standing in a kitchen with all kinds of questions and no one around to answer a single one. With a grumble, Hope set her mug down with a bang. Flummoxed again. Beyond annoying. Practically rage inducing and—
“Jalâyla.”
The deep voice stroked over her skin. Her head snapped toward the dining room. Lust blazed into an inferno, causing a needy sound to escape her, and . . . oh, thank God. Forge. Hope sucked in a quick breath as her gaze ran over him. Boots planted, stance wide, he stood beneath the timber-beam archway like a hard-bodied dream. Leather jacket on, dark hair mussed with a bruise marring one cheek, he looked good enough to eat. Like salvation wrapped into an ultrasexy package. Violet eyes on her, he growled. The sexy sound vibrated inside her like a tuning fork, setting off a chain reaction. Unbearable need tightened her muscles, the onslaught fogging her mind unti
l only one thought remained.
She wanted him. This instant. No waiting. No compromises. Just him deep inside her.
Nostrils flaring, he breathed deep. “You smell fantastic, lass.”
“I need you,” she said, overwhelmed, unable to hide her desire.
“I know.” Lifting his hand, Forge held it out, palm up. “Come here.”
A wave of yearning rolled through her.
Her greed for him added to the urgency, propelling her around the corner of the massive island. The closer she got, the tenser Forge became. She quickened her pace. He flicked his fingers, impatience in the movement, demanding her touch. Skin against skin. Oh baby. Hope bit back a moan. God, she needed him that way. No rhyme. No reason. Throw all her questions into the nearest garbage bin.
She stepped into range.
Forge murmured her name.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Hope pushed into his arms. Her breasts met his chest. Her hands delved into his hair. He groaned as she took hold of the thick strands and tugged his head down. Cheek to cheek now, she inhaled, filling her lungs with him, allowing his scent to soothe her. A heartbeat passed, then two. Anticipation a throb in her veins, she raised her head, set her mouth to his and, tasting him deep, took what she wanted.
Flat on his back in the middle of the rotunda, Forge stared up at the fresco. Painted by Wick, the image depicted dragons on the hunt. Brilliant with color. Alive with movement. Majestic in composition. Each scale, every spike and sharp fang accounted for as dragons took flight across the domed ceiling. Fitting decoration for a sacred room; a place so special the mated Nightfury warriors used it more as chapel than chamber, choosing to say their mating vows and claim their chosen females beneath the spread of dragon wings. But no matter how magnificent, the painting didn’t compare to the female he held in his arms. Hands roaming her back, he kept Hope right where he wanted her—draped over top of him, cheek pressed to his heart, her beautiful body on display and within easy reach.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 30
