Authors: Coreene Callahan
Their new boy needed a stitch-up job…fast.
Angry at himself, Rikar shook his head. He should’ve left Mac in the water a little while longer. Allowed him to play with his prey for another hour before he hauled him out and headed for Black Diamond. The saltwater had done the male a world of good: soothing bruises, helping to close the nicks and cuts, sealing up the less serious wounds. But the flight home hadn’t done the male any favors, undoing what the ocean had started.
Rikar slowed his roll, approaching Mac with caution. Not that he thought the male would hurt him. At least not on purpose. But a dragon was a dragon. And underestimating one in pain while he approached in human form wasn’t a good idea.
Holding his hands up, he murmured, “Mac.”
The male flinched. A second later he snorted, steam rising in twin tendrils from his nostrils.
“I need you to shift, big guy.” The movement slow, Rikar reached out and put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. He kept his touch gentle, not wanting to startle the male. The dark-blue tattoo Mac sported on his scaled torso shimmered beneath Rikar’s hand. When he didn’t move, the pattern settled into flat, dark ink once more. “We need to get you inside.”
Mac blinked, his eyes drifting closed, then opening again. He tried to raise his head. “I wanna go back in the water.”
Bastian jogged over. “There’s a salt bath inside, my man. Let’s get you inside the clinic and into it.”
Planting his paw, Mac pushed up, muscles trembling, groaning low as he transformed. Rikar winced. The cop looked even worse in human form. Poor bastard. The first night out and he’d caught real action.
Not the least bit fair. Or wise.
Fledglings were fragile in the beginning. Exhausted from the change. Overwhelmed by their new bodies and baffled by how to use them. So, yeah. A new Dragonkind male was always protected, kept away from the world and other dragons that weren’t family until he learned how to handle himself.
But oh, no. Not Mac. The male had dove right in. No hesitation. No fear. No freaking common sense. Which, Rikar suspected, would be their new boy’s MO from now on. Not a bad way to go, but…man. He was going to be hell to protect until he was up to speed and combat ready.
Rikar slung the cop’s arm around his shoulder. Mac cursed. He murmured “sorry,” but didn’t stop. B had called in their ETA on the fly. Sloan expected them, so…
No time like the present.
Muscling Mac across the LZ, Rikar pinged his buddy.
“Sloan. You ready?”
“All set.”
Plastic crinkled, the sound coming through mind-speak as the male said,
“Triage is good to go. How’s our boy?”
“Shitty,”
Mac growled through clenched teeth.
“Run the salt bath,”
Bastian said, bringing up the rear.
“And get Myst. He needs stitches.”
“Ah…about that,”
Sloan said, tone hesitant.
Which cranked Rikar’s shit in the wrong direction. Oh, Christ. What the hell was that about? His buddy rarely, if ever, hesitated.
“Where’s my female?”
B asked.
“I’ll let Daimler explain.”
Mac’s arm slung around his shoulder, Rikar threw his best friend an alarmed look.
B returned it, then muttered,
“Shit on a stick.
Freaking female.”
Shitkickers pounding granite, B hauled ass ahead of them. Rikar picked up the pace. Yup, no doubt about it. Myst was up to a whole lot of
nothing good
. Which meant Angela was in the thick of it. Shit, she’d probably instigated the entire mess.
Fantastic.
Freaking female
was right. Just wait until he got his hands on her. He’d either wring her pretty neck or kiss the hell out of her.
His body jumped at the idea. His mind seconded the motion, making him ache from the inside out. And no wonder. After feeding Angela and all the fighting, he needed an energy-infuse like an addict needed a fix. Hunger gnawed at him, turning his gut into a bottomless pit. Rikar swallowed to combat the burn and clamped down on his need. Hungry or not, his female was nowhere near ready to feed him. If he touched her now, she’d run scared…hate him before he ever got the chance to prove his worth.
No way could he let that happen.
He wanted her to want him, not fear him. So only one way to go. Keep his hands to himself and his dragon side under control. He’d gone hungry before, weeks if necessary, and he could do it again. He was a warrior; self-mastery was his middle name. So yeah, even if it killed him, he would respect Angela’s timeframe.
But as he muscled Mac into Black Diamond, doubt slithered deep, and he prayed he could keep his word. Not to mention his distance.
Chapter Eighteen
Sitting cross-legged on a cushion, Angela studied the guy behind the invisible barrier. Even with the steel collar clamped around his throat, Forge reminded her of someone. It was the little things. The way he gestured with his hands. The tilt of his head when he smiled. The way his eyes narrowed when he paused to think about something and…
Weird, but even his features seemed familiar. Had she met him somewhere before? Passed him on the street or something?
Her gaze narrowed on his face. She would’ve remembered a guy like Forge. He was too big to miss, and as she listened to him talk, her eyes trained on his face, Angela gave it another shot. Nada. No spark of recognition.
With a frown, she closed the door on her memory vault, forcing herself to pay attention. As she refocused—picking up his body cues, measuring the pauses in his speech pattern—Myst hammered him with questions, trying to bust through the impenetrable force that was Forge. Her lips twitched. He was a tough nut to crack. Hedging each question. Skirting the real issues. Feeding Myst tidbits of information without telling her anything. And all with that smooth-as-silk voice, rolling Rs interspaced by smooth As and long Os.
Pure magic on the vocal front.
He skirted another tough question. Angela bit down on a smile. Bullshit on top of bullshit. Freaking guy. He would’ve made a good cop. Hell, he was the verbal equivalent of a tap dancer. A nice-sounding one, but a big fat liar just the same.
Which, naturally, reminded her of Rikar. Because really? Everything did today.
Angela rubbed the bridge of her nose. God, she really needed to get a handle on that. She was far too interested in Rikar. And he was way too accessible. Yup. No fight from that quarter. He wanted her. Angela saw it in his eyes, knew it like her butt was planted on a Japanese cushion. That meant resisting the attraction would be up to her.
Not a problem under normal circumstances. Her willpower was solid, but her reaction to Rikar crossed boundaries. Was anything but
normal
.
Raking her fingers through her hair, Angela massaged the nape of her neck. Muscles stretched and discomfort streaked down her spine. The pain didn’t slow her roll or the curiosity propelling it. But then, she was an idiot. One with a bad idea and a huge problem. And what was that?
One word. Energy-fuse.
Man, what a concept. One guy. One girl. And boom! Instant attraction. Mutual need. A match made in heaven.
Angela sighed, trying to deny her interest. No. Strike that. Her
fascination
with the idea Rikar might need her in that way. Something powerful existed between them…no question. She felt it even when he wasn’t with her. The zing of connection—the powerful pull of sensation that spilled into passion. Deep down—even though she didn’t want to admit it—she hoped he felt it too and that he came to her to get what he needed.
A little batty, she knew…to want to feed him. Particularly after everything she’d been through. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t deny the compulsion. The urge to be
the one
for him.
The one and only
.
And holy crap, there she went again. Tumbling into the rabbit hole head-flipping-first. ’Cause, honestly, did she really want to be Rikar’s next meal?
Swallowing hard, Angela stifled a shiver. Had she fed him that night at McGovern’s? Seemed like a good guess. Too bad it was still fuzzy. She remembered certain things—like the way he touched her—with perfect recall. But other details were gone. Which was beyond strange. Her photographic memory never missed a beat. Great for a homicide cop. Not so good for a girl who wanted to forget the rat-bastard had—
She flinched, shying away from the memory, slamming the lid on the mental box so fast the bang echoed inside her mind. She hung onto the pleasure instead…to the feel of Rikar and the deep connection she felt when he came near her.
Palming the Glock, she played with the safety. Click-click-snick…on. Click-click-snick…off. Click-click—
“Yo, Ange. You still with us?”
Angela glanced up. Forge raised a brow. She set the Glock down in her lap, wondering if she should ask him. Myst had certainly run him through the gauntlet, so…
She hesitated a second, weighing the pros and cons. Screw it. Why not? Rikar wasn’t here to ask, and she wanted to know. “Hey, Forge?”
His amethyst eyes steady on her, he murmured, “Aye?”
“Got a question for you.”
“Hit me.”
“What does it feel like?” Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her own. It landed on the gun that brought her comfort, even though it shouldn’t. A Glock for a security blanket. Talk about bizarre. And damaged. She was undeniably damaged, absolutely beyond repair. “I mean…when a male feeds? Does it hurt or…?”
“It shouldn’t.” A furrow between his brows, he turned a piece of shortbread over in his hand. “Should feel good. A lotta pleasure for the female if she is willing.”
“And if she isn’t?”
He studied her for a second, expression serious. Angela resisted the urge to squirm. If she fidgeted, he’d know. Hell. He’d probably already guessed, but no way would she admit to being…hurt…by the rat-bastard. It was bad enough that
she
knew it. Felt it. Had to live with the failure and guilt. Saying it out loud would bury her alive.
“It’s not…” He paused as he set the cookie back in the container. “I would imagine it is very painful for a female if the connection is forced.”
“Oh. Well…” Uncurling her hands, she wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “Asked and answered, I guess.”
Silence met her inept attempt at deflection, stretching out like infinity in front of her. Goddamn it. She sounded so small. Vulnerable. Not what she’d been going for in any way, shape, or form. But holy hell, she’d needed to know and—
“I like feeding Bastian,” Myst said, jumping into the void, tilting the conversation away from Crazytown and back into Evensville. “A lot.”
Angela blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah. Especially when we’re, ah…in bed.” Making a face, she glanced at Forge. “TMI?”
“Wicked TMI,” he said, sounding disgruntled even though his eyes twinkled. “Look, Ange, nothing about this is easy. Not assimilating into our world or leaving your own. Not dealing with the shit that happened tae you. If you let him, Rikar will help. Feeding him will take some of the anxiety away. Bring peace while you become accustomed tae him…” he paused, throwing Myst an amused glance, “ah…in bed.”
Her new friend grinned, enjoying his play on her words.
Angela rolled her eyes, wanting to hit them both. “A temporary fix?”
“Better than enduring the pain alone, aye?”
“Maybe,” she murmured, willing to concede the point. “But how am I supposed to—”
The door banged open, smashing into the steel wall behind it. A moment later a deep growl rolled into the corridor.
“Ah, crap,” Myst muttered.
Angela palmed her gun and popped to her feet. Stance set, she focused on the entrance. Which also served as the only exit.
Way to go, Ange. Brilliant detective work.
Nice to only notice that bit of info now, with the doorway blocked by a huge guy dressed in leather. The Harley Davidson attire matched the PO’d look on his puss…kick-ass with a whole lot of hardcore.
Green eyes aglow, his gaze flicked over her, then narrowed on Myst. Angela swallowed, resisting the urge to take a giant step backward. And take Myst along for the ride.
She chanced a quick glance at Myst and whispered, “Bastian?”
“Ding-ding-ding.” G.M. snug in her arms, Myst rolled to her feet. Her scowl every bit as fierce as her mate’s, she said, “Don’t go postal, Bastian. I can explain.”
“I hope so,
bellmia
,” he said, more growl than actual words. “Especially since I
asked
you not to come down here.”
Ooh-oh.
Asked
. Not ordered. Interesting word choice and one that put Myst neck-deep in trouble. A girl could ignore an
order
from her man. This wasn’t the twelfth century, after all. A request, however? Angela grimaced. That wasn’t so cut and dried. And judging by her guilty expression, she guessed Myst knew it. Knew she didn’t have a leg to stand on as Bastian rolled in like a human thunderstorm.
“I’m not one of your warriors,” Myst said, her words sharp, her gaze narrowed on the man she claimed to love. As far as strategies went, it was a good one. Attack instead of retreat. “You wanna talk to me? Change your tone.”
Bastian growled again.
“Don’t blame her.”
Angela blinked. Good God. Why the hell had she said that? Well, whatever the reason, it was a bad one. Especially since Bastian was now focused on her, his green gaze hitting her like twin spotlights. Okay. No sense panicking. She’d gotten herself into trouble. She could get herself out.
Clearing her throat, intent on backpedaling, Angela opened her mouth and…made the mistake of glancing at Myst. Ah, hell. She couldn’t do it. No way could she leave her friend twisting in the wind like that.