Fury of Ice (38 page)

“I’ll get her up to speed on the shooting range,” Mac said, eyeing his new buddy. “You gotta do something for me, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Let her out of frickin’ bed.”

Rikar raised a brow. “You think it’s my fault we’re still here?”

“Motherfuck,” Mac muttered, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. The guy was begging for an ass kicking…Angela style. “I’m telling her you said that.”

“Better not.” Rikar reached for the gun case. As Mac relinquished the load, he murmured, “Unless, of course, you want your balls handed to you on the end of a blade.”

“Jesus.” Wincing, Mac cupped his package with both hands. “Bad visual.”

“Even worse outcome,” Rikar said, grinning.

Heaving the case, he turned into the room, and Mac got his first sneak peek. Laid out belly down—covers up around her shoulders, head half-buried under a pillow in the center of the king-size bed—Angela was fast asleep but 100 percent okay.

Relief hit Mac chest-level, making his throat go tight.

Good for her. She’d followed through on her promise. Hadn’t copped out or run away even though she’d been afraid to let Rikar make love to her, giving her relief from the pain. Mac swallowed. He was so proud of her. And so thankful he didn’t know what to do.

Rikar distracted him—thank fuck—flipping the case up and setting the kit on the mattress beside her. The handle rapped against hard plastic, echoing in the quiet as his XO glanced at Angela. After a second, Rikar leaned in, planted his hands on either side of her, and pressed a kiss to her temple. She murmured in her sleep, more sigh than hum as her mate lingered, resting his cheek against her hair as though he couldn’t get enough. Or be that close to her without touching her one more time.

Mac’s heart throbbed a crazy beat as he watched the pair, wondering what the hell he was doing. He shouldn’t be in the room. Shouldn’t be witnessing a precious moment between mates. Should have the decency to back up, but his feet were nailed to the floor. He couldn’t look away. Was forced to play the voyeur while Rikar stroked his hand along his partner’s back. To witness another tender kiss. To hear the soft murmur and see his XO’s expression.

Awe. Gratitude. Devotion. All took a turn on the male’s face.

The entire situation suited Mac just fine. Case closed. Slap a sticker on that bad boy and bury the file six feet under. Fait accompli. No way would Rikar ever let Angela go. Not now. So, yeah. His little sister was at Black Diamond to stay.

Turning away from her, Rikar conjured a length of ribbon. Slippery satin sliding in his hand, he tied it around one end of the narrow case, finishing it off with double loops. Ah, how cute. A present complete with a shiny red bow.

Mac bit down on a grin. What a total pansy-ass thing to do. One Angela would no doubt appreciate when she woke up. Most women wanted jewelry—something expensive and pretty—from their men. But not Angela. Rikar had it right. His partner liked weapons. Which made the M25 sniper rifle the perfect gift.

After scribbling a note, the besotted SOB left it next to the bow, then slid the bedside table drawer open. Metal rattled against cardboard as Rikar set a box of 9 mm ammo for her Glock next to the slip of paper. His eyes on her face, he paused, stood poised above her for a heartbeat, then kissed her one last time and turned toward the door.

Mac raised a brow, letting his XO see his amusement.

“Go to hell,” he growled, coming at him like a human steamroller. Unwilling to get flattened, Mac backpedaled into the corridor. Pale eyes narrowed on him, Rikar crossed the threshold. As the door clicked closed behind him, he turned right down the hallway. “Let’s go, water rat. The others are waiting.”

“We headed to the cellblock?”

“Collision inevitable.”

“About time.” And it was. He’d been waiting for days to meet Forge. “What’s the play?”

“Bastian and I will handle it,” Rikar said, heading for the elevators. “You and the boys are on standby…there for support.”

In other words? Be seen, not heard. “Why do I suddenly feel like a three-year-old?”

“Eyes and ears open, all right?” An intense expression on his face, Rikar glanced over his shoulder at him. “Put all of the cop shit to good use. Feed me cues…body language, expression, anything else you notice. If you see something that’ll help crack him, connect through mind-speak and give me a heads-up. Got it?”

Mac nodded. Good plan. One he and Angela had often employed. One interrogated. The other listened, concentrating on speech pattern, body language, and emotional cues. No matter how small, a suspect always gave something vital away. Information that sometimes helped break a case wide open. The fact the Nightfuries were about to deal with Forge the same way—and wanted his help—jazzed him. It made him feel included, like a valued member of the pack.

“Hey, Rikar?” Mac stopped as the corridor dead-ended at the elevators. Reaching out, he hit the down button with the side of his fist, then stepped back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his XO. “Got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“The whole energy-regression thing?”

“What about it?”

“Once Ange’s energy signal is altered and Lothair can’t track her anymore…” Mac trailed off, struggling to tie all the threads together: the how, what, and whys of Dragonkind. “How the hell are we gonna set the ambush?”

“Easy.”

The elevator pinged as the doors slid open.

Rikar glanced at him before stepping inside. “I’m tapped into her life force now. That connection gives me access…the ability to manipulate her unique energy frequency and mimic it. Old. New. Doesn’t matter. Once we’re set…when Angela’s in place and ready to go…I’ll send out her original beacon. Lothair will pick up on the signal, think it’s her and—”

“The fucker’ll come running.” Setting up shop at the back of the Otis, Mac planted his shoulder blades against the stainless-steel wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go after her and get us instead.”

“Bingo.”

The perfect plan. Except for one thing. “I don’t want her anywhere near the front line.”

“She won’t be,” Rikar said, icy gaze glittering. “An M-twenty-five rifle and a thousand yards out with you watching her six, remember?”

As if he could forget. He’d gone over the plan again and again, running every scenario, looking for holes, weaknesses…a better fucking strategy. Any reason at all that would keep Angela at home instead of putting her in the middle of the firefight.

But that wouldn’t happen.

The second he and Rikar tried to sideline her, she’d go it alone and end up hurt. So it didn’t matter that the odds made him jumpy. The situation wasn’t SOP (standard operating procedure). Was opposite of normal with a pack of freaking dragons in the mix. Anything could go wrong and—if things went true to form—usually did. Which scared the hell out of him. He would never forgive himself if Angela got caught in the crossfire.

Or worse. Ended up recaptured by the sadistic SOB who’d hurt her.

Rolling his shoulders, Forge craned his neck to one side. The collar dug in, scraping the underside of his jaw. Shite, the thing was driving him around-the-bend crazy. Chafing his skin. Tightening around his throat with each movement, cranking his internal pressure cooker into KABOOM territory.

Volcanic. Nuclear. Whatever.

The description didn’t matter. And Forge didn’t care. He wanted the collar off. Zip, bang, gone…nothing but history. Not that it would happen any time soon. Bastian had made that abundantly clear.

Cranking his fist tight, Forge paced the perimeter of his cell, feeling like a caged lion. Back and forth. Around and around. The cycle was nonstop. Bare feet silent on the concrete, the noise inside his head catastrophic, he tried to come up with an action plan. A strategy to use the next time Bastian visited.

Bloody hell. Two days of blah, blah, blahing. Of doing the verbal dance with the Nightfury commander, and still, Forge didn’t have a clue what the male wanted. All the yakkety-yak-yak made him nervous.

Which, come to think of it, was a good thing.

Despite the lockdown, his reaction told him his instincts were still bang-on accurate. Bastian didn’t do random. He visited for a reason. Was the male setting him up for something? Testing the waters?

Forge shook his head. He didn’t know. A huge problem, if there ever was one.

Usually, his skill at picking up another’s intention was rock solid. But the Nightfury commander was powerful. He gave nothing away. No matter how many times Forge tried, he couldn’t penetrate the bastard’s thick skull and eavesdrop on his thoughts.

A pity to be sure, but if he had to guess, he’d bet on Myst. The violet-eyed beauty was job one for Bastian.

So, aye. It made sense that the male would butter him up to get the information he needed to keep his mate safe. By establishing trust, Bastian no doubt hoped he would relent and share his knowledge of the ancient ceremony. The one that would complete the energy-fuse and protect his female. It was a good plan. One that—despite everything—was starting to work. Stupid as it seemed, he liked the male. Respected the hell out of him. The Nightfury was a strong leader, a fair one, something Forge hadn’t encountered in a while and—

Bloody hell. He was losing it, unraveling at the speed of light. No way should he be thinking about coughing up the info. Not with stakes this high, but Forge couldn’t deny he toyed with the idea. Playing fast and loose with his son’s life, not to mention his own. But maybe showing some good will—walking Bastian through the ceremony, telling him all he knew—would get him farther, faster. Maybe if he gave a little, he’d get a lot in return.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

It was one helluva word.

“Shite,” he muttered, his voice sounding loud in the silence.

Forge stopped in front of his cot. Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, he stared unseeing at the thin mattress, trying to decide. What was the best course of action? Give the Nightfury what he needed to keep Myst safe. Or hold out and hoped she persuaded her mate to hand over his son and let him go.

Uncurling his hands, he laced his fingers across the back of his neck and pressed down. Muscles stretched, and pain screamed down his spine. But it wasn’t enough. He needed a distraction. Something to release the pressure building inside his head and bring him some small measure of peace.

Food would’ve done it, but Daimler hadn’t visited in a while. Well, all right. That was an exaggeration. The Numbai had brought a plate of pasta an hour ago, but he was still hungry. And with all the shortbread cookies gone, he had nothing to munch on. No distraction at all.

With a growl, Forge dropped to the concrete floor. His hands planted shoulder-width apart, legs straight out behind him, he launched into a brutal set of push-ups. No sense mourning what wasn’t coming. The hunger was just a symptom of a larger problem.

He needed a female.

Not for sex. Caroline’s death had pretty much KO’d that need. He couldn’t even imagine making love to another female right now. So, aye. The nameless, faceless fuck in a dark corner of some club with a stranger would have to wait for a while. That didn’t, however, change the facts. He was a Dragonkind male. He must feed from time to time. Take his fill of female energy or die.

And right now, he was headed down a slippery slope. One that pushed him closer to energy-greed—a condition all males feared—and into mindless need with each passing hour.

Thrusting his arms, Forge popped to his feet. Sweat rolled down his spine as he landed, splattering the floor. He launched into a series of boxing exercises. His fists flew, striking thin air as he pivoted on the balls of his feet, picturing an imaginary opponent.

He snorted. Right.
Imaginary
, his foot. The face belonged to a Nightfury warrior. The one with glacial eyes and a frosty outlook.

His muscles screamed as he worked out. Quick jab. Left cross. Duck, bob, weave. Right hook into an ascending uppercut. Rage built with each punch, narrowing his focus to…just…one…thing.

Freedom. He needed to get the hell out of his cage.

Spinning right, he brought his feet into the fight, balancing on one leg to kick high. At head level. Right where Rikar’s face would’ve—

“Nice form.”

Forge stilled, held his leg at the height of the kick. Well, fuck him. The crafty SOB had snuck up on him. Huge surprise there. Especially since it had never happened before.

“Frosty,” he said, reversing course without looking at the male. Keeping each movement controlled, he set his foot back on the floor, lowered his fists, and pivoted toward the front of his cell. “What a lovely surprise and…oh goody, you brought company. How nice for me.”

Or not. Shite, he was in trouble. The whole fucking pack had come to play.

“Stow the bullshit, Forge.” Pinning him with a glare, Bastian broke from the pack. As he strode through the energy field guarding his prison, the barrier snapped, and the Nightfury commander cursed. Rolling his shoulders, the male shrugged off the electrical zap and entered his cell. “We didn’t come to fight.”

“Speak for yourself.” Red eyes glowing, Venom set up shop against the back wall of the corridor and cracked his knuckles. “I could use the exercise.”