Fury of Ice (12 page)

Rikar growled. The bastard was toying with her, flicking at her with razor-sharp claws, letting her get up only to pounce and bring her down again.

Rage grabbed hold, narrowed his vision and…

Boom!

He lost control and ice exploded. The snap-crackle-n-pop rolled in an arctic wave, freezing the river solid below him. With a snarl, Rikar tucked his wings and set down fast. His claws dug in, ripping up ice, throwing out frost as he slid sideways, skating toward the beachhead. Lothair’s head snapped in his direction, and Rikar clenched his teeth. Stupid. He was a freaking bonehead, blowing the one advantage he had: the element of surprise.

But Christ, he couldn’t stand it. Seeing Angela’s torment and tears. Watching her flinch and scream as she fought for her life.

Black scales glimmering under a full moon, Lothair crouched like a cat and hissed at him, refusing to leave his prize. Perfect. A downed dragon made for a big bull’s-eye. And the Razorback was right in the kill zone, locked in Rikar’s crosshairs, the best kind of target. The trick now? Hammering the asshole without hitting his female. If he didn’t time it just right, the rogue would use Angela as a human shield.

Rikar’s eyes narrowed. No way he could chance it. He needed a load of visual interference…right now.

The sound of his claws sliced over ice as Rikar whipped up a blizzard. As snow blew in with hurricane force, providing cover, he zeroed in, waiting for just…the right…moment and—

“Angela…move right!”

His command ripped through the blanket of thick-white-and-fluffy. He saw her flinch a second before she obeyed, scrambling toward a huge boulder. Talons open wide, Lothair reached for her. Rikar inhaled hard and exhaled fast, launching his arsenal.

With a growl, the bastard dodged, somersaulting into a backflip. The ice daggers struck like automatic gunfire, ripping a path up the beach as, paws still in midair, Lothair’s spiked tail whipped full circle. The sharp tip caught Angela, flipped her over, sent her into a whiplashing spin. She screamed in pain. Rikar roared as the smell of her blood filled the air.

Oh, God…no. “Angela!”

His shout echoed, giving voice to his fear as he watched her tumble across the frozen sand like a rag doll. Claws digging into ice, he hauled ass, stretching his limbs, running like a cheetah to reach her.
“Venom…cover me!”

“Go
!” The deep growl belonged to Wick. The male streaked overhead, moving like a black-and-gold lightning strike.
“Grab her and get out.”

Rikar didn’t hesitate.

Neither did Wick.

Blue-orange flame shot from the warrior’s mouth. The ball of poison gas exploded against the night sky. Scrambling in full retreat, Lothair unfurled his wings and went airborne, leaving his hostage behind on the ground. With a clear line of sight, Rikar slid sideways onto the shoreline. The second his talons left ice, he tucked his head and rolled, shifting to human form midrotation.

Bad move? Absolutely.

He was more vulnerable without his scales, but…shit. He needed his hands to help his female. To find her wounds and stanch the blood flow. And as he sprinted toward her—shitkickers sinking in snow and sand, heart hammering his breastbone—he prayed she was still whole and breathing. He would never forgive himself if she died.

Reaching her side, he dropped to his knees. She lay belly down, red hair matted with sweat, face hidden behind her out-flung arm. He checked her vitals, her spinal column, working fast, one eye on the sky as dragons roared overhead. Go Venom and Wick. The boys had his back, pushing Lothair away, giving him the time he needed to check Angela.

Nothing broken. Time for the gentle flip-over.

She whimpered when he rolled her. Oh, thank fuck. She was still alive, but…

Christ help him.

Blood ran from a gash on her temple, and that was nothing compared to her leg. The bastard’s sharp tail had clipped her skin, slicing her thigh wide open. And oh, God…the blood. It was everywhere, all over her and on his hands, staining the blanket of snow beneath her.

A quick shrug-and-tug and his leather jacket landed beside her. His T-shirt came off next. With quick hands, he twisted the cotton into a makeshift bandage and wound it over then under, binding the cut. He needed to stop the bleeding and get her to Black Diamond…and Myst. A nurse practitioner, Bastian’s female specialized in medical emergencies. She would know how to help Angela.

“Hold on, angel.” He kept working, wrapping the cotton around her leg. “Come on, Angela…hold on for me.”

She stirred at the sound of his voice. As her eyelashes flickered, her hazel gaze lit him up, tugging at his heartstrings. But her voice? Shit, she undid him as she whispered, “You…”

“Yes, angel…it’s me.” Unable to help himself, he cupped her cheek, held eye contact even though he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t have time to waste. “Angela, baby, I need to move you. It’s gonna hurt, but hang tight for me. I’ll get you help.”

“R.” Pale skin aglow in moonlight, she shivered violently, making him afraid for her. “You’re…my R. I r-remember you.”

Hers
.

Jesus fucking Christ. He
was
a pansy. A freak for craving her ownership, for wanting to be claimed by a female he’d done nothing but hurt. And as he wrapped her in his leather jacket, protecting her from ice and snow, and cradled her close, Rikar cursed himself. His nature. The plague of his kind.

His obsession with her would end badly. He knew it, but somehow didn’t care.

He wanted her. And she needed to live. If she didn’t, he would never have a chance to convince her of his worth…to make her crave him as much as he did her.

A long shot? Without a doubt. But as Rikar shifted, unfurled his wings, and leapt skyward with her curled like a kitten in his paws, he reminded himself he never took the easy route.

Yeah, he’d always been a long odds kind of male.

Chapter Nine

Both arms bent, hands tucked behind his head, Forge lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Not that there was much to see. No cracks or pockmarks, just grainy gray concrete surrounded by a whole lot of cold, hard, and mean. He snorted. Aye, without a doubt. The Nightfuries got full marks for thoroughness. The place was rock solid. A prison’s prison.

Not that it mattered. He’d been in worse places.

Granted, the decor had always been a wee bit better, but otherwise? Nothing but more of the same in his sea of ordinary. Which was what he kept telling himself. Make-believe, after all, was one of his specialties. Too bad the mental escape hatch he usually slipped through wasn’t working. The dumb thing was locked up tight, its sign flipped to “closed,” giving him the psychological equivalent of
piss off, asshole
.

Uh-huh, that about summed it up. Which left him with nothing, except bucketfuls of irritation and…oh, aye, time. Time to marvel at his stupidity. Time to curse his dumb-ass plan. Time to scratch at the steel choker clamped around his throat.

Jesus, the thing was brilliant. A real ode-to-the-prisoner without the song and dance. A shame, really. At least the music would’ve entertained him. As it was, the only sound he got was a beep every fifteen seconds. Well, that and a pinpoint flash of red light. Dog collar complete with LED features.

Beep-beep, flash. Beep-beep, flash.

Bloody hell, it was like Chinese water torture, only worse. The metal chafed, making him twitchy as claustrophobia circled just below the surface. Forge glanced at the standard-issue prison cot against the back wall. Maybe, if he flaked out on it instead of…

Nah. No good. He preferred the floor, and honestly? Didn’t deserve any better.

His female’s death proved that, and she’d been strike two. Strike one? Forge clenched his teeth, killing the wayward thought. No way he wanted to go there. The memory was long gone, buried beneath a mountain of mental debris, just the way he liked it. His family was ancient history, and old wounds were better left untouched.

But Caroline?

God, he couldn’t get her face out of his head. The gaping hole she left in her wake was still too fresh. No matter how many times he sidestepped it, the loss came with him, getting in his face, blocking his escape route. Not even ignoring the pain worked. Like an infection, the grief festered and blame bubbled up, pointing a bony finger at him.

Which was exactly where it belonged.

His chest tightened. Forge blew out a long breath. He wanted a do-over…another shot at doing the right thing. Of walking away instead of stopping to help her. Given half a chance, he would’ve left her there. Alone by the side of the Highland road, propped against a broken-down car, cell phone in hand as she tried to get a signal.

But oh, no, not him.

Like an idiot, he’d come to the rescue, changed her flat tire, watched moonlight dance in her dark hair and…aye, played the empty-headed fool smitten by a pretty lass. Now he was nobody’s hero, just a male full of regret yearning for a life already lost.

Forge gave the ceiling a break and closed his eyes. A picture of Caroline rose, making his heart hurt. He ignored the awful ache and stayed with her, unable to give her up even in death. And as he followed her in his mind’s eye, memories of their time together sent him sideways, and he drifted, allowing her warmth to draw him deep into the daydream.

So beautiful. She’d been magnificent with her sky-blue eyes and winsome smile. The scent of her, the taste of her on his tongue…God. She was like the blood in his veins. A part of him he couldn’t lose. Not that he hadn’t tried, but the heart always remembered what the mind yearned to forget, and like a ghost, she haunted him. Taunted him as he recalled the softness of her skin, her moans of pleasure as he’d slid between her thighs and taken her as his own.

God forgive him.

He was sick for thinking of her that way, for wanting her as much now as he had when she was alive. Caroline deserved better. A shrine, maybe, for putting up with him, for giving her life so that their son would live.

Unfair. It was so fucking unfair.

His brows drawn in tight, Forge shook his head. A mistake. Somewhere along the line, he’d made a huge mistake. Otherwise he and Caroline would be energy-fused, locked in a cosmic bond—mated for life, instead of separated for eternity. Oh, aye, it was easy in theory. One Dragonkind male. One human female. Put the two together and…eureka! Instant you’re-mine-forever magic. Too bad reality was a bitch with an axe to grind. His dragon half hadn’t bonded with the female of his heart, denying the energy-fuse and his ability to protect her from harm.

Now he was stuck in a cage with a pack of Nightfuries riding his ass. And if that wasn’t enough, Rikar would rip his head off the next time around. No doubt with his commander’s blessing if Forge didn’t give the male what he wanted. Namely? The knowledge he possessed about energy-fuse. Which wasn’t a big deal if he got what he needed in return. Question was…would Bastian reciprocate?

Forge pursed his lips, turning the problem over in his mind. Aye, it was a gamble, but allowing the Nightfuries to capture him had been a bigger one. And now that he stood waist-deep, he planned to wade into the deep end and see what swam out to join him.

Or drown him.

Either way, he needed leverage, a weakness to exploit. Which meant putting the female in play. Shuffling his shoulders against concrete, Forge grimaced, shying away from the plan. He didn’t want to use Myst, but like it or nay, the strategy was a good one. Bastian’s female held the key. The fact she loved and protected his son shouldn’t matter, but…

Shite, it did. More than he wanted it to. But with his son in the mix, his options were limited to, well…fighting dirty.

So aye, much as he hated the idea, throwing a few cheap shots was on his to-do list. Might as well accept it and move on. The female would survive. All right, maybe a little the worse for wear, but Myst had her mate to soothe her in the aftermath. But his lad was an innocent in need of his sire. Which left him no choice. He would swallow his pride and abandon his scruples. Do whatever it took to get his bairn back, and in the end hope Myst forgave him for—

The soft click of steel echoed through the quiet.

Forge tensed but didn’t move. Still flat on the floor, he cracked his lids, watched from beneath his lashes, and listened. A bumping thump. The scrape of plastic on metal. A soft curse and the subtle smell of—

Jesus Christ. Myst.

It couldn’t be anyone else. Not with the whiff of pheromones headed his way. The perfume was subtle, but one Forge knew well. He’d lived with it for eight months, and although the fragrance was unique to each female, the scent of pregnancy—of renewal and growth—couldn’t be denied. And Myst smelled beautiful, like female and fresh-cut lilies.

Forge’s mouth curved up at the corners. Had he said leverage? Yes, indeedy, he’d hit the mother lode and found Bastian’s weakness.

Soft footfalls scraped against concrete. The squeak of rubber against steel.

With a quick inhale, Forge popped to his feet. The instant his bare soles touched down on the cold floor, he put himself in gear and strode to the front of his cell. Getting as close as the invisible barrier would allow, he craned his neck to gaze down the wide corridor. He wanted to watch her approach, see her the instant she came into view. The muscles bracketing his spine flickered, coiling tight with anticipation. Had she brought his son with her? Was he even now snug in her arms?

Please, God…be merciful
.

Holding his breath, Forge leaned a little closer. The collar zapped him and, with a curse, he took a step backward, still straining to see, hoping, praying and—

His heart contracted as a baby stroller came into view. Red with black trim, the domed canopy arched over the stroller’s bed, shielding his son, but Forge knew he was there. Baby powder. The smell made his knees go weak. He locked them and stood stone-still, afraid if he moved the pair would disappear into thin air.