Fury of Ice (9 page)

“Never better.” Done with the gauze, Lothair looked away from his warrior, returning his attention to the mirror. Picking up a small Band-Aid, he started at the top of his cheekbone, closing the slice one butterfly at a time.

Denzeil’s reflection appeared over his shoulder. His brows cinched tight, D watched him apply the white strips for a second and then reached out. Lothair tensed as his comrade grabbed his T-shirt and yanked it up to examine the cut along his rib cage. “Man, she really did a number on you. Need some help?”

“
Nyet
, I’m good,” he murmured, ignoring the mother-hen routine along with the warrior’s interest. He wasn’t into males, unless a female was involved. A threesome with Ivar was one thing. Like him, the boss only swung one way, which made taking turns with a female all about her. Not about either of them. With Denzeil, though, sex wasn’t so cut and dried. “What did you find, D?”

Taking the hands-off cue to heart, Denzeil dropped his shirttail and took a step back. With a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the examination table. “Nothing. There’s no sign of her. It’s like she poofed her way out of the lair. The others are still searching, but—”

“Call ’em off.” Yup…wicked skilled. Lothair’s lips twitched. The redhead impressed the hell out of him. “She’s already aboveground.”

“Not good,” his warrior said, a growl rolling in his thick accent. “The boss isn’t gonna be happy.”

Probably not. But the situation would be rectified, cleaned up before Ivar ever got wind of it. No cause for alarm. No need to give the boss man a heads-up, either. At least not right now. Injured fighting the Nightfuries at the Port of Seattle, Ivar didn’t need any more bad news. Especially on the female front. They’d already lost one high-energy female to Bastian and his band of bastards tonight. No sense stirring the pot or the Razorback leader’s temper. The she-cop wouldn’t be on the loose for long.

“Keep your yap shut, D. I’ll tell Ivar myself.” His hands paused in midair, he met Denzeil’s gaze in the mirror, a warning in his own. “We clear?”

Denzeil glanced away, breaking eye contact, ass-shuffling on the cracked vinyl tabletop. “No problem, boss. Your call.”

“
Da
, it is,” he said, enjoying the male’s reaction. Fear—the ability to instill it in a full-blooded warrior—was better than any drug on the market. “I’ll retrieve her at sunset.”

Surprise flared in Denzeil’s dark eyes. “You’ve already—”

“Fed from her?”

Hmm…had he ever.

She’d tasted good, the white-hot energy she drew from the Meridian so delicious it made his heart pound. Better still? Her defiance. She’d fought like a wildcat, struggling as he forced the energy connection: drew her deep into his veins, took without mercy, wounding her soul-deep, leaving bruises on her soft skin.

Lothair’s mouth curved as he relived the feel of her. Hot, tight, and oh-so-unwilling.

He could almost love her for battling so hard. Almost, but not quite. Revenge was more his style and, unlike the two females already locked in their cages, the she-cop deserved his retribution in spades.

Too bad he was grounded by sunlight, shut down by ultraviolet rays and his light-sensitive eyes. Not that it mattered. He was a patient male. Half a day. Just twelve hours before he went after her, became hunter to her prey. He could hardly wait for sunset. The moment he took flight over the forest, she wouldn’t stand a chance. He was linked in now, connected to her in a way no other male could match. Like a beacon in the dark, her energy called to him, leaving a trail he could track.

A growl rose in his throat as Lothair applied the last butterfly, absorbing the pain, letting it sink deep to fuel his rage. The slice to his face hurt like hell, but not half as much as Angela would when he got a hold of her.

Mac was surrounded by endless waves of dark hair. The thick strands filled his hands, curled around his forearms, cocooning him while he nestled in, nuzzled deep, needing more.

So good. She was so damned good. Nothing but soft, willing curves and white-hot desire.

With a groan, he licked her pulse point, feeling the buzz along his spine as he pressed deeper between her thighs. She sighed—the sound half hum, half plea—and shifted beneath him, rocking her hips into his. More. She wanted more, and Mac wanted to give it to her. Except…

He knew he should let her go, that she couldn’t be real. Nothing in reality came close to how amazing she felt in his arms. And any second now he’d wake up. Drunk. Alone. With only the memory of her face and a hard-on to keep him company.

But goddamn, everything about her felt
real
: her heartbeat, the small hands in his hair, the taste of her on his tongue, her scent on him, his on her, and yeah, the relief. Her touch banished the pain, made the world fade and him float until all Mac knew was her. Then again, that was the point. A delusion wasn’t a
delusion
unless you believed it. Breathed it. Made it your own. All the better to fuck you with, my pretty…cue the witchy laugh.

Mother of God, he was losing it. Making up a fake woman. Imaging hot, sweaty sex with a beautiful stranger. Except she wasn’t a stranger. Not really. He’d dreamed of her for days, ever since he’d seen her at the SPD precinct.

Tania
. Her name was Tania, and oh man, he didn’t want to wake up. Or let his fantasy lover go. She belonged to him in the dreamscape like sugar belonged in cookies. Inseparable. Undisputed.

His
.

Mac growled, the need to get closer and something more prickled beneath his skin. The sensation drew him tight, and muscles coiled, preparing for…what exactly? He frowned, revolving around the mystery, trying to unravel it, but his thoughts tangled, leaving his mind blank and his heart empty. Something was coming. He could feel it rumbling toward him, gaining speed by the second and—

A heavy hand curled around the nape of his neck.

Mac twitched. That wasn’t right. He never invited other guys into his dreams. And imaginary dream woman or not, he didn’t want the bozo anywhere near Tania. With a quick twist, he shielded her with his body and tried to shrug out of the touch.

“Easy, big guy,” a deep voice said, tone soothing. “B…we good to go?”

“Furniture’s cleared.” Footfalls came from far away, the soft thuds throwing red flags inside Mac’s head as a second voice joined the first. “Is he ready?”

“Any second now. She fed him well. His energy levels are good…stable.”

“Calm before the storm.”

Jesus Christ. A third guy? This was the strangest dream he’d ever had, but weirder than that? He heard the sheets rustle, felt the mattress dip as someone climbed on beside him.

The third guy murmured, “I’ll grab him. Get the female out of here.”

Aggression rolled through him, pumping him full of “oh, no, you don’t.” If one of them tried to touch Tania, he’d rip him a new asshole. Imaginary or not, she was his, and right now? Way too vulnerable, so relaxed Mac knew she was fast asleep.

The mattress shifted. A second set of hands touched his shoulder. Mac let loose.

Punching his fists into the sheets on either side of Tania, he thrust up, back and…oh, yeah. Instant liftoff. The 180-degree spin put him on the balls of his feet, face-to-face with Dickhead at the end of the bed. Surprise flared in shimmering red eyes an instant before Mac hammered him with a right cross. The guy’s head snapped back, throwing the idiot off balance and over the side of the mattress. As he hit the floor, the other two cursed.

Keeping himself between Tania and them, Mac swiveled, fists raised, teeth bared, desperate to do damage. To ignore the onslaught of returning pain and keep her safe…away from the bastards tag-teaming him. He set his stance and—

Motherfuck, too late.

Brutal and quick, the frosty-eyed SOB moved in, nailing him with a quick jab. As his head cranked sideways, hard hands dragged him off the bed and into a full nelson chokehold.

“You touch her and I’ll kill you.” Muscles straining, pain gnawed on his bones as he reared, fighting the lockdown. “I’ll rip your fucking—”

“Settle down, MacCord.” Breathing hard, the bastard hauled him into the center of the open-plan loft. Upended furniture lined the walls beneath blacked-out windows. Alive with movement, the glass seethed, rolling from frame to steel frame. As his “holy shit” meter went red zone, the guy forced him to his knees. “No one’s gonna touch the female. We just want her safe and out of the way.”

The assurance struck a chord, and he stilled, relief warring with a boatload of “really?” But something in Full Nelson’s voice—the undercurrent in his tone, the absolute confidence—told him not to worry. They weren’t interested in Tania. Crazy conclusion? Maybe, but Mac didn’t think so. His spidey senses were on overload, tingling, picking up a strange vibe. One that said
trust this guy
.

“Mac,” he rasped, testing the waters, giving a little to see what came back at him.

“What?”

“It’s Mac. No one ever calls me
MacCord
.”

“More with the attitude.” Full Nelson huffed, the laughter underneath the exasperation unmistakable. He eased his grip without letting go, giving Mac enough slack to lift his head. “You know what, Ven? Give me some time, and I might actually like the big dummy.”

“Not me.” Dickhead—Ven…whatever—wiped the blood from his mouth and rolled to his feet. “The blockhead rattled my cage.”

“You deserved it,” Mac said, grinding out each word as agony closed the gap, gluing his knees to the floor. His gag reflex kicked in. He fought the dry heaves, breathing with lungs that felt like they’d been poured full of cement. “Goddamn…what’s wrong with me?”

“The change.” Full Nelson released him. As his hands slid away, he moved around front and crouched, nailing Mac with pale peepers. “You go head-to-head with a dragon lately, Mac?”

He nodded.

“Not sure why the magic in your blood was dormant…” The guy paused, a furrow between his brows as he shook his head. “Call it a sleeping giant…but whatever the reason, contact with the Razorback triggered you. Now your dragon DNA is kicking in.”

What the fuck?
Razorback?
Dragon DNA?
Was the guy insane? Except…

He couldn’t get the black-scaled bastard out of his head. The SOB had blown him through the two-way in IR One with his freaky exhale, and he’d been sick ever since.

Mac frowned so hard the center of his forehead stung. “Who…”

Losing the battle with his stomach, he squeezed his eyes shut, slammed his palms on the wood floor, and dry heaved.

“I’m Rikar, and you’re Dragonkind…just like me. Like us.”

On all fours now, he shook his head. “No…way.”

“Look at your hands, big guy,” Rikar murmured. “And then tell me no.”

Fighting his stomach and a bad, bad feeling, he opened his eyes as Rikar gave him a gentle push, throwing him off balance. As his spine touched down on the cold floor, Mac raised his hands, a scream locked in the back of his throat.

Scales.

Interlocking blue-gray scales.

Like a disease, the nightmarish weave spread over the backs of his hands, up his arms, wrapped over his shoulders, heading straight for his heart. Cold and deadly, the sensation slid deep, chaining him to the floor. Immobilized by invisible bonds stronger than steel, his roar of horror turned to screams of agony as his bones snapped: hands morphing into paws, fingers into claws.

Exhaustion gnawing on him like a bone, Rikar sat down on the floor beside the kitchen island. Leaning back, he propped himself against the cabinetry, brushing shoulders with Bastian, and stretched his legs out in front of him. As his muscles unlocked, his bones cracked, protesting the long hours, hard work, and cramped conditions.

“Jesus,” B murmured, rolling his chin against his chest.

“Yeah.” Not much more Rikar could say. Getting hit by a Freightliner carrying a heavy load at full speed would’ve been easier than the last few hours.

The quiet, though, was nice. No more cursing. Or screams of pain. Just silence, and a whole lot of relief.