Fury of Seduction (Dragonfury Series #3) (40 page)

Just as well. Wrecking his own club held little appeal. Especially since he’d be on the hook for the bill when he finished ransacking the place.

Never a good idea. You didn’t cook the golden goose. You nurtured it, and Ivar was nothing if not astute. Deuce’s provided a healthy revenue stream. One he needed if Rodin severed all ties after learning of Lothair’s murder, cutting off the steady flow of capital to the Razorback coffers. Ivar hoped not, but the Archguard asshole was unpredictable, as volatile as his son in some ways, more dangerous in others.

Which meant dumping plan A—capturing Tania Solares—in favor of putting plan B into effect. The entire purpose of his visit to Deuce’s tonight.

Hamersveld was in town.

Satisfaction shoved grief out of the way. With a soft growl, he crossed the threshold and entered the club. Jesus, Hamersveld was quick on the trigger. One message, a
politely written, hand-delivered note by one of Ivar’s associates in Prague...that was all it took to tempt the male into hopping the pond. Then again, he always dangled the right bait. And a water dragon within the Nightfury ranks—one Hamersveld didn’t know existed? Pretty irresistible stuff. Enough to get the lethal male to come and take a look-see.

Now Ivar had the Norwegian exactly where he wanted him. Curious in Seattle. With no allegiance or love for the Nightfuries. Which was where option two came in. He needed to execute it to perfection. Flipping the powerful warrior—bringing him on his side and into the Razorback camp—wouldn’t be easy. Maybe even inadvisable.

A prickle of unease ghosted between Ivar’s shoulder blades.

From all accounts, Hamersveld was a lone dragon. Uncontrollable. Without friends. Loyal to none, an entity unto himself. Not the kind of male another trusted, never mind allowed close under normal circumstances.

But these were anything but
normal
. Dangerous and out of bounds was more like it.

Bastian had a sea dragon at his command. A fucking water rat, a male of unknown skill but unprecedented power. No way could Ivar let that stand. His soldiers would get drowned right out of the gate. He must fight fire with fire...or rather, water with water.

And where did that lead him? Right back to Hamersveld. The unpredictable, prickly SOB currently enjoying the finest BDSM club in Seattle.

Ivar’s pride and joy. The best-kept secret in the city.

Deep in the cool confines of his home away from home, Ivar walked past the private rooms situated in the back of his establishment. Senses attuned, he picked up all kinds
of trace. Some females moaned in bliss, others screamed as the pleasure-pain was delivered, but all performed (both the professionals he paid and patrons he didn’t), servicing the collection of males who frequented the club, Dragonkind and human alike. The smell of sex and leather, the sharp tang of alcohol, and the subtler, underlying scent of blood mingled, tightening the muscle over his bones.

Ah, yes. The sweet sting of anticipation.

Not that he would indulge tonight. His pack, and the safety of his lab and the experiments he conducted there, took precedence over pleasure. And as he listened to a variety of different music drift from behind closed doors—heavy metal, classic rock, R & B, and even a little jazz—he left the private playrooms behind and walked into the main part of the nightclub.

Standing in the elevated section of the mezzanine, he stopped at the fancy wrought iron railing and looked down on the scene. Hmm, a full house tonight. Good. He needed the business. Could practically see the money flowing as waitresses, dressed in black leather bustiers, microminis, and lacy garters, moved between the tables, taking customer orders and delivering those already placed. Ivar scanned the twin bars flanking either side of the room. Antique glass glittered on the back walls behind each long snakewood-clad length, reflecting the selection of alcohol in colorful bottles of all shapes and sizes.

Ivar’s eyes narrowed. Bartenders working at a steady pace. Check. Everything neat and tidy. Double check. No need to kill anyone for slacking off. Excellent. Just the way he liked his club run.

His pace unhurried, Ivar strolled down the stairs and into the fray.

Standing post at the bottom, Denzeil glanced up at him. The male tipped his chin. “Boss man.”

“Where is he?”

“In a booth. Back right-hand corner.”

“Best spot in the house,” Ivar murmured, another round of irony hitting him full force. Deep, comfortable, with curtains that could be drawn for privacy, the booth had been Lothair’s favorite spot at Deuce’s. He stepped off the last stair to stand shoulder to shoulder with his warrior. “Hamersveld’s got good taste.”

“Eclectic too,” Denzeil murmured, dark eyes flicking over the crowd.

Ivar raised a brow, asking without words.

“He’s sampled more than his fair share of females since arriving...all shapes, sizes, and skin color. No straight-up preference or pattern I can detect.”

“Good.”

And it was. A relaxed Hamersveld worked to his advantage. Was better than the alternative. An amped-up male would be harder to read, less inclined to talk and be controlled. So screw the male’s preferences. The warrior could fuck every male and female in the club, and Ivar would’ve gotten him more if needed.

No questions asked.

Hanging a left at the base of the stairs, Ivar headed toward his quarry, skirting patrons and a few tables, making his way across the bar. Denzeil stayed on his heels, offering backup even though it wasn’t necessary. The likelihood Hamersveld would start something inside a club peppered with humans was slim to none. The intel he’d collected on the male suggested he was coolheaded, cunning with
a sharp edge, more inclined to think things through than act rashly.

Excellent on every score. It meant he’d get to say his piece.

Ivar came abreast of the corner enclave. Shaped like a horseshoe, the booth’s plush burgundy upholstery glinted in the low light, framing Hamersveld’s Norwegian beauty to perfection. Black eyes trained on the female astride him, big hands locked on either side of her hips, he encouraged her to ride. Ivar’s gaze flicked over her face. His lips curved. Even half-dressed and arched in orgasmic pleasure, he recognized the bleached-out blonde from TV, one of KING channel 5’s up-and-coming stars.

How...interesting. Serendipitous even. Reporters, after all, could be useful upon occasion.

The warrior’s focus shifted, his gaze cutting through Ivar like twin laser beams. He clenched his teeth, suppressing a flinch. No way would he show an ounce of weakness. Not to a shark like Hamersveld. Like respected like. The second the male in front of him smelled vulnerability, he’d move in for the kill. So Ivar smothered his reaction instead, his expression one of pure amusement.

“Give me a minute, Ivar.” Breathing hard, the male held his gaze and increased the pace, making the female moan. “Unless you want in?”

The invitation temped him to a dangerous degree. But he hadn’t made the trip downtown for a fast fuck in one of his club’s corner booths. “Another time.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Always do,” he said, turning to prop his shoulder against the side wall.

With a good view of the club, Ivar ignored the couple—tuned out the reporter’s moans of pleasure—and flicked his fingers at the nearest waitress. She came toward him through the crowd. He pushed his drink order into her mind. Her eyes glazed over a moment before she spun toward the bar, one thought ruling her...get Ivar a drink, right now. A minute later, he held a tumbler full of Jimmy Beam and Hamersveld’s full attention as the female stumbled out of the booth, blouse hanging wide open, a blank look on her face.

Good riddance. Arrivederci, sweetheart.

Tipping his glass in salute, Ivar slid into the opposite side of the booth. “You fuck like a world champion.”

“Three hundred years of living does that to a male.” Picking up his Heineken, he took a pull from the bottle. “Nice place you got here.”

“I have particular tastes.”

“I am aware of them. So is Rodin,” Hamersveld said, his expression thoughtful. “Have you told him his son is dead yet?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Ivar stayed cool under fire. “What the asshole doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I like your style, Ivar. I really do.” A dangerous glint in his eyes, the male held his palm up in front of him. Magic flared, slithering on a wet curl of air. The condensation rings made by his beer bottle formed a straight line on the tabletop. A second later the water leaped, flowing into Hamersveld’s palm. “You’ve got some slick moves, not the least of which was getting me over here.”

“You think I’m lying?” Settling in a comfortable slouch, Ivar sipped his drink. Ice clinked against his teeth and the JB bit, sliding down the back of his throat.

“Have you seen him...up close?”

“Close enough to see the fucker’s tattoo.”

Hamersveld’s interest sharpened, clouding the air inside the booth. “He has tribal markings?”

“Navy-blue ink.”

“Slifer’s balls,” the male muttered, taking the dragon god’s name in vain. “Another of my kind.”

Blond brows drawn tight, the warrior picked at the label on his bottle. Ivar remained silent, watching, waiting for...

Ah, and there it was. The reaction he’d hoped—and needed—to see. Anger. Blazing, unsurpassable rage from the warrior sitting across from him. To be expected. Accustomed to being the only water dragon in existence, another male encroaching on his territory (aka the entire planet) wouldn’t be welcome news to a bastard with narcissistic tendencies.

A fortunate turn of events for Ivar. Not so lucky for Hamersveld.

The male enjoyed his uniqueness and the status it gave him among his peers. That an upstart Nightfury might take that away? Shit, Ivar could almost hear the warrior’s mind churning, running through all the possibilities. And as Hamersveld glanced up, Ivar almost smiled. Fury vibrated through the Norwegian, increasing by the moment, making him twitch. He nailed Ivar with the directness of his gaze.

“So I guess that leaves us with just one question, Hamersveld...” Ivar paused, preying on the male’s insecurity, wielding his disquiet like a weapon. “Is there room enough inside Dragonkind for two of you?”

The male hesitated less than a heartbeat. Raising his bottle in silent appreciation, he said, “Call me Sveld. Looks like we’ll be working together.”

“Thought you might feel that way.”

“You always right?”

“Most of the time.”

Hamersveld laughed. And Ivar thanked God he
was
right the majority of the time. That facts, data crunching, and precise predictions were his forte. Otherwise he wouldn’t have a sea dragon in his corner. And Bastian’s water rat wouldn’t be in for a shitload of trouble.

Heat lightning in his arms, Tania bared her teeth and nipped Mac’s bottom lip. Need met desire, then went apocalyptic. Caught in the passionate explosion—and his female’s crosshairs—Mac’s internal compass twisted. Due north? Where the hell was that again? Nowhere near where he stood, that was for sure. And as the ground beneath his mental feet shifted, he wasn’t sure which way to go. Head for safer water? Or dive in and let have Tania have her way?

Diving in sounded good. Very,
very
good.

One small problem with that, though. He was the dom and—

Tania kissed him hard, sending her tongue deep into his mouth. Pleasure scorched him, swirling down to surround his balls. Already taut muscle flickered, flexing up tight, and he tried to remember. What the hell was he...?

Oh, right. Dom. He was the dominant one. The one who controlled the pace, dictated the play, gave the orders, not her, but...

She slid her hands under the lapels of his ceremonial robe. Mac purred, arching into her touch, heart slamming as she drew circles across his chest.

Umm,
anything
.

Shit, he loved that word. Couldn’t get enough...of her taste, her touch, the way she felt in his arms and fit against him. She was heat lightning in a bottle, incendiary yet somehow contained, driving him closer to the edge and out of control.

It’s what she wanted, he knew. No limits. No mercy. Just him, her, and a whole lot of down and dirty. And they would get to that, but not yet. Maybe not for a while. He yearned to love her properly first...to go slow, be gentle, give her everything she deserved while he got all he needed.

Love and trust. Decadence and delight. Tenderness disguised by dominance. Perfection. Just like Tania...everything he wanted, and all that he feared.

Confusion circled deep. It didn’t make any sense. How could he want her so badly yet be afraid to commit to something long term? The whole thing mystified him. Which was...well, no great surprise considering who he held in his arms. ’Cause, yeah, his ability to think straight while anywhere near Tania? Two things that didn’t go superwell together.

Especially while she wore a scrap of silk she liked to call a dress. But God help him, he adored her in it. Another paradox, but as Mac cupped her shoulders, stroking his hands over her bare skin, he couldn’t bring himself to care. So he was confused. So he didn’t have a clue what he was doing or where the hell their relationship would go. He was here now. So was she, in a barely there, strapless dress. Umm-umm good. Sexy and demure, all at the same time. His favorite combo, and matching her caress for caress, Mac wondered if she’d known that. Had she
worn the gown with him in mind? Hoped to turn him on and make him lose control?