The buzz of halogens breathed life into the absence of sound. The silence should’ve bothered him. Sounded internal alarm bells. Put him on high alert. Something. Anything. The smallest response to the eerie fog of quiet descending over Black Diamond would be good. Forge glared at the precise seams of the chair rail instead, searching for flaws as he strode down the double-wide corridor.

Perfect fucking corners. Smooth, curving surfaces. Nary a chip in an ocean of glossy-white paint covering the wood. Colorful paintings joined the parade, holding court, sending him deeper into the lair, pointing him toward the last place he wanted to go.

His gaze jumped from pale walls to the trio of Kandinskys hanging to his left. He scowled at the collection, the sight of even brushstrokes on priceless masterpieces irritating the hell of out him…for no good reason. His reaction to the sight qualified as over the top. He saw the flash-’n-glamor every day. Lived in the lap the luxury inside the home he shared with the other Nightfury dragon warriors. Was accustomed to seeing the tidy show of wealth, so no need to be pissed off by it. Not today, or ever, except…

He didn’t know how else to stem the growing tide of unease.

Like a tidal wave, worry washed in. The force of it rolled over him, slowing his pace, clogging his throat, making him yearn for the safety of his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much. A quick pivot. A minute or two of walking. A solid door between him and what he’d learned to fear over the last week and a half.

Forge shook his head. Nay. No way. Not now. He wasn’t a coward and refused to run. Not after forcing himself to step over the threshold and close the door behind him. The thud of the wooden edge against the jamb had seemed final. He wanted it to be final. Needed it to be. No more hiding. No more avoiding. No more holding it in until he thought he might burst at the seams.

Onward. Upward. To his own death if necessary.

Gaze glued to the framed Matisse hanging at end of the hall, Forge struggled to keep his legs moving. But it was hard. His feet felt heavy, each stride taking real effort. Bend knee. Lift foot. Move forward. His boot sole said hello to the floor. A second later, the other landed.

One step, two step, three step, four.

The counting didn’t help.

He muttered each number aloud anyway, walking toward the elevator that would take him into the underground lair. A few more bedroom doors to pass, and he’d be there, facing off with a steel cage he didn’t want to enter. Not that he’d been given much choice, but as his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor, a hollow spot opened behind his breastbone. The usual ache settled in and built a home, making him wonder if Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was right.

Forge frowned. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe all he needed was time. A little R&R. A slice of respite, the chance to catch his breath, open his mind wider, and remember.

He fisted his hands. His knuckles cracked under the strain. The snap’n-pop broke through the quiet and—Christ help him. He hated that word: remember. It sounded so simple. Reach in, grab hold, and pull the information out of his mind. Easy-peasy. Nothing complicated about it. But no matter how many times he tried to retrieve the memory, he came away empty-handed. Zero information. Few visual clues, a dark hole where recollection should live.

A huge problem.

Catastrophic given Bastian needed what lay buried in a forgotten place inside his mind.

The thought landed like a bomb inside him. Mental debris scattered. Forge cleared it away, acknowledging what up until now he’d refused to admit. God forgive him, but he didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to sit in that god-awful chair and allow B inside his head. Again. For the fifth bloody time, but running—leaving the lair and disappearing—wouldn’t solve anything.

He had a price on his head. Had been rubber-stamped for assassination by Dragonkind elite. Why? Forge huffed. For unbelievable shite…a pack of fucking lies. He still couldn’t believe the balls on the bastards. The Archguard high counsel and Rodin, leader of the entire travesty, had tried and convicted him of murder. Without Forge ever stepping foot inside a courtroom. Or touching the male he’d been accused of killing. Angela and Rikar had managed that all on their own. No help from him. Hell, he’d barely been part of the Nightfury pack at the time, never mind in the vicinity of the kill.

Not that he wasn’t happy to take the blame.

Lothair had needed killing, the state of his family tree notwithstanding. The sadistic SOB might have been XO of the Razorback pack—and Rodin’s second born son—but powerful connections never exempted a male from what the universe doled out. The bastard had had it coming. The world was better off without him. Would be without Rodin too, if fate ever saw fit to deliver the Archguard leader into his claws. The instant that happened, Rodin would end up a dead dragon so fast heaven would spin on its axis as angels sang Forge’s praises.

Still…

Last he checked, wanting someone dead wasn’t a crime.

Manufacturing evidence, however, made the list of no-nos. For that, the Archguard wiggled on the hook. The original question, though, remained—why target him? Charging him for Lothair’s death made no sense…unless Rodin was using the murder as misdirection. A distinct possibility. Clever beyond words. Particularly if Forge’s missing memory unearthed something Rodin wanted to keep buried. A something so important it threatened the ambitious bastard’s bid to become the High Chancellor of Dragonkind.

Which left one conclusion to draw.

Whatever lay locked inside his mental vault must be vital. A true threat. Potentially devastating to Nightfury enemies in Prague. Rolling his shoulders, Forge stretched taut muscles. Could be. Probably was, which meant the Archguard would never stop calling for his head. Or lift sanctions on the Nightfuries as long as his brothers-in-arms protected him.

All the more reason he needed to remember.

Endangering his new family wasn’t in the plan. Protecting the males he now considered his brothers, however? Aye. Without question. Duty and devotion dictated the path. He loved the Nightfury warriors more than he did himself. Owed his brothers-in-arms everything. None judged him for his mistake—for dancing the two-step with Ivar as he considered joining the Razorbacks. Grief, the loss of his birth pack in Aberdeen, combined with a desperate yearning to belong had driven his decision, and him right into disaster.

Thank God he’d come to his senses in time.

Ivar’s endgame—mass genocide, the extermination of the human race—sickened him. The rogue leader needed his head examined. Or mayhap, ripped off. Forge snorted. Aye. Sounded like a plan. Someone needed to take the bastard out. Dragonkind would be stronger for it, and humans all the safer. Not that Forge could do much about either. At least, not from outside the Razorback pack. He could kill rogues wherever he found them, but he was out of Ivar’s inner circle now. Gone for good. Never to return.

Bastian had done that for him. Stepped up, risked his life to drag Forge out of darkness and into a strong pack, then let his warriors do the rest. A miracle to his way of thinking. He still couldn’t wrap his brain around the shift in circumstance most days. The Nightfuries had accepted him. Drawn him in. Given him purpose and a best friend in Mac. Provided him and his son a home while worming their way into his heart. So…

No choice at all.

He would stay the course. Sit his arse in the chair. Endure the agonizing claw of mind regression. Recall all the ugly details to protect his pack. No matter how dangerous. No matter how damaging. Even if it proved too much for him to handle in the end.

* * *