Chapter Twelve
Holding G. M. in her arms, Hope waltzed across the nursery. Thick area rug underfoot, the scent of baby powder in the air, she hummed Vivaldi, moving to the concerto of violins playing inside her head. She counted out the beat, twirling between each step. An easy three count: one, two, three—pivot, slide, spin into a gentle turn. One, two, three—sway with the baby cradled against her, keeping him happy and herself content.
Pulled free of a ponytail, her hair swung loose. The soft strands brushed across her shoulders as she sidestepped the end of G. M.’s crib. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile bobbed. Eeyore nodded at her. Ignoring the encouragement, Hope danced by the toy box full of stuffed animals, skirted the changing table, then whirled around the rocking chair.
Sucking on his thumb, G. M. sighed in contentment.
Joy bubbled up, settling into her bones, invading her heart. God, what a pleasure. It had been ages. Way too long since she’d held a baby.
Her gaze on her temporary charge, Hope watched his eyelids grow heavy. He was so cute. Such a beautiful little boy with violet eyes and a dark head of hair. Cuddling him closer, she nuzzled his cheek and hummed more of her song. He blinked, a slow up and down, then gave in and closed his eyes. She slowed her pace. His eyes popped back open. He frowned at her. Hope smiled back and kept dancing. Almost there. It wouldn’t be long now. One more circuit. Another turn or two around the room, and she’d have him right where she wanted him—fast asleep in her arms.
Stubborn little guy.
Hope shook her head. Such a difficult customer. She’d been at it for an hour, but he was all cried out now, so tired he struggled to keep his eyes open.
He squirmed, whimpering, still fighting sleep.
“I know, handsome boy,” she whispered, rocking him in her arms. Hope understood his upset. She felt the same way, couldn’t shake the memory of Mac lying unconscious on the floor. Or the sense that something terrible was about to happen.
The tension in the house backed up her theory.
Not great for her. Even worse for G. M.
Babies were sensitive, often reacting to the emotional state of those around them. The upheaval wasn’t good for him, and Black Diamond had been unsettled for hours. All the guys jacked-up. All the women in the house worried. Nowhere near the kind of vibe G. M. needed right now.
Humming more of her song, she patted his bum and added a jostle to the dance. “Shh, it’s all right. Close your eyes and go to sleep. It’s all right now.”
He seemed to take her word for it.
The instant he relaxed and slid into sleep, her own fatigue rose, making her aware of the aches and pains from the hour spent soothing him. Hope rolled one shoulder, then the other. Sore muscles protested. The twinge nipped along her spine, then spread to her arms. She stifled a groan. Man, she really needed to work on that—do more bicep curls, work in an extra set of push-ups . . . hold a baby more often. Her mouth curved. A little angel in her arms every day. Wonderful plan. The idea ranked high, right up there with making time for an afternoon nap.
Stifling a yawn, Hope glanced at the clock hanging by the door.
Nearly one in the afternoon.
She looked down at G. M. Still sucking on his thumb. A furrow between his brows. Not in a deep sleep yet. He needed a few more minutes. A little more cuddling. A gentle jostling rhythm. Just enough to ensure he didn’t wake when she laid him down.
Bypassing the crib, Hope headed for the rocking chair. A smooth about-face, and she sank onto the padded seat. Grabbing a throw pillow off the floor, she shoved it between her elbow and the armrest. Her biceps relaxed. She sighed in relief as the cushion helped support his weight, allowing her to adjust her hold, settling him at a more comfortable angle in the crook of her arm. Pressing her toes into the rug, she pushed off. The chair rocked. Back and forth. To and fro. Over and over. Again and again.
Minutes passed. The sway rolled into a soothing rhythm.
G. M. snuffled in his sleep.
Exhaling long and slow, she leaned into the chair back. The cushions cupped her nape, supporting her head, letting her float. Another minute, maybe two, and she’d go. She couldn’t sit much longer and stay awake. G. M. was almost ready. Her room wasn’t far, just a few doors down the hall. Hardly any . . .
Her eyes drifted closed.
“Hope?”
The voice came from far away, through a tunnel of thick fog. A few things registered. Deep voice. Scottish accent. Delicious, woodsy scent. “Forge?”
“Aye, lass.”
Hope tried to open her eyes. A no-go. Her eyelids refused to cooperate. Some idiot had glued her eyelashes together. “What—where?”
“Shh, now. Donnae move,” he murmured from somewhere close by. Above her? Beside her? Hope frowned. She couldn’t tell. It felt as though Forge was inside her head, each word a faint echo, soothing her back to sleep. Something brushed over her temple. The gentle stroke moved across her cheek, then turned to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Stay just as you are, jalâyla. You’ve naught tae worry about. I’ve got him.”
Him? Him-who?
Half-aware, so tired she couldn’t open her eyes, Hope let the question go and drifted back toward slumber. A warm weight lifted from her arms. Muted footfalls moved away. A rustling sound. A masculine murmur. More footsteps. A big hand cupped her shoulder, another slid behind her knees. The feeling of weightlessness as her body left the comfort of chair cushions.
Hope jerked.
“Easy.” Strong arms tightened around her. “Curl into me, Hope. Put your arms around my neck. Let me care for you.”
She hummed. Oh, how nice. A rare gift—someone who wanted to care for her. A man who enjoyed being in charge.
Unable to resist, Hope turned into his embrace and snuggled closer.
He rumbled in her ear, the sound full of approval. “There’s a good lass.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know. Poor me,” he said, but despite his words, he didn’t sound disappointed. He seemed amused instead. “’Tis a crying shame.”
“Why?”
“I had plans for you this eve.”
Oh well. Guess that explained it. Nestling her face against his throat, she sighed. “Sorry.”
“I’m not,” he said, laying her down on something soft.
A mattress? Cotton sheets? Hope murmured in pleasure. Sure felt like it, but honestly, who cared? Forge had set her down somewhere comfortable. Somewhere safe. No need to investigate further.
Turning onto her side, Hope snuggled into the pillow.
“That’s right, jalâyla—sleep. There’ll be time and plenty for what I need later.”
His words rang an unfamiliar bell. As it tolled inside her head, her eyes opened. She frowned. Nothing but blur. She closed both again.
What he needed. Later.
Right. Okay, good. Whatever he said and—
The mattress dipped.
A warm weight settled behind her. Forge’s muscled arm arrived next, crossing over her belly, drawing her into the curve of his body. Her back pressed to his chest—spooning, her favorite position, the perfect one to indulge in while sleeping with a man. Cuddling with her, he rubbed his face against her hair. Hope grumbled, but let it happen, enjoying his heat and strength while telling herself she shouldn’t. Wanting Forge was foolish. Letting him get too close was a mistake. She knew it. Felt it. Was aware of the danger on a visceral level but . . .
To hell with it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to figure it out.
She would set him straight tomorrow. Put her foot down. Take him to task. Outline their relationship in clear terms and get back on track, ’cause . . . yeah. Being held by him felt too much like heaven, and his later sounded too much like a promise.
Awareness arrived like sunlight through heavy storm clouds. In chaotic bursts and rapid-fire flickers. Thin light bled through darkness only to fade away, into a black sea of nothingness. Another bladed burst. More searing prickles. Hope flinched as the flash struck, sharp, insistent, lightning bolt bright, dragging her out of shadows.
It didn’t hurt. Not really. The rush was more jarring than painful, and yet . . .
She frowned. It was odd. Unnatural. Beyond the realm of reality. She recognized the place. She hovered on the edge of sleep, warm and foggy, in the layer where slumber transformed into dream. Vivid imagery swirled over the screen inside her head, painting her mental landscape, making her senses swim and her mind sharpen. She hung on the horizon, gliding, flying, soaring through frigid night air, beneath a dark blanket of pinpoint stars. Satisfaction trickled down her spine. Contentment burned through her veins. Hope hummed and, spreading her wings wide, pitched into a slow roll.
The temperature dropped.
The wind picked up.
Frost slid over her scales, holding her like a lover.
An updraft lifted her into the cascading spiral and . . . God. So good—it felt so damned good, exhilaration edged by ecstasy. Shift, flip, angle into the next turn. Avoid that mountain peak. Dip into a descending valley. Not a care in world, save one: she wanted it to go on forever, to stay in the moment and cling to the blood rush.
The wrong decision.
Nothing but bad mojo wrapped in the promise of future problems.
Hope knew it, but didn’t care. The weightlessness wooed her. The rush sped through her veins. And the dream?—soul-searing perfection. Reality need not intrude. Not here, and never now. None of it seemed important. Not the soft press of a mattress beneath her shoulder and hip. Not the big body curled around her, warming her back, keeping her safe as she soared in the dreamscape. Nothing but the open sky mattered. She was safe. He—whoever the hell he was—would see to it. No reason to be alarmed. No direct action required. Nothing left to do but spread her wings and fly.
“Jalâyla.”
Roughened by sleep, the voice pierced through the mental fog.
The strong body surrounding her shifted, pulling her closer.
Warm breath caressed the side of her neck.
The prickle of sensation derailed her for a moment. Hope shifted focus. Weird, but . . . she knew he was there, flying alongside her, invading her mind until her emotions melded with his. Now she registered what he thought, how he felt, what he expected. She hummed. Oh baby—Forge. It couldn’t be anyone else. She recognized his scent, the sound of his voice, his pleasure as her scales rattled in the blackening night sky. Hope frowned. Knowing he flew with her felt odd. Strangely right, yet somehow wrong. Her mind split, maintaining both realities—staying with the dream while she soaked up his heat. The twin mental tracks highlighted the duality: he was outside her body, but inside her mind.
The idea should’ve scared her. Made her stir. Forced her to move. Prompted her to wake and roll away from him. But as the velocity increased, reality fractured, dropping her into the rush, propelling her toward the need to go farther and fly faster.
“Go,” she whispered, making room for Forge inside her head. Accepting his reality as her own, she snuggled into his embrace. “Let’s fly.”
Forge growled in agreement. His arm tightened around her.
Hope bared her fangs and, sharp tail whipping through frosty air, rocketed past a steep outcropping. Shale tumbled down the stone face, rumbling as her wing tips brushed the sky. Her sonar pinged. Tingles flowed over the horns on her head. The spikes ridging her spine rattled, unearthing delight as she checked her position. Longitude and latitude? Right on target. Speed? Batshit crazy. The tumble of winter air currents over the jagged rise of soaring cliffs? Breathtaking.
The perfect night to fly above Cairngorm.
The location registered on a sensory level. Scotland, north-northwest of Aberdeen. Hope didn’t question how she knew that. Tapped into Forge, information arrived on demand, informing her, calming her, making the experience feel right. Turning her head, Hope studied a rocky ledge as she flew by. She glanced up, taking in ice-capped peaks. The mountain looked like many others, jagged, craggy, inhospitable. Somehow, though, she knew exactly where she was—the Highlands, home of fierce clans and bitter, age-old feuds.
Delight fizzed through her. She’d always wanted to visit Scotland, take in the history, walk the land, talk to the locals . . . buy a tartan. Maybe some tasseled argyle socks too. The thought made her snort. Ridiculous. Completely stupid given she could order a pair online anytime she—
A prickle swept her temples.
The wind shifted. She scanned the sky.
No one on the horizon.
Not a soul behind her either.
She checked her position again. All good. Nothing to get worked up about, but . . . her eyes narrowed. Instinct set off her internal alarm. Her heart picked up a beat, thumping hard, pumping adrenaline through her veins. Something wasn’t right. The feeling of being followed grew stronger by the second. She couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t safe. Something nasty shadowed her and . . .
Hope snarled. Time to break out some evasive maneuvers.
Dropping into a free fall, she banked hard, ducking around a cliff face. A spark flared in her pupils, blinding her before a switch flipped inside her head. Perception expanded. Her focus narrowed. Black became red as her vision shifted from normal to infrared, allowing her to see in the dark.
The sky flexed.
Her sonar pinged.
Shadows burst onto her radar.
Braced for impact, Hope rotated into a flip as two dragons rocketed from behind a jagged outcropping. Hope sucked in a breath. Dragons. More dragons, like her in the dream. Except, not quite. Her muscles tightened. She flexed her talons, feeling the interlocking weave of rigid dragon skin.
Purple . . . her scales were deep purple with metallic blue flecks. Zeroing in on the approaching threat, she stared at the lead dragon. Dark green with yellow-tipped scales. Her gaze jumped to the second beast. Yellow scales muted by purple speckles. She frowned at the pair. Spiked tails. Horned heads. Webbed wings silvered by moonlight. She braced as the duo flew in to surround her. One on her left, the other on her right. She held still, maintained a steady glide, and waited while questions circled. What did they want? What did their appearance mean?
Hope glanced at the yellow dragon from the corner of her eye.
Raising a brow, he thumped her with the side of his spiked tail.
Pain nipped along her rib cage.
She scowled at him.
“Bloody hell,” she said, all snarl, zero patience. Hope blinked. What the hell? She didn’t sound like herself at all. She sounded Scottish and . . . male. “Get the fuck away from me, Conn.”
Fangs flashing in the gloom, Conn grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Hit me one more time and . . .” She raised a paw and clicked her razor-sharp claws together. “You’ll find out.”
“Och, now.” Amusement in his eyes, Conn glanced at the green dragon flying off her left wing tip. “Watch out, Droztan, little brother’s in a bad mood.”
Droztan chuckled and bumped her from the other side.
She hissed in warning.
The idiots laughed, swung into a tight turn and—
“Lads.” Like a wraith in the dark, a black dragon with white-tipped scales rose in the gloom. Ahead of the pack, the male glanced over his shoulder and, eyes narrowed, gave Conn and Droztan stern looks. “Behave yerselves. We’ve much tae do tonight and teasing Forge is not one of them.”
“Aw, come on, Da,” Conn said.
“No bloody fun,” Droztan murmured, tone disgruntled.
The group banked, movements synchronized, heading for open moors.
Hope followed, her body obeying the shift, but . . .
Her mind refused to discount the information.
She stalled inside the dream. The older dragon had called Forge by name. Reality intruded for a moment. Confusion circled a second before understanding dawned. Hope took another look at the pack flying for distant fields. Different-colored scales, but . . . yeah. No doubt about it. The resemblance was striking. All big. All dangerous. Definitely related. Forge’s family, his brothers and father . . . inside her dream. How bizarre was that? Very. Beyond perplexing, but even as she turned to examine her discovery the dream pulled her back in, blocking the revelation, running her up against a dead end.
She flexed her hands, trying to push past the barricade. A no-go. Instead of answers, more questions arose as her fingers morphed into talons tipped by black claws. She stared at the razor-sharp tips, then at her wings, fighting the mental blockage. The dreamscape dipped. The pack banked around a towering cliff face, derailing her brain, upending her search, caging her inside the dream.
Hope glanced ahead. Open moors lined by tangled trees tumbled across a frost-laden terrain. Snowflakes swirled on an updraft. The frosty dance pulled her deeper, blanketing her in slumber, making her snuggle into Forge. He murmured in his sleep. Turning to face him, she wrapped herself around him, pressing her face into the curve of his throat. Tingles swept over her skin. The invigorating rush held her high, pulled her close, strengthening the tether connecting her to him. Puzzle pieces snapped together, making her one with him.
The blur of a craggy landscape whirled past as she descended through wispy clouds. The ground approached. Cold mountain air warmed. Slowing her wing speed, Hope exhaled hard. Sparks swirled from her nostrils, melting the frost coating her scales. As ice chips fell in her wake, Hope leveled out above the widening terrain.
“All right, here’s as good a place as any.” Rotating into a flip, Conn pointed to a plateau overlooking a farmer’s field. Wind swept across the plain, making tall grass sway like seaweed in water. “Time tae put you tae the test, little brother.”
“Let’s see what you’ve learned,” Droztan said, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Only one rule.”
Hope raised a scaly brow. “What’s that?”
“No hiding behind Da.”
She snorted in disgust. “The only one in need of hiding is you.”
“Cocky, aren’t you?” Conn smiled, baring huge fangs. “No mercy, then. Prepare tae have your arse kicked, you wee whelp.”
Hope wanted to scoff at the insult. Wee, her arse.
Curling her lip, she showed fang, banked right, and headed for higher ground. So be it. Let the games—and dragon combat training—begin. She was ready. She’d been studying—practicing—waiting for a chance to prove her worth. So, screw it, bring on the bravado. All the nasty tactics and fancy flying too. Let them try to ground her. To push her into making a mistake and—
A strange vibration buzzed between her temples.
“Shite.” Spiked tail whipping overhead, Conn spun around, flying in behind her. “Droztan—do you feel that?”
“Aye. ’Tisn’t friendly.”
“Break it down.”
“Not sure. Outlaws, mayhap. Could be Wanderers.” Dark eyes shimmering, Droztan scanned the horizon. “From across the North Sea.”
“Denmark?” she asked, without knowing why. For some reason, though, the location made sense. Something sinister grew by the day in Denmark. Knowledge of it seemed solid, even though she couldn’t name the source. “Or farther inland?”
“No way tae know,” Conn said. “Bloody Archguard is always a threat.”
Flipping up and over, Droztan closed ranks, settling into a protective position above her. He tucked his head under, his gaze no longer teasing. “Make for the cliffs, little brother.”
Rebelling at the order, Hope held the line, refusing to back down. Deep-seated need took root inside her. She didn’t want to go. She needed to stay, to help, to protect her family and be a part of whatever unfolded. Holding Droztan’s gaze, she stayed on course, keeping pace with the pair.
Conn snarled a warning.
“Lads—incoming. Right flank.” The guttural growl rolled in on a gust of wind. “Forge, listen tae your brother. Take cover. Hide among the rocks, son.”
Hope shook her head. “But Da—”
“Nay, laddie. You’re still in training, not yet ready tae fight,” her father said, taking lead position in the fighting triangle. “Now, go. We’ll come for you after—”
Fireballs exploded across the sky.
Her brothers cursed.
Hope dodged, torquing into a spine-bending spiral. A blaze of poison gas rocketed past. The tail end of the inferno grazed her side. Heat blazed across her scales. The spikes along her spine clanked as pain lashed her, driving spikes through her rib cage. Shite . . . acid. The enemy had just jammed her up, hitting her with enough neurotoxin to down multiple dragons. Gritting her teeth, Hope ignored the poison eating her scales and banked into a tight turn. She needed to get into position and help the others.
As she swung around, Droztan snarled. “Run, Forge. There are too many. Get the fuck out!”
The words registered.
Hope hung in mid-air, torn, hesitating, wanting to listen, not wanting to leave. But it was too late. She was here, in the middle of the moors, no time to fly back, little choice but to move forward. Music to her ears. Strength in numbers. Solidarity in spirit. Her brothers needed her and—
Enemy dragons uncloaked and . . . oh shit. A platoon, every color of the rainbow, flying hard, moving in fast to surround them. Hope twisted into a side-winding flip. She needed to circle around, get behind her brothers, and cut the enemy off in order to protect their flank. A massive dragon materialized out of thin air. Orange with brown-tipped scales, the male hung in mid-air directly in front of her. She calculated the distance. One hundred yards, give or take a yard or two.
Good for her.
Very bad for the bastard eyeing her brothers as the enemy pack closed ranks.
Gaze fixed on the orange dragon, she spread her wings and slammed on the brakes. Her muscles stretched as the webbing caught air. Her flight slowed. The male hadn’t seen her yet. And given her position? Keeping him in the dark until it was too late made for a good plan.
Narrowing her focus, Hope slipped in behind him. She flexed her talons. Timing was everything. Quick and quiet. Move fast. Hit hard. Show no mercy. All precepts of an effective blitz attack.
She lined him up.
She leveled out.
She raised her razor-sharp claws.
The bastard spun to face her. Glowing black eyes met hers. He bared his fangs. She attacked, rocketing into his orbit. Tucking his wings, the warrior somersaulted. Orange scales flashed. Her claws caught air. Shit. She’d missed. Fucked up her chance. Lost the element of surprise. Now, it was anyone’s game. The big male swung around. Hope dodged. He struck, nailing her with his spiked tail. Her head whiplashed. She lost sight of the horizon and tried to adjust: bank fast, regain her equilibrium, avoid—
Sharp talons dug into her side. Jagged teeth tore into her back. Anguish clawed through her. Flailing, she lashed out, desperate to break his hold. The bastard bore down. Her scales cracked. Bone snapped. The brutal sound echoed as a fireball lit up the sky. The stars blurred. The warrior tearing her apart snarled. He hit her again. And again. Another strike. A second set of sharp claws raked her side. Blood rolled down her belly. The male dug in, shredding her muscles, burning her flesh.
More pressure. Too much pain.
Hope roared in agony. Droztan shouted Forge’s name. But it was too late. She was already gone, a scream locked in her throat, the world going dark as the bastard let go, and she plummeted out of the sky.