Chapter Seventeen
Sitting with her back to the wall inside her temporary bedroom, Hope turned the rolled boxing wrap over in her hands. Slap a sticker on her that read “Cooked” and call it a day. She was in big trouble, the kind of screwed that left her wondering when and where she’d lost her mind. She snorted. When and where weren’t the issue. The who, however, remained a serious problem. One unlikely to go away anytime soon.
Stay put, he’d said.
No way she could’ve done that, not after . . .
Hope frowned at her knuckles. Screwed didn’t quite describe what she was at the moment. Or rather, what she was doing.
Hiding might be a better characterization.
In full retreat was an even better one.
The fact she was doing it while wedged between her bed and the night table with her butt planted on the floor summed up her situation nicely. Hope cringed. All right, best add pathetic to the heap of shame and get on with her day.
Cursing under her breath, she examined the Velcro holding the boxing wrap closed. Nice. Neat. All the tidy edges lined up. No chaos in sight and . . . yeah. She ought to be like that, more in control, less of a mess. Bumping the boxing wrap against her bent knee, Hope stared at the cloth roll a moment, then tossed the tight coil onto the bed. It bounced across the comforter, a quick tumble that led her gaze to the wall opposite her.
She saw the framed mirror, but not really. Nothing had come into complete focus since she picked herself off the floor and fled Forge’s room. Bowing her head, Hope exhaled a long, measured breath. All right, so she’d messed up. Crossed a line. Been blindsided by a gorgeous guy with a sexy streak a mile wide. In no way her fault. Picking at her chipped nail polish, Hope frowned. Okay. Not true. It was at least half her fault, and all the excuses in the world wouldn’t fix it. Which meant she needed to man-up and stop hiding like a frightened kitten under a piece of furniture.
It was disgusting, and . . .
Sad to say, but her usual MO.
Despite encouraging others to tackle issues head-on, Hope retreated when faced with her own. She liked to hide until she thought things through and figured out how best to deal with the problem. Not the most mature way to move through life, but . . . God. Rapid change and inconstancy frightened her. Which made all kinds of sense given the man responsible for her upbringing. Her father might be good at his job, but he’d sucked as a parent, leaving her and Adam floundering in a sea of uncertainty most days. Still, running away when she felt unsure didn’t make the cut.
Not that she could’ve done what Forge asked.
Naked, naked . . . naked in his bed. The idea turned on its axis, spinning her back to Forge’s bedroom—to waking in his arms, to being surrounded by his heat, to hearing the rumble of his oh-so-sexy baritone.
Hope swallowed a groan. God help her. The way he affected her was unnatural. She never acted like a cat in heat with anyone before, but no matter how she looked at it, her reaction to Forge felt like that—wholly combustible.
Closing her eyes, Hope pressed the pads of her thumbs to her temples. The pressure didn’t help. A headache hung in her periphery, banging on her mental door, demanding she let it inside her head. She wanted to do it, open the floodgates, welcome the distraction, flip the covers back, crawl into bed and never come out. But burying her head in the sand—or rather, under cotton and feather-down—wouldn’t solve anything. She had a job to do, one that didn’t include getting kinky with Forge.
An excellent argument.
Her body protested, squawking in disagreement.
“Goddamn it. I need my head examined.” Fighting the ache, she rubbed her forehead. “Or maybe a libido-ectomy.”
Hope tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. Perfect solution. The complete removal of her wanton-sex-switch might be the only thing that saved her. Particularly with lust still raging through her veins.
“Freaking guy,” she muttered, trying to forget his touch and the heat of his hands, but—balls in a banana sack. Nothing worked. Every time she thought about Forge, pleasure unfurled beneath her skin, making her teeth clench and her principles waver.
Hope snorted. So much for professional ethics. Hers had gone the way of the winds. Now she felt battered by the storm and in need of an outlet. Fisting her hand, she examined her knuckles. Perfect white points waiting to be used. She needed to hit something. The heavy bag in her garage whispered her name. Longing grabbed hold, making her itch for her small house in the suburbs. Safety lived there, the promise of a normal, everyday routine, the perfect hideaway, the only place in the world that made sense . . . and her attraction to Forge didn’t exist.
Wishful thinking, no doubt. The cat-in-heat was already out of the bag. It was far too late to put it back. The past couldn’t be erased. History, no matter how recent, always circled back around, looking for easy prey. So . . .
Her eyes narrowed. Only one thing left to do—move past the embarrassment and figure out how to avoid a repeat performance.
Kissing Forge couldn’t happen again. Touching him was out too. A big no-no. The memory bubbled up to taunt her—the feel and taste of him, the strength of his body, the gentle way he’d handled her and—
A tingle streaked across her lower belly.
Need threatened to overwhelm her.
Hope squeezed her eyes shut. She pressed her knees together. Heaven help her. Bad, bad psychologist. “Stop it right now.”
Her voice spiraled out into the empty room. The instruction settled the heat in her veins. Her libido whined like a horny feline.
“Shut up,” she whispered as a picture of her inner alley cat popped into her head. “You don’t get a vote.”
A creak joined her words, disrupting the quiet.
A soft thud followed.
Her head snapped toward the door.
A man stood in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb. She flinched and pushed to her feet. He stayed put, letting her adjust to his presence as she tried to place him. Big guy. Dark hair. Intense bronze eyes.
Her gaze stroked over his features. “Gage, right?”
“Good memory.”
“I try.” Keeping the bed between them, she tipped her chin in challenge. “Are you in the habit of intruding on people?”
He shrugged. “I knocked.”
Hope blinked. Crap. Not good. She needed to pay more attention to her surroundings. If she wasn’t careful Forge would sneak up on her too, which would be—she shivered as the words sexy, hot came to mind and . . . dear God. What was she thinking? Having the gorgeous Scot slide in behind her would be the kiss of death. With her guard down, she’d give in to the attraction for sure.
Her focus on Gage, Hope banished her libido to the back of her mind. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you. I was working something out.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, amusement lighting his eyes.
Blocking the exit, Gage shifted his attention from her to the room. Watchful and alert, he scanned every corner. Hope’s brow furrowed as she looked around, following his visual sweep of the space. What was he looking for—a threat, a fight . . . both? Then again, maybe he was stalling.
A strong possibility given the way he stood.
He looked casual enough—ready but relaxed—and yet Hope read the hesitancy in his body language. Tilting her head, she focused on his face, his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Yup. Absolutely. Tense. Uneasy. Uncertain. All hidden behind a barricade of feigned indifference. The good-old-boy facade was effective, but a total farce. Gage was worried about something. A something important enough for him to seek her out.
Her first instinct was to talk, break the ice, and ask what was wrong. Years of experience stopped her, quelling the impulse. He’d come to her, which meant she must let him talk in his own time. Trust couldn’t be rushed, and as silence gathered, spiraling between them, Hope tried not to twitch. But holy mother, it was hard. Standing idle while faced with a problem wasn’t one of her strong suits. Neither was facing off with a guy radiating a crazy amount of lethal. And Gage? The guy practically vibrated with it, vicious piled on top of vicious. For all his strength, though, she didn’t feel threatened. Wary? Sure. Watchful? Of course. Scared? Not even a little. Gage might be big, bad, and imposing, but she got the feeling he saved every scrap of violence for the enemy.
Finished examining the room, he returned his gaze to her.
Crossing massive arms over his chest, he raised a dark brow. “You always talk to yourself?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How much trouble I’m in.”
He laughed. “So not multiple personalities then, just a pep talk. Forge giving you that much trouble already?”
“None of your business.”
“Touchy.”
“Not at all,” she said, lying through her teeth. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Call it whatever you like, but . . .” Tilting his head to one side, he sniffed the air. “I smell him all over you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You cannot.”
A wicked gleam in his eyes, he grinned, leaving her hanging, letting her imagination spiral out of control. Her brow furrowed. The jerk. He couldn’t possibly know that she—that Forge, that they’d . . .
Irritation rolled through her. Planting her feet, she crossed her arms. Enough patience. Time to move the conversation along. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
“Definitely touchy.”
“Not yet, but I’m headed in that direction.”
Straightening her shoulders, Hope stepped around the corner of the mattress. Too aggressive of a move, maybe, but she didn’t care. Gage was poking at a sore spot, looking for a reaction, hiding his worry by trying to get a rise out of her. She skirted the bench at the end of her bed, moving toward confrontation instead of away. A necessary evil. She needed to start as she meant to go on, and a guy like Gage understood one thing—strength. Show him weakness, and he’d go for the jugular. Every single time.
She inhaled past the knot lodged in her throat. “Either tell me what you want or I drop-kick you back into the hallway. You decide.”
“Feisty,” he murmured, laughter in his voice. “I like that in a female.”
Her eyes narrowed on him.
“All right, all right.” He held out his hands, palms up, in the universal sign of surrender. “Got a problem. Thought you might be able to help.”
“Got a funny way of asking for it.”
“Each to his own,” he said, a rumble of disquiet in his tone. Dropping the tough-guy act, Gage exhaled, the rush of air slow and easy. After a second of silence, he palmed the back of his head. His chin met his chest. “Fuck—didn’t think this would be so hard. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
Her stance—along with her heart—softened. Taking a step back, she sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”
A muscle along his jaw twitched.
“Look,” she said, her focus sharpening. “I know I’m here to help Forge, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you too. If you’ve got a problem, I’ll talk it through with you.”
“Never been to a shrink before.”
“First time for everything.”
Nerves getting the best of him, he cracked his knuckles.
“One word at a time,” she said, tone soft, encouraging him.
“It’s not about me . . .” He paused, frowned, then shook his head. “Actually, it is, but not directly.”
She waited.
He cleared his throat. After rolling his shoulders, he found his voice. “I have a son—Osgard. Pretty new situation. I didn’t sire him, but he’s mine. I adopted him a month ago, pulled him out of an abusive home.”
“How bad?”
“Nasty fucking shithole.”
“Physical abuse?”
Gage nodded.
“Sexual?”
“He won’t talk about it, but yeah, I think so,” he said, rage in his eyes, a growl in his voice. “Here’s the thing—I’ve never been a father before. I don’t know what I’m doing or how to help him.”
“How old is he?”
“Not sure. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. We don’t have his birth records, and he doesn’t remember celebrating a birthday.”
A teenager. Tough. Particularly since most adolescent boys avoided heavy-duty issues in favor of bravado. “Is he the kid I saw at dinner?”
“Yeah.” Stepping into the room, Gage grabbed the armchair in the corner beside the door. He dragged it over the hardwood floor toward the area rug. He set the chair down in front of her. Wooden feet thudded against the carpet. He scowled at the seat cushion, then flexed his hands, and sat. “First time he’s agreed to come inside the lair, for a meal or otherwise. He’s terrified of males.”
And Black Diamond was full of them. Big, strong men with enough confidence to sink an armada of battleships. Which meant a man had abused Osgard. The observation made her heart pang. So many bastards in the world, not enough time to kill them all.
“If he’s afraid of men, it’s normal for him to be uncertain,” she said, reassuring Gage as her brain pulled snippets of memory to the forefront of her mind. Osgard—tall kid, though not full grown. Dark hair, blue eyes, the handsome boy hiding behind Gage at the table. Scared kid, for sure, but . . .
Hope met Gage’s gaze. “You’re doing okay with him.”
“How do you know?”
“He trusts you. He wouldn’t have come into the house at all if he didn’t.” Resting her heels on the lip of the side rail, Hope set her elbows on the tops of her knees. Fingers laced, she leaned toward Gage instead of away. “I noticed he stayed close to you, allowed you to shield him from the others. That’s huge, Gage. A great first step.”
“You think?”
“I know,” she said. “It may not feel like it, but you’re making headway.”
“He won’t sleep in his own bed.” His brows furrowed, Gage mirrored her pose and planted his elbows on his bent knees. “He has his own room in my apartment over the garage. Nice and comfortable, lots of space, and yet when I wake up each day, he’s curled in a ball beside my bed. On the fucking throw rug.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Of course it bothers me.” He looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “He’s a youngling. He needs a good night’s sleep.”
“So move his bed into your room.”
Gage blinked. “What?”
“He’s in a new place with new people. Pretty scary for a teenage boy who’s been hurt that badly. Think about it, Gage—when is Osgard at his most vulnerable?”
Gage frowned. One second rounded into two before understanding struck. “Shit—when he’s sleeping.”
“And where does he go when he needs to feel safe?”
Pushing away from his knees, wonder bloomed on Gage’s face. “To me.”
“Yes. To you. His father, the one man he knows will protect him. So screw convention—move his bed into your room. Stick it in a corner, up against the wall. Put your bed between his and the door. He’ll feel safe enough to close his eyes, and you’ll feel better because he’s getting the sleep he needs to stay healthy. Easy fix.”
“Okay,” he said, breathing a little easier. “For how long? Is there a time limit? How long do I allow him to sleep there?”
“Give it a month and reevaluate. Once he gets to know the other guys and trusts they won’t hurt him, he’ll be ready to sleep in his own room.”
“Good enough.”
Hope smiled as relief and hope sparked in Gage’s eyes. Her sense of purpose rebounded. Damn, that felt good—to be needed, to be useful, to have made a difference in someone’s life. Pride thrummed through her, wiping out her earlier misstep with Forge. “Baby steps, Gage. No one heals from trauma of this magnitude overnight. It’ll take time. Lots of patience. Lots of coaxing. Lots of talking it through when he’s ready. Take it one day at a time. As long as he’s moving forward—no matter how slowly—consider it a win.”
With a nod, Gage stood. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Following his movement, she slid off the edge of the mattress. As her feet met the floor, one of her boxing wraps rolled off the bed. She bent to pick it up.
With a quick dip, Gage scooped it off the floor. He looked from her to the coiled length of cloth and back again. His mouth curved. “Need to hit something?”
She huffed. “You have no idea.”
“Grab your shit.” Pivoting, he headed for the open door. “We’ve got a gym downstairs. I’ll show you how to get there.”
“Any kickboxing stuff?”
“A whole roomful.”
Grabbing the second hand-wrap, Hope plucked her boxing gloves off the comforter. Equipment in hand, she hurried after Gage, following him out of her room and into the hallway. Hallelujah. About time, and not a second too soon. She needed to get herself under control and out of the libidinous danger zone. Before she did something stupid and slept with the one guy her ethics insisted she couldn’t.
Shoulders propped against the wall, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, Forge watched Mac sleep from across the recovery room. Halogens set on low, light cocooned the king-size bed, putting his best friend in the spotlight and him in the shadows.
Fine by him.
The dark corner suited his mood. And no wonder. Nothing had gone right since the moment Mac collapsed in the living room. Problems kept piling up, adding more trouble to the bottom of his tally. Case in point? His best friend still hadn’t woken up. No matter how many tests Myst ran, she hadn’t found out why he remained unconscious. Second on the list of Screwed-Up—the Archguard sharpened the hunt, calling for his head, going global by broadcasting his “crime” (and the charges) to Dragonkind packs worldwide, and Forge still couldn’t remember a fucking thing. Last but never least . . . Hope. He glared at the end of the bed. Hospital gray, the metal footboard gleamed in the low light, framing Tania wrapped around Mac on the bed. An image of Hope spread beneath him popped into his head.
Forge gritted his teeth.
Shite. He’d messed up in serious ways with her—pushing too far, too fast. A bad move. One she made plain when she fled his room earlier.
His brow furrowed. Had he scared her? Maybe. He growled, his frustration loud in the quiet of the room. No maybe about it. She’d run like a frightened rabbit, and he was to blame. Problem was, how did he go about fixing it? Lines couldn’t be uncrossed and . . . hell. He didn’t want to uncross them. He wanted her in ways he’d never imagined. The softness of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the sound of her voice still hummed in his veins. A constant reminder of his yearning. Even now, hours later, he burned for her, craving her nearness.
Bowing his head, he stretched taut muscles, welcoming the discomfort. His reaction to her baffled him. Who would’ve thought he—a warrior born and bred—could be derailed by desire. All right, so Hope was spectacular, but . . . bloody hell. So little of it made sense to him. Being upended by a wee lass with big green eyes was absurd. Surreal. So far outside all his considerable experience, he wanted to hit something.
Mac would’ve been his first choice. The male always gave as good as he got in dragon combat training. Fast in flight, his friend maneuvered like a male twice his age, and was ten times as vicious. Which made battling with him a hell of a lot of fun.
Forge frowned at his friend. He wanted to yell, “Wake up!” Shake him. Curse at him and trade insults. Not grieve the male he loved like a brother. But even as he told himself to buck up, fear crept into his center. He couldn’t lose Mac. Watching another brother die while he stood powerless to help . . .
Forge’s throat went tight. Nay. Never again. His mind—his heart and soul—rebelled at the idea.
Which spun him back toward Hope.
He needed her right now—to soothe the ragged edges, to calm his dragon half and, as stupid as it sounded, tell him it would be all right. Forge frowned. Bugger him, how old was he anyway—five? A small child in need of soothing? He shook his head. How she held that kind of power over him in so short a time, he couldn’t understand. But sometime during the night, wanting her had turned to needing her. She’d become his anchor in the heart of the storm the moment he’d wrapped his arms around her. A state of being he should no doubt question—and reject—but standing in a recovery room with Mac down for the count, Forge couldn’t bring himself to let go of the lifeline.
God, he wanted to see her.
The impulse throbbed through him. Forge inhaled, filling his lungs to capacity before exhaling, and throttled back the urge. He couldn’t seek Hope out. Not yet. He must stay a while longer, flesh out his idea before he presented the crazy-ass plan to Bastian.
Eyes narrowed, he ran his gaze over Mac again. No improvement. Nothing had changed in the hour he’d stood at the back of the room.
Tattoo glowing bright red, curled up in the center of the bed, his best friend twitched, muscles seizing, his expression one of pain, mind mired in whatever hell had taken hold of him. Every once in a while Mac groaned and Tania’s breath hitched. Hugging her mate, she stroked his bare skin, murmuring soft words, wrapping herself around him, feeding him more of her life-sustaining bio-energy. The Meridian rose in waves, rolling in before receding, crackling inside the room, supercharging the air.
His skin prickled. Pain danced across his temples. Forge rubbed his shoulders against the wall, absorbing the discomfort.
Mac moaned again.
Tania whispered her mate’s name, trying to soothe him and herself.
The sound wrenched his heart.
What the hell was wrong? Virus or contaminate? Fixable or not? So far, no one knew. Lots of testing. Tons of back and forth. Nary a clear result. No leads either. His hands curled inside his pockets. Denim pressed against the backs of his knuckles, keeping him from putting his fist through the wall. He stared at the smooth expanse of pale paint next to him, zeroing in on a spot between two studs hidden by drywall and—
“Bloody hell,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Putting a hole in the wall wasn’t a good idea. If he KO’d anything else today, Bastian would kick his ass, then line up the rest of the pack to take a shot at him. So, time to take a step back. Damaging shite might be satisfying, but enough gym equipment had suffered.
The first casualty had been a weight bench, which now lay twisted inside the workout room. Total pretzel territory. The steel frame, though, had fared better than the exercise balls in the bin beside the basketball court. At least metal could be straightened. The balls, however? Forge cringed. No hope there. He’d popped the entire collection like popcorn . . . with nothing but his mind. First negative thought—pop! Second one—pop, pop! The third bout of brooding—pop, pop . . . POP!
The sound had been fantastic, if less than mature. Another bad move. One hundred percent selfish considering the potential backlash. The females in the lair used the colorful collection during Pilates classes and . . . shite. Myst would be up in arms. Totally pissed he’d left the ladies with a pile of plastic confetti instead of bouncy balls. Still . . .
The destruction had untangled the worry knotting his chest.
Absolutely worth the eventual scolding.
Taking another deep breath, Forge pushed away from the wall. He needed to get his thoughts together. Standing in the recovery room with his thumb up his butt wasn’t helping Mac. Or Tania. The female might be doing her best to keep her mate stable, but time would win out. Without the reciprocation of healing energy from Mac, Tania would give too much and weaken. A dangerous state for a female. Eventually, she’d reach a tipping point and fall into energy deprivation. Major organs would start to shut down. Her brain would follow, pushing her into a coma and the inevitable slide toward death. So . . .
Forge squared his shoulders.
Time to figure it out.
Even if it meant proposing something radical. A strategy that might get him grounded by the Nightfury commander. But God, anything was better than waiting—than watching his best friend die one breath at a time.
Dragging his gaze from the bed, he headed for the door. His boots scraped over the industrial-grade floor.
“Forge?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
Arms wrapped around Mac, Tania raised her head off a pillow. Tired brown eyes met his. “Heading out?”
“Aye, but . . .” Hand curled over the door handle, Forge tipped his chin. “Donnae worry, lass, I’ll be back. Eat something, and try tae get some sleep.”
“Okay. You too. Grab something at the evening meal, Forge. Mac’s going to need you when he wakes up,” she said, unrelenting conviction in her gaze. Admiration for her grabbed him by the balls. She was magnificent. So fucking strong, exactly what Mac needed and everything his friend deserved. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
Throat so tight he couldn’t answer, he nodded.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. Heavy-duty hinges went to work behind him, hissing as the door met its frame. The electrical charge in the air disappeared. Quiet descended. Bowing his head, Forge stretched tense neck muscles, working out the kinks, and turned toward—
“Any improvement?”
His head came up. Intense green eyes stalled his forward progress. His stride slowed. Feet planted in the middle of the hallway, he took in Bastian’s terse expression and shook his head. “No better, no worse.”
B flexed his hands. “Fuck.”
“Christ.” Standing behind B, Rikar rolled his shoulders, the worry in his eyes telling. “What the hell is wrong with him?”
Good question. A fifty-million-dollar one.
“No clue, but . . .” Trailing off, he tipped his head toward the doors at the end of the hall. A conversation was in order. Time to roll out his idea, set the plan he’d been stewing over in motion, and pray Bastian agreed. He couldn’t wait any longer, and judging by the worry on the pair’s faces, neither could they. “We need tae talk, but not here. I donnae want Tania overhearing.”
Mac’s female didn’t need to know. The mission was dangerous enough. No way he wanted her worrying about anything other than her mate.
Brushing past his comrades, Forge made for the double doors. Without waiting to see if the duo followed, he pushed both open and stepped into the clinic. The scent of antiseptic soap assaulted him first. The low buzz of overhead fluorescents came next, joining the visual rush of medical equipment. He walked toward the row of cabinets lining the sidewall. As he skirted the warrior-size operating table, memory flooded him, making him remember past injuries, highlighting the risks of his plan.
Electricity crackling in his wake, B strode into the clinic. “What’s up, Forge?”
“I have an idea.”
“About time someone did,” Rikar said, snowflakes tumbling above his shoulders, broadcasting his upset as he cleared the door.
“First, I need tae know if you’ve heard from Azrad.”
Bastian frowned at the mention of his younger sibling. “Nothing yet, but it’s early. He won’t break cover unless he’s got solid intel to share.”
“Shite,” Forge murmured, wishing B’s brother would hurry the hell up and find something to say. Not that he blamed the male for being cautious. Embedded inside the Razorback pack, Azrad played a dangerous game. One that involved hiding his true identity while he spied on Ivar for the Nightfury pack. The intel he’d given so far had been invaluable. Too bad there wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming tonight. “I’d hope tae learn what’s happening inside the Razorback pack, before . . .”
He trailed off. Rikar raised a brow. “What?”
“Information about rogue movements might’ve come in handy tonight.”
“What are you thinking?” Bastian asked, moving across the clinic toward him. “What’s the plan?”
Framed by cabinets behind him, Forge blew out a breath. “You arenae going tae like it.”
Focused on Forge, B tipped his chin. “Tell me anyway.”
“It might be, well . . .” Searching for the right words, Forge stepped back and, with a hop, planted himself on the countertop. Ass cheeks cooling on stainless steel, boot heels banging against lower cabinets, he ignored the bump of the top cupboards against his shoulders and eyed his comrades. “Crazy.”
A fatalistic light entered Rikar’s eyes. “A little or a lot crazy? Please tell me it’s the latter. I haven’t killed anyone in weeks.”
Bastian grunted in agreement.
His gaze moved from B to Rikar and back again. “My plan leans heavily toward the ‘a lot’ side of the equation.”
“Fantastic.” Nudging a rolling cart out of his way, Rikar cracked his knuckles.
Leaning on the edge of the operating table, B crossed his arms over his chest, and his feet at the ankles. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”
“Not a what,” Forge said. “A who.”
Rikar frowned.
B stared at him a moment, speculation in his eyes. One second ticked into more before the big male followed his line of thought. He sucked in a quick breath. “Fuck me. You want to go after Hamersveld.”
Forge nodded. “Capture and cage him.”
“Holy fuck,” Rikar murmured. “Bring him to ground like we did you in the shipping yard.”
“Aye,” he said, suppressing a shiver. The powerful Taser they’d used to bring him down had hurt like hell. Knocked him out cold. He’d woken hours later, deep underground, inside an energy-infused prison cell with a magic collar full of explosives around his throat. “Pretty fucking effective. Pump the bastard full of enough electricity, and we’ll bring him down and shove him into a cage before he wakes up. After that, the fun begins.”
Bastian raised a brow. “Torture.”
“If necessary,” he said, not an ounce of remorse in his voice. He didn’t like the torture route. Hit hard, kill fast was his claim to fame . . . under normal circumstances. But with Mac’s life on the line, all things decent took a backseat. “We need answers. I think Hamersveld has them.”
“You think the bastard knows what’s wrong with Mac?” Rikar asked.
“Stands to reason,” B said, his eyes narrowed. “He has similar markings to Mac, and given our boy’s tattoo is glowing—”
“Bright red,” Rikar said, voice deepening with the beginnings of hope. “The sickness is linked to the tattoo.”
Staring at the wall above the row of medical machinery, Bastian shook his head. “Tricky, though. Hamersveld’s a water dragon, and without Mac to keep him in check . . .” He paused, mind working overtime. “We’ll have to amp up the voltage.”
“To compensate for the damping effect of his magic?” A thoughtful look on his face, Rikar’s eyes narrowed. “Makes sense. It’s risky but—”
“Doable.” Raising his hand, Bastian scraped his fingernails against the stubble on his jaw. “Not easy. Dangerous as hell, but doable.”
Forge breathed a sigh of relief. “It’ll get bloody.”
“Shit, I hope so. But first we need to find the asshole.” Thumping him on the shoulder, Rikar brushed past him on his way to the exit. “I’ll talk to Sloan. Have him get into the database, see if he’s got anything on Hamersveld in his files, then gather the others.”
“Good. I’ll speak with Gage about the Taser. He built it, so he’ll know how to amp it up.” B pushed away from the operating table. “Meet back here in an hour. We need a plan and everyone on board before we fly out.”
Motion sensors went active.
The glass door slid to one side.
Moving like a male on a mission, Rikar jogged into the hallway.
Following Rikar’s retreat, Bastian strode across the clinic. A second before he reached the exit, he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and Forge?”
“Aye?”
“See to your female before we leave.”
His female. Forge blinked. Did he mean Hope? The question swirled inside his head before setting in. Hope—his . . . all HIS. Shite, that sounded good. Seemed right, even though it shouldn’t. He needed to deny it. Should set Bastian straight before he got any bright ideas.
“She isn’t mine, B.”
“Keep lying to yourself.” Amusement in his eyes, Bastian’s mouth curved. “Sucks for you, but it’s going to be fun for me to watch.”
“Arsehole.”
Halfway out the door, B laughed.
Forge growled, the nasty sound spiraling into empty air.
“She seemed a bit upset last I saw her,” B said, poking at him, making concern rise and the need to soothe her course through his veins. “She’s got good form, though. Sure knows how to hit a heavy bag.”
Heavy footfalls echoing, Bastian disappeared from view.
The urge to go after him—to beat the shite out of the teasing bastard—grabbed hold. His dragon half buried the impulse, fixating instead on the one thing guaranteed to get him in trouble. Hope was in the gym, working out. She’d be hot and sweaty and . . .
The visual dug its claws in.
Longing blasted through him.
“Goddamn it,” he said, fighting the attraction.
He lasted less than a second before his dragon half took over. Need swamped him, rushing in like a fast-moving current and . . . ah, hell. Screw it. He might as well admit it. He was cooked. Finished. Undone by the mere thought of her. Now he couldn’t resist. She was just down the hall. Less than a hundred yards from where he sat. One hallway and a couple of doors away. Abandoning his perch, Forge hopped off the countertop. His feet touched down, but didn’t stay put. Her pull on him was too strong. He wanted to see her, and it needed to be now.