Chapter Twenty
Stretching out his shoulders, Forge turned left into the corridor and strode toward the clinic. Hardwood floors gave way to smooth concrete floors. The high polish gleamed dark gray as the round lights embedded in the floor threw splashes of light onto granite walls. Chisel marks stood in stark relief against the pale paint, reminding him of home and his painful history. Bowing his head, Forge cupped the back of his skull. He pressed down. His chin touched his chest. Taut muscles squawked. He kept his feet moving, knees bending, bare soles whispering in the quiet, pace steady despite his tension. Goddamn history. The past never left him alone. As unrelenting as a hungry wolf, it circled, making him recall the good times, taunting him with the bad.
Not that he could remember all of it. Which made him want to forget all the more.
A picture of Hope rose in his mind. Forge shook his head. Guess forgetting wasn’t an option anymore. No sense turning away from the truth. Sooner or later, his female would dig it out of him. Supposition? Guesswork? Not even close. His time with her spotlit an unshakable truth: energy-fuse. His dragon half accepted her. Nay. More than that, the beast craved her now—wanted her close, needed her touch, longed for the sound of her voice. Combine that with the fact she gave new meaning to the word skilled in her field of study and . . . aye.
Sooner rather than later, Bastian would get what he needed: Forge’s memory—the intel everyone hoped would implicate Rodin in the murder of his family—signed, sealed, and delivered by Hope.
Forge blew out a long breath. The idea shook him a little. Which pissed him off. Retrieving the memory was the whole point. Why Mac had gone out on a limb and asked Hope to help. And yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted the memory dug out of his head anymore. Remembering—seeing his family die all over again—would hurt like hell. Torn . . . he was torn by the thought. Stretched taut between needing to help his new pack and protecting himself from the inevitable pain. Although, this time around, he wouldn’t be alone. Hope would be there to help him pick up the pieces in the aftermath. He frowned. At least, if she chose to stay with him, instead of fleeing the second she learned of Dragonkind.
The possibility cranked him tight.
Fucking hell. He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts. Bastian was right. Hope was his female . . . HIS. Every stunning inch of her.
She belonged to him.
He was meant for her.
Only a fool would deny it now.
The idea scared him. With the Archguard out for blood, he had a target on his back. Which meant if he mated her—performed the ancient ceremony joining his life force with hers—the bull’s-eye would expand to include Hope. Dropping his arms to his side, Forge flexed his hands. He wanted her. He really did, but fuck, the optics sucked. If Rodin came for him, it would be a fight to the death. One winner. One loser. His mate caught in the middle. As a mated male, if he died, so would his female and—
He slammed into something.
The something shoved back.
Jarred out of his thoughts, Forge rocked back on his heels. His head came up along with his fists.
“Forge—pull your head out of your ass, man.” Ruby-red eyes flashed in irritation. With a growl, Venom batted Forge’s fist out of his face. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Shite,” he said, taking a step back, giving his friend room to breathe. His gaze bounced around the hallway. Crowded between the chiseled walls, eight males stared back and . . . hell. Talk about inattentive. The entire pack was assembled, living large in the corridor outside the clinic doors. Rubbing the back of his neck, Forge cleared his throat. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”
Venom snorted. “I noticed.”
B chuckled. “The right female will do that to a male.”
Gage raised a brow. “What—make him stupid?”
“Worse,” Rikar said, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Relocate his brain behind his button fly.”
“And keep it there,” Wick said, serious amber eyes leveled on him.
“Bloody hell.” Forge scowled, fighting the urge to adjust the insatiable beast inside his jeans. “Does it get any better?”
“Nope,” Venom said with such glee Forge wanted to punch him. “Get used to it, buddy.”
“Lovely.” Forge sighed. No relief in sight—ever. Such a terrific way to start the night.
Stepping alongside him, Bastian threw him an amused look. The unsaid “I told you so” rubbed Forge the wrong way. B might be right about him and Hope, but that didn’t mean the arsehole needed to grind salt in the wound. He glared at his commander. Unperturbed by the warning, the big male slapped him on the shoulder. The love tap reverberated down his spine and out through the soles of his feet.
“We’ve got a plan,” B said, dropping the subject of females. “Ready to hear it?”
Unease transformed into a sense of purpose. Forge exhaled in relief. Good. Better. The best, in fact. He appreciated the save. Particularly since he wasn’t ready to talk about Hope—and her startling effect on him—yet. Glancing around the room, seeing the serious faces, Forge nodded. “Lay it out.”
“Three teams,” B said. “Venom, Wick, and Sloan will take the north side of the Sound. Gage, Haider, and Nian, the south. You, Rikar, and I will set up on Bainbridge Island.”
Nine warriors. Three groups. Multiple locations.
Doing the math, Forge tilted his head. “Roughly, what—five miles apart?”
“Yeah.” Rikar turned toward the map taped to the wall. Three X’s marred the glossy surface, pinpointing the triangulation. The Nightfury first in command drew a circle around Puget Sound. “Outside the three-mile marker. Far enough away to avoid detection, close enough to close the gap quickly.”
Great plan. Thorough, well thought out, but . . . Forge’s brows furrowed. “How do we know he’ll show up?”
“He won’t be able to resist.”
Glancing sideways, Forge looked at the speaker. His focus narrowed on Nian. The male didn’t flinch. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Haider, the Archguard prince met his gaze head-on. Forge’s mouth curved. Well, all right, then. About time, actually. He’d been waiting for Nian to assert himself and get involved. Contributing—adopting the warrior values of the Nightfury pack—was the only way to win his brothers-in-arms’ respect.
Tipping his chin, Forge kept his attention on Nian. “Tell me why.”
“I know Hamersveld. I had dealings with him in Prague.” Eyes shimmering like multicolored opals, Nian rolled his shoulders. The stitching on his bomber jacket stretched. Leather creaked, joining the faint sound of rushing water. “The bastard’s a creature of habit. He swims between three and four a.m. every night, in the biggest body of water he can find. No exceptions. The ocean—all that salt water—will draw him. He won’t be able to stay away from Puget Sound.”
“All right,” Forge said, accepting the intel as fact. “How many volts do we hit him with tae bring him down?”
“A shit-ton, times two,” Gage said, setting his boot on the huge black case at his feet. “Wick and I will wear the Tasers.”
He raised a brow in surprise. “We have a second one?”
“Another prototype. More powerful than the first one I built.” A nasty gleam in his eyes, Gage grinned. “It’ll zap the shit out of Hamersveld. The asshole won’t know what hit him.”
“Perfect.” And it was. The more painful the encounter for Hamersveld, the better. “Let’s go.”
A rumble of agreement sounded in the hall.
As one, the pack shifted toward the wall dead-ending the corridor. Boots scraped against concrete. Heavy footfalls pummeled the quiet. Magic flared, raining down like sparks in darkness as each warrior banged on the portal, asking the force field that protected Black Diamond—hiding the lair from humans and Dragonkind alike—to open the doorway into the landing zone.
Faced with nine warriors, the magic-born beast didn’t balk.
Solid stone went wavy, then cleared.
Arched at the top, the door stood tall, leaving a clear pathway to follow. Musty air blew in from the LZ. Forge reached the portal first and stepped through. Smooth concrete transitioned to rough granite. Like giant fangs, stalagmites rose on either side of him. Ignoring the show of teeth, Forge ramped into a run and sprinted toward the cliff edge.
Magic throbbed in his veins.
Gravel crunched beneath his boot treads.
Wind whipped at his face. The rush spread like a shock wave. Light globes against the high ceiling bobbed, raining dust motes as Forge transformed. Hands and feet turning to talons, his body lengthened, dark-purple scales clicking into place. Armored up and buttoned down, he bared his fangs and, claws scraping over stone, leapt beyond the lip of the LZ. His tail whiplashed. The spikes along his spine rattled. His wings caught air, lifting his bulk as he banked hard and rocketed into the underground passageway. The rumble of falling water echoed against jagged rock walls. He heard his pack-mates take flight behind him.
Forge didn’t slow.
He increased his velocity instead, blasting through the waterfall hiding the entrance, and launched himself into the night sky. No time to lose, even less to waste. The faster he downed Hamersveld, the sooner Mac got what he needed, and Forge would have Hope in his arms once more.