Chapter Four
Arse planted on a stool at the kitchen island, Forge frowned into his teacup. A smooth-tasting chamomile concoction swirled inside, a soothing balm for a ragged soul. At least, it was supposed to be—what the box label advertised. A bloody pack of lies. Tea wasn’t good for the spirit.
Forge lifted the mug anyway and, following Myst’s orders, took another sip. The brew stuck, swimming at the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to swallow. Hot liquid burned on the way down. Intense heat expanded behind his breastbone, and he waited. For the relief. For the blaze to melt the chill sitting like a chunk of ice in the center of his chest and the pain to become bearable.
No such luck.
He was frozen. A solid block of hurt and sensory overload.
Worse than the physical anguish, though, was the jumble inside his head. Two hours, and still, his mind refused to settle, dipping, diving, tumbling until his thoughts fractured, exploding in multiple directions. Now he couldn’t think straight. Mental blur yanked his chain, killing his ability to make sense of his surroundings. Forge snorted. Shite, it was tragic. A total fucking catastrophe. He scowled at the tea leaves staining the bottom of his cup. The extra shut-eye inside the medical clinic should’ve helped. Should’ve been enough to smother the emotional turmoil, laying down a track of all clear on the psychological front.
The aftereffects of a mind regression session didn’t work that way. The effects lingered, refusing to dissipate, leaving him so tense his skin stung and his temples throbbed. Bowing his head, Forge closed his eyes. The murmur of female voices burned across his frayed nerve endings. A tremor rumbled through him. Fuck. He was still so bloody sensitive. Cracked open. Rubbed raw on the inside. The unrelenting pressure made his eyes water.
Irritation times a million.
And it wasn’t getting any better.
The longer he sat in the kitchen, the more pronounced the discomfort became, making him wonder where he’d gone wrong. And how the hell he’d gotten trapped.
Forcing his eyes open, he scowled at the countertop. He’d screwed up somewhere along the way. Taken a wrong turn. Been slow to react. Whatever. The how of the problem didn’t matter anymore. Only one thing would save him now—escaping the dynamic duo before they drove him stark raving mad.
His gaze ping-ponged between Myst and Tania. He toyed with the mug handle, then spun his tea full circle. One revolution whirled into a second, and then another. Round and round. Over and over. Ceramic scraped against marble as he stared at the pair. Bloody hell. He might as well throw in the towel. It was official. He’d turned into a pansy, a male easily neutralized by the flap of feminine concern. Now he was on lockdown. Completely trapped. Cornered by two females who refused to leave him alone. No matter what he said.
Or how often he tried to make a break for it.
Forearms stacked on the counter, he shook his head. The taut muscles bracketing his neck squawked. Discomfort clawed down his spine. Rolling his shoulders, he attacked the tension. No good. Even less effective. Nothing but freedom would work, but well . . . hell. He couldn’t un-ass himself and leave, now could he? At least, not yet. Not until the females messing with his chi released him.
With a sigh, Forge studied his tormentors. Such bonny lasses. Good company dressed in workout gear and high ponytails. Total terrors with iron wills and obstinate natures. Surprising, really, given the angelic expressions and pleasant demeanors each wore like body armor. Focus locked on them, he spun the mug into another revolution. The hellions standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island ignored him. Heads together, eyes locked on the blueprint spread out on the countertop, the pair studied a myriad of intersecting lines. A comment here. An observation there. Yakety-yak-yak. The two never stopped talking, shoulders bumping, soft voices drifting, often finishing each other’s sentences without knowing it.
His gaze paused on Myst, then jumped to Tania. Complete opposites. One blond and slender, the other dark-haired and curvy. One unshakable with the calm confidence of a medical professional. The other a complete worrywart with too much artistic energy and an elaborate landscape to design. Both beautiful. Both stubborn. Both strong-willed, so hardheaded the number count on the obstinacy scale reached the millions.
Forge grimaced. Christ help him. The problem—and his subsequent imprisonment inside Black Diamond—was one hundred percent his fault. Bugger him, but he’d given in. Simply folded in the face of female worry after he’d woken in the clinic and found the lasses fawning over him.
More fool him.
It had been a trick. A trap sprung by wee devils with long eyelashes.
Forge huffed. Who was he kidding? No sense getting bent out of shape about it. None of the other Nightfury warriors would’ve faired any better. The dynamic duo disguised as innocent females made a formidable team. Witness the fact he was at their mercy—inside the bloody kitchen instead of where he wanted to be . . .
Out flying with the rest of the Nightfury pack.
Pushing away from the countertop, Forge glanced at the plate in front of him. He frowned at the piece of cherry pie. Neat slice. A lovely, tidy triangle. Baked perfection set out on expensive china—flaky crust, the ooey-gooey goodness of fruit filling, a dollop of whipped cream—out in full force. His stomach grumbled. Shoving the tea aside, he picked up his fork. Tines hovering above the plate, he stared at the artery-clogging mess. The promise of sweet decadence. Deception wrapped up in comfort food, a distraction designed for one purpose . . .
To soothe his pride.
And help him forget his failure.
Putting the fork to work, Forge squished a lone cherry. Syrupy juice squirted across bone china, obscuring the fancy design rimming the dish. The tang of baked fruit drifted into his airspace. Despite the tasty temptation, he wasn’t interested. No matter how much his stomach grumbled, he couldn’t eat. His appetite had bottomed out, leaving him on edge. Now pent-up energy flowed into a river of frustration. Fucking hell. Forget about the past. Set aside his family’s murder for the moment. The latest lapse was much more serious than that. Shite. He couldn’t remember the last few hours, never mind what had gone on before.
Forge blew out a breath. All right, so that wasn’t quite true. He remembered entering the clinic and sitting in the chair. He recalled Bastian, Rikar, and Mac setting up, getting ready, strapping him down. After that, though? Flicking at the piecrust with a sharp tine, Forge struggled to draw the memory forward. He tunneled deep, searched hard, shining light into the dark recesses of his mind, hunting for answers, willing the truth to surface. Seconds turned into more, ticking into minutes.
Nada.
No flash of memory.
Nothing but a head full of jagged, shadowed images.
Pressure banded his rib cage. God be merciful, it was getting worse. Whatever poisoned his mind continued to eat away at his memories, wiping his mental slate clean. He shook his head, forcing himself to think. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he remember the mind regression session? Why couldn’t he—
“Hey, Forge?”
The soft voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up, taking his attention off the pie. Brown eyes full of uncertainty, Tania met his gaze. The specters of his past—all the dark ghosts haunting him—vanished in an instant. Simply disappeared in the face of her growing insecurity. Forge’s mouth curved. Would wonders never cease? Tania was stewing, worrying about something she considered important.
Different night. Same issue. Identical results.
Tania always landed on the wrong side of worry. Mac’s mate might be lovely, but her nature bordered on obsessive. She picked at a problem until the whole thing unraveled. Some nights, she worried about her sister. Most of the time, she zeroed in on Mac, her love for him overflowing into caretaking the likes of which most males never saw.
Forge swallowed a chuckle.
Oh, the joys of the female mind. He adored women. Enjoyed everything about the fairer sex: the emotional upheaval and behavioral inconsistencies, the ups and downs, the absolute challenge of a woman with a sharp mind. The game—the thrill of the hunt, the grind of a heart-pounding chase, the ecstasy to be found in a female’s arms—captivated him. True challenge. Burning need. Gorgeous conquest. His over her. Hers over him. It didn’t matter who landed on top as long as the female of the moment received pleasure in the end.
Not that every interaction ended with sex.
Sometimes, like tonight, it was about talking. About soothing a female who didn’t belong to him . . . and never would. Myst and Tania, along with other females in the lair, existed in a different category. Each belonged to a Nightfury warrior. Which meant sex never came into play when dealing with them. Mated males were possessive. Dangerously so. Once energy-fuse and the binding spell took hold, a warrior would kill to protect his chosen female. Sometimes for the slightest infraction—a disrespectful comment, an unintended insult, or oh, say, getting too touchy-feely.
Forge never crossed that line.
The women inside Black Diamond belonged to his pack—were his to protect and shelter—not take to bed. What he’d found with his brothers-in-arms’ mates went deeper than the usual surface shite. It was about kinship and support. About helping a pack member who required it. About feeling necessary to another and being included, accepted, and trusted. Heady things for a male who’d been without kin for too long.
Meeting Tania’s gaze, he tipped his chin. “What is it, lass?”
Flipping a sketch pad around, she pushed it across the island toward him. “I need your opinion.”
He raised a brow. “New design?”
“Yeah,” she said, tone full of apprehension. “What do you think—will Mac like it?”
With a flick, Forge pushed his plate aside and reached out. Textured paper caught against his fingertips. Metal spirals holding the pad together scraped across the counter as he dragged the drawing closer. “You’ve not shown him yet?”
“Not this one. I want it to be a surprise. And anyway . . .” She blew out a breath. “I don’t like the other designs. The lagoon’s not right. None of the layouts work, but this one—”
“Is fabulous,” Myst said, smiling.
“You’re biased.” Tania threw her friend a look of exasperation. “You think everything I draw is awesome.”
“Of course I do. What are best friends for?”
“Hair-raising honesty, I hope.”
“Right.” Myst snorted. “As if. No way I’d survive if I told you one of your designs sucked. You’d smack me upside the head with one of your drafting rulers.”
“Probably,” Tania said, mischief in her dark eyes. “Sometimes violence really is the answer.”
Myst huffed. Snatching a pencil off the countertop, she tapped the tip against the blueprint. “Do you see what I’m dealing with here?” She gave him a pointed look. “Tell her it rocks, Forge, and save me from getting skewered.”
Forge’s lips twitched. “Let me have a look . . .”
Setting the sketch pad to one side, Forge grabbed the edge of the blueprint. He tugged on the thick paper. Myst lifted her elbows, letting him drag the architectural plans across the island. With a quick turn, he spun the design 180 degrees to get a better look.
Precise lines intersected, connecting to create an elaborate landscape. Seven acres of abundant vegetation: mature trees, thick shrubbery, and flower beds full of perennials. The whorl of elegant footpaths. And near the center? A two-tiered lagoon, lush waterfall flowing from the pool above to the larger one below. He traced the lines with his fingertip, then glanced at the sketch pad. Painted with water colors, the secluded oasis leapt off the page, allowing him to picture it. Christ. What a marvel. Tania had outdone herself. Was going for gold with one goal in mind: to please her mate and give Mac—and his water dragon half—what he needed, a place to swim each evening.
“’Tis incredible, lass,” he said, pride for her work in his voice. “Bloody well gorgeous. Mac is going tae love it.”
Tania smiled, relief on her pretty face. “You think so?”
“Aye. No doubt at all.”
“Told you so, my lady.” The words melded with a thump across the room. Hinges squeaked. The door from the butler’s pantry swung open and closed. With a happy hop, Daimler bustled into the kitchen, mixing paddles covered with strawberry icing in hand. “It’s going to be wonderful. Everything is in order. The backhoe and bulldozer arrive tomorrow. The plants are scheduled to arrive next week.”
“Wicked,” Myst said, accepting a mixing paddle from Daimler.
“Perfect.” Licking icing from the second paddle, Tania moaned in delight. “Thanks, Daimler.”
“Shite,” Forge muttered, giving the Numbai a meaningful look. “Better keep the bulldozer away from Wick.”
“I’ve already spoken to Master Bastian.” Daimler grinned, gold front tooth winking beneath bright halogens. “Master Wick will not be permitted to handle the equipment without supervision.”
Handle. Forge snorted. That was one way to put it. Another would be duck and cover . . . or die. A sound strategy. One that made perfect sense.
Wick enjoyed throwing things. Heavy machinery topped the list. The male couldn’t resist the allure of a good tractor-toss. Or KO’ing rogues with a dump truck to the teeth. Slam-bang. Poof-gone. Nothing but piles of ash in his wake. He should be grateful for Wick’s predilection. The enemy didn’t stand a chance when the warrior picked up a front-end loader. The problem? Whenever his friend went kamikaze with construction equipment, the Nightfuries scattered, ramping into serious flying to stay out of the way, but well . . . shite. Nobody was perfect, and Forge refused to hammer Wick for his weakness. Particularly since Forge indulged in his favorite way of killing Razorbacks all the time—by slamming the assholes skull-first into the sharp corners of skyscrapers.
Daimler cleared his throat.
Forge glanced his way.
Amusement in his eyes, the Numbai met his gaze and switched to mind-speak. “Looking to escape?”
“Christ save me from obstinate females. I cannae get away.”
“Gage is in the garage.”
Surprise blindsided him. Forge blinked. “He didn’t go with the others?”
The Numbai shook his head. “The youngling is still fearful. Osgard doesn’t do well alone yet. He’s most comfortable when Gage remains close.”
“He’ll adjust.”
“Of a certainty he will, but in the meantime . . .” Daimler tilted his head toward the exit. “Off you go, Master Forge. I’ll distract the ladies while you make a break for it.”
Bless him. The Numbai was straight up fantastic with a hefty helping of outstanding. “Have I told you how much I love you lately, Daimler?”
The tips of his pointy ears turned red a second before Daimler rolled his eyes, turned to the lasses, and murmured something about marzipan decorations. Myst and Tania both pivoted in the Numbai’s direction. Talk of a triple-decker cake and the need for taste testing ensued, distracting the hellions with the promise of chocolate. Focused on the trio, Forge slid off the stool. His feet touched down on the limestone floor. He shifted sideways. Slow and steady. No sudden movements. Stealth was the name of the game. He needed to fly under the females’ radar. Otherwise, the pair would pounce, and he’d be stuck in the kitchen instead of safe inside the garage.
The trifecta approached the pantry door.
Forge skirted the end of the island. The promise of freedom looming, he sped toward the exit. His heart thumped, setting a boom-boom-slam rhythm inside his chest. Dragon senses set to maximum, he glanced over his shoulder. No imminent threat of pursuit. No flap of feminine outrage. Nothing but smooth sailing. Expelling a ragged breath, he listened harder, hoping his luck held.
Nothing.
So far, so good. All quiet on the female front.
Entering the corridor, he slowed to a jog. Fantastic. He’d made it. Was almost out of range, ten feet and one turn away from escaping for good. He should’ve realized Gage had stayed home instead of flying out. Since his return from Prague, the warrior rarely left the lair. Some might argue Gage’s capture—and subsequent torture by an Archguard death squad—had taken its toll, making him gun-shy, less willing to leave Black Diamond for extended periods. Forge knew better. Not much fazed Gage. The male was solid, the best kind of deadly. Fast in flight. Brutal in a fight. Smart with heaps of cunning piled on top. So only one conclusion to draw. His stay-close-to-home policy didn’t stem from any lingering effects of captivity, but from another source altogether . . .
Osgard (the youngling he’d rescued from the Archguard) and the lad’s fear of strangers.
Turning the corner, he strode toward the end of the passageway. The quiet calmed him, settling into his bones, seeping into his chest to surround his heart. Forge sighed. About time. He needed a reprieve. Longed for peace of mind and craved the comfort of camaraderie. Normally, he got that from Mac, but with his apprentice out of the lair, Gage would have to do. Forge’s lips twitched. Hell. No contest there. The male, and his sarcastic, pissy attitude, was a good substitute. A battle of words—and the clash of a high-level intellect—was what he needed to feel like himself again. And well, working with his hands—helping Gage rebuild the Corvette ZR1 Tania had totaled on a midnight run outside the lair—wouldn’t hurt either.
Forge’s mouth curved. Christ, he couldn’t wait to razz Gage about it again. Was looking forward to the argument and the male’s reaction to a female cracking up “his baby.” Anticipation slithered down his spine. He focused on the end of the hall. The walls dead-ended into square, precise corners, gleaming wainscoting, no seams at all. At least, to the naked eye. Eyes narrowed on one corner, he unleashed his magic. Heat flowed through his veins, fanning out behind him as he murmured a command.
Gears ground into motion. A series of locks clicked. Hinges moaned as the hidden door popped open. Forge shoved it aside, stepped over the threshold and onto the landing. He flicked the door closed behind him. Twelve steps down and he stood in the underground passageway. Wide with a high ceiling, the tunnel connected the aboveground lair to the garage, allowing movement between the two during the day.
A necessary thing. Useful too, considering Gage refused to move his bedroom into the lair. He preferred the apartment inside the garage, and no matter how much Daimler nagged—or mayhap due to it—the male remained entrenched. Forge grinned. Bad-tempered bastard, stubborn to the bitter end.
Not bothering with the light switch, Forge moved into darkness. His night vision sparked. Details jumped out at him: the grainy texture of cinder-block walls, the cobwebs hanging from unlit wall sconces, the staircase sitting at the opposite end. Without breaking stride, he closed the distance and took the stairs three at a time. His boots banged against metal treads, killing the quiet before he reached the top. He pushed the heavy door open and—
“Hand me the three-quarter-inch wrench, kid.”
The deep growl spiraled across the huge space. Steel rattled as tools got shoved aside.
“Here.”
Metal smacked against skin. “Thanks.”
Standing behind a wall of tall toolboxes, Forge bowed his head. The grind of a socket wrench joined the buzz of industrial lights overhead. He sighed as tension seeped from his muscles. Hallelujah. Nice. Normal. The striking sound of sanity.
Another low murmur.
His sonar pinged, giving him Gage’s location in the fifty-car garage.
Kicking aside a stray bolt, he sidestepped the last toolbox. His gaze swept the scene. Crumpled hood of the canary-yellow ZR1 in the background, Gage stood off to one side, beside a sturdy table with an engine mounted on it. Hands blackened by grease, the male stripped the motor, removing parts only to set each down next to its compatriot sitting on the steel tabletop. Murmuring to Osgard, Gage held up a part, explained its purpose, teaching the youngling as he went. With a look of extreme concentration, the lad nodded, took the broken piece, and placed it in the discard pile.
He stopped six feet away. “Getting it sorted?”
At the sound of his voice, Osgard jumped. Fearful blue eyes swung his way.
Forge gritted his teeth, trying to keep his anger at bay. Goddamn the Archguard. The abusive bastards had done a number on the lad. Now Osgard didn’t trust anyone but Gage. He needed time, patience, and loads of persistence. Forge recognized the way forward. So did Gage and the rest of the Nightfury pack, but . . . God. He forced his fists to unclench. It was painful to watch the youngling struggle. Even more difficult not to push the lad and get involved. But Gage was right—the less pressure on Osgard, the better. Which left everyone with one strategy . . .
Respect the healing process. Wait until Osgard was ready.
Staying still, Forge waited, giving the lad time to adjust to his presence. Focus riveted to him, Osgard took a step back. A wrench in one hand, Gage reached out with the other. He grabbed the lad’s arm to hold him in place. With a “Settle down, kid,” the warrior glanced Forge’s way. An intense bronze gaze met his. “What the fuck do you want?”
“A safe place tae hide.”
Gage huffed. “The female horde driving you crazy?”
He shrugged. No sense lying about it. “Aye.”
“Stay the hell out of the kitchen, man. Safer that way.”
Good advice. Next time he’d heed it and make a fast getaway. Ignoring Osgard, hoping the lad didn’t spook, Forge walked to the table edge. Attention on the engine, he tipped his chin. “The ZR1’s?”
“Yeah. Damn female cracked the engine block.”
“Running grill first into a tree will do that tae a ’Vette.”
“Fuck.” Gage scowled. “Wish I could be pissed at her.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Nah,” Gage said. “She’s too pretty. Can’t even bring myself to yell at her.”
Forge laughed.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t take it out on Mac, though.” An unholy gleam in his eyes, Gage treated him to a speculative look. “Might have to appease my curiosity and beat the shit out of him, see what all the water dragon fuss is about.”
“Good luck with that.” Forge shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “The wanker knows kung fu.”
“Really?” Gage grinned. “Starting a fight just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Stifling a laugh, Forge shook his head. Christ. Trust Gage to take on what most warriors wouldn’t touch. Mac packed a serious punch. Toss in the fact most Dragonkind males feared water and . . . aye. A smart male knew when to quit. Or at least, stay the hell out of a water dragon’s way.
Picking up a wrench, Forge cranked the socket all the way round, listening to the zzz the metal gears made. “Want some help?”
Gage raised a brow. “Hell, you must be hard up. Need something to do that bad?”
“Whatever you need done.”
Releasing Osgard, Gage eyed the lad. “Stay put, Oz. Still need your help. Forge might be scared of a couple of females—”
Forge scoffed in feigned protest.
“—but he isn’t in the habit of kicking the shit out of snot-nosed kids.” Gage frowned, amusement in his eyes as he glanced at Forge. “Are you?”
“Nay,” Forge said, playing along, helping Gage ease the lad’s fear. “Bronze-eyed bastards, however? I make no promises.”
Gage chuckled.
Osgard stared at him a second, then relaxed, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “What’s next—the carburetor?”
“Good plan.” Patting the lad on the shoulder, he handed Osgard a screwdriver. Gage picked up another and went back to work. One minute turned into more, the silence comfortable as the three of them settled in, pulling apart the engine a piece at a time. Time lengthened, and Forge unwound, the whisper of hands on tool handles, the clink of steel on steel, the smell of motor oil smoothing the rough edges of his mood. After a while, Gage pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped off the pliers he held. “Heard what happened in the clinic tonight. You okay?”
“I’ll live.”
Gage glanced at him. “Not what I asked.”
“Only answer you’re going tae get.”
“Fair enough, but if—”
“No need tae talk about it.” Attention on the engine, Forge lifted his hand. A small screw fell into his palm. He set it aside, adding it to the growing pile on the table. “It’ll get sorted . . . or it won’t. Enough said.”
Silence settled, whispering around the workstation.
Standing on the other side of the table, Osgard shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the lengthening quiet. Forge watched him, heartstrings pulled taut as the youngling fiddled with the screwdriver, turning it over in his hand. The movement signaled the return of nervousness, and . . . ah, hell. He wished he could take it away. Wished like hell the lad hadn’t been hurt at all. But the world wasn’t that kind of a place. Bad things happened to good males all the time. He should know. He lived with fate gone wrong every day. Knowing it, however, didn’t make his regret any less real. Given a chance, he would shoulder Osgard’s pain and make it his own.
Pressing the blunt point of the screwdriver into the pad of his thumb, Osgard lifted his chin and . . . looked straight at Forge. Pale-blue eyes met his, darted away, then came back. A heartbeat passed. Osgard cleared his throat. “Did it hurt?”
Surprise jolted through him, making Forge slow to comprehend. “What, lad?”
“Mind regression,” Osgard said, tone quiet and curious. “What was it like?”
Gage raised a brow, daring him to answer.
Forge stifled a shiver. His throat closed as his muscles went taut. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to remember the session, never mind talk about it. Particularly after he’d told Gage to mind his own business. But as he stared at Osgard, he refused to do the same with the lad. He’d asked a question, a good one, braving his displeasure, offering his trust. The question played like a well-planned chess move. Most males would’ve scoffed at the idea. Not Forge. He recognized the game. Osgard was reaching out, testing the boundaries to see how another male—a bigger, much stronger one—would react to being put on the spot. Bridges were built that way, honesty arching into trust, so like it or nay, he needed to answer. If only to teach Osgard he had nothing to fear.
Steeling himself, Forge opened his mouth to explain.
The whine of machinery shattered the moment. The garage door opener activated. Heavy chains clanked. Lights at the far end came on, expelling the dark, as one of the heavy industrial doors opened.
“Find me later, lad. I’ll tell you all about it,” Forge said, focus split between Osgard and the slow rise of the garage door.
Osgard nodded.
“Good deal,” Gage murmured, slapping Forge on the shoulder.
The love tap spoke of approval. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach receded. Forge exhaled, the breath slow and measured. Shite, that felt good. Talking about mind regression might suck, but gaining the lad’s trust would be worth it. Was far more important than his continued comfort, and as the black SUV rolled in, headlights flashing, oversize tires squeaking on the concrete floor, Forge let the shame of his failure go. He couldn’t change it now. Or ever. Time to move on. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the next step and reclaim his memories. Right now, he had a different mystery to solve. Namely? Why the hell Angela sat behind the wheel of the Denali.
Wiping his hands on a rag, Forge stepped away from the table and turned toward the SUV. Intense aquamarine eyes met his through the windshield. He scowled at his apprentice. Planted in the passenger seat, Mac raised a brow in challenge. Forge growled under his breath. Damned fool. What did the male think he was doing? He might be new to Dragonkind, but Mac knew better than to take a female out of the lair after dark. It was unsafe. A total jackass move and—
His sonar pinged.
Sensation burned across the nape of his neck.
The flap of multiple wings thumped through the quiet.
Dust kicked up in the driveway beyond the garage door.
White scales flashed, glowing in the gloom as Rikar landed outside. Dragon claws ground against gravel. Rubber squealed as Angela hit the brakes inside the garage. Engine rumbling, she put the truck into reverse and backed the SUV into its designated spot.
Forge frowned in confusion. What the hell was going on? Rikar flying in support could only mean one thing—the warrior had been on board with his mate leaving the lair . . . at night. At fucking night. The shift in procedure signaled trouble. What kind and for how long? Forge curled his hands into fists. Shite. Excellent question. One in need of answering, and fast. Particularly with Gage’s and Mac’s gazes locked on him, as though waiting for a reaction.
His instincts screamed in warning.
Something was up.
Something was off.
Something nasty with his name written all over it.
Muscles locked, Forge met Mac’s gaze, glanced at Gage, then turned his attention to the driveway. Bastian landed next to Rikar, midnight-blue scales in stark contrast to the Nightfury’s first in command. Rikar shifted into human form. B followed, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his leather trench coat, stomping his feet into his boots as Haider, Sloan, and Venom touched down behind him. Bringing up the rear, Wick dropped out of the sky. Black amber-tipped scales rattled in the wind rush. His huge paws slammed into the ground. A brutal cacophony of sound echoed, rumbling through the garage. Tools jumped on the workbench, steel clanging against steel, as Forge sidestepped Gage and headed for his apprentice.
Popping the door open, Mac slid out of the Denali. The truck door slammed behind him. A shimmer in his ocean-blue eyes, he hammered Forge with a be-reasonable look. “You’re going to listen to me before you lose it.”
The statement of fact rubbed Forge the wrong way. His eyes narrowed. “You think?”
A muscle ticked along Mac’s jaw. “I know.”
“What the fuck did you do?” he asked, soft tone full of all kinds of lethal.
“I brought you what you need.”
Unease slithered down his spine.
Glancing at his partner, Mac tipped his chin. Already out of the truck, Angela gripped the rear handle. The back door of the SUV opened. A dark blindfold covering her eyes, a female stepped out and—
Forge lost his ability to breathe for a moment. “Bloody hell.”
“I’m sorry,” Mac said, switching to mind-speak. Hands raised, palms up and out to the side, Mac approached on silent feet. “I didn’t know she was high energy until I got there. It’s not ideal, but she’s the best at what she does. You need her and . . .”
Mac kept talking.
The words didn’t register. Forge couldn’t hear a thing. His ability to focus on anything other than the female vanished. Nothing penetrated the thick fog of attraction. Fuck. Even with the blindfold covering half her face, she was beautiful. Red-gold hair tied in a ponytail. Gorgeous mouth made for kissing. Pearl-white skin with the faintest smattering of freckles. Brilliant aura glowing like a supernova. Lust clawed through his veins, hardening him so fast it was painful.
His dragon half snarled.
The sound echoed inside his head.
The noisy rush made his heart throb. One beat pounded into another. His mouth went dry. His skin grew more sensitive, sending a clear message: get closer. Speed would close the distance. A few strides. A quick touch. A faster taste—his mouth on hers—and he’d know. Would draw on her power, assuage ravenous need, learn what raw energy felt like against his skin and how well she would feed him.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
A chuckle drifted over his shoulder.
“Well, now. I wasn’t expecting that,” Gage said, laughter in his voice. “Things just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Forge snarled at the bastard. Idiot male. Gage needed a serious attitude adjustment. One helped along by Forge’s fist slamming into his face. He needed to pound on someone. Right now. Mac was his first choice—the meddlesome arsehole—but Gage would do, ’cause sure as shite, interesting didn’t begin to describe the situation.
Dangerous seemed a better word.
A safer bet too considering his reaction to the female now shoving the blindfold off her head. Big green eyes blinked in the bright light. Her ponytail swung as she pivoted, small booted feet rasping against the floor, and met his gaze. Her soft inhalation of surprise battered him. Forge’s stomach clenched. Bloody hell. Trouble—he was in serious fucking trouble. In uncharted territory with a female he shouldn’t get anywhere near.
Mac’s fault.
Forge stifled a growl. All Mac’s fault.
Which left him with two options. Scare the hell out of the female by letting lust out of its cage. Or beat the shite out of the male responsible for bringing her into his sphere.