Chapter One
The buzz of halogens breathed life into the absence of sound. The silence should’ve bothered him. Sounded internal alarm bells. Put him on high alert. Something. Anything. The smallest response to the eerie fog of quiet descending over Black Diamond would be good. Forge glared at the precise seams of the chair rail instead, searching for flaws as he strode down the extrawide corridor.
Perfect fucking corners. Smooth, curving surfaces. Nary a chip in an ocean of glossy white paint covering the wood. Colorful paintings joined the parade, holding court, sending him deeper into the lair, pointing him toward the last place he wanted to go.
His gaze jumped from pale walls to the trio of Kandinskys hanging to his left. He scowled at the collection, the sight of even brushstrokes on priceless masterpieces irritating the hell of out him . . . for no good reason. His reaction to the sight qualified as over the top. He saw the flash ’n glamour every day. Lived in the lap of luxury inside the home he shared with the other Nightfury dragon warriors. Was accustomed to seeing the tidy show of wealth, so no need to be pissed off by it. Not today, or ever, except . . .
He didn’t know how else to stem the growing tide of unease.
Like a tidal wave, worry washed in. The force of it rolled over him, slowing his pace, clogging his throat, making him yearn for the safety of his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much. A quick pivot. A minute or two of walking. A solid door between him and what he’d learned to fear over the last week and a half.
Forge shook his head. Nay. No way. Not now. He wasn’t a coward and refused to run. Not after forcing himself to step over the threshold and close the door behind him. The thud of the wooden edge against the jamb had seemed final. He wanted it to be final. Needed it to be. No more hiding. No more avoiding. No more holding it in until he thought he might burst at the seams.
Onward. Upward. To his own death if necessary.
Gaze glued to the framed Matisse hanging at the end of the hall, Forge struggled to keep his legs moving. But it was hard. His feet felt heavy, each stride taking real effort. Bend knee. Lift foot. Move forward. His boot sole said hello to the floor. A second later, the other landed.
One step, two step, three step, four.
The counting didn’t help.
He muttered each number aloud anyway, walking toward the elevator that would take him into the underground lair. A few more bedroom doors to pass, and he’d be there, facing off with a steel cage he didn’t want to enter. Not that he’d been given much choice, but as his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor, a hollow spot opened behind his breastbone. The usual ache settled in and built a home, making him wonder if Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was right.
Forge frowned. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe all he needed was time. A little R & R. A slice of respite, the chance to catch his breath, open his mind wider, and remember.
He fisted his hands. His knuckles cracked under the strain. The snap ’n pop broke through the quiet and—Christ help him. He hated that word: remember. It sounded so simple. Reach in, grab hold, and pull the information out of his mind. Easy-peasy. Nothing complicated about it. But no matter how many times he tried to retrieve the memory, he came away empty handed. Zero information. Few visual clues, a dark hole where recollection should live.
A huge problem.
Catastrophic, given Bastian needed what lay buried in a forgotten place inside his mind.
The thought landed like a bomb inside him. Mental debris scattered. Forge cleared it away, acknowledging what up until now he’d refused to admit. God forgive him, but he didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to sit in that god-awful chair and allow B inside his head. Again. For the fifth bloody time, but running—leaving the lair and disappearing—wouldn’t solve anything.
He had a price on his head. Had been rubber-stamped for assassination by Dragonkind elite. Why? Forge huffed. For unbelievable shite . . . a pack of fucking lies. He still couldn’t believe the balls on the bastards. The Archguard high council and Rodin, leader of the entire travesty, had tried and convicted him of murder. Without Forge ever stepping foot inside a courtroom. Or touching the male he’d been accused of killing. Angela and Rikar had managed that all on their own. No help from him. Hell, he’d barely been part of the Nightfury pack at the time, never mind in the vicinity of the kill.
Not that he wasn’t happy to take the blame.
Lothair had needed killing, the state of his family tree notwithstanding. The sadistic SOB might have been XO of the Razorback pack—and Rodin’s second-born son—but powerful connections never exempted a male from what the universe doled out. The bastard had had it coming. The world was better off without him. Would be without Rodin too, if fate ever saw fit to deliver the Archguard leader into his claws. The instant that happened, Rodin would end up a dead dragon so fast heaven would spin on its axis as angels sang Forge’s praises.
Still . . .
Last he checked, wanting someone dead wasn’t a crime.
Manufacturing evidence, however, made the list of no-no’s. For that, the Archguard wiggled on the hook. The original question, though, remained—why target him? Charging him for Lothair’s death made no sense . . . unless Rodin was using the murder as misdirection. A distinct possibility. Clever beyond words. Particularly if Forge’s missing memory unearthed something Rodin wanted to keep buried. A something so important it threatened the ambitious bastard’s bid to become the High Chancellor of Dragonkind.
Which left one conclusion to draw.
Whatever lay locked inside his mental vault must be vital. A true threat. Potentially devastating to Nightfury enemies in Prague. Rolling his shoulders, Forge stretched taut muscles. Could be. Probably was, which meant the Archguard would never stop calling for his head. Or lift sanctions on the Nightfuries as long as his brothers-in-arms protected him.
All the more reason he needed to remember.
Endangering his new family wasn’t in the plan. Protecting the males he now considered his brothers, however? Aye. Without question. Duty and devotion dictated the path. He loved the Nightfury warriors more than he did himself. Owed his brothers-in-arms everything. None judged him for his mistake—for dancing the two-step with Ivar as he considered joining the Razorbacks. Grief and the loss of his birth pack in Aberdeen, combined with a desperate yearning to belong, had driven his decision, and him right into disaster.
Thank God he’d come to his senses in time.
Ivar’s endgame—mass genocide, the extermination of the human race—sickened him. The rogue leader needed his head examined. Or, mayhap, ripped off. Forge snorted. Aye. Sounded like a plan. Someone needed to take the bastard out. Dragonkind would be stronger for it, and humans all the safer. Not that Forge could do much about either. At least, not from outside the Razorback pack. He could kill rogues wherever he found them, but he was out of Ivar’s inner circle now. Gone for good. Never to return.
Bastian had done that for him. Stepped up, risked his life to drag Forge out of darkness and into a strong pack, then let his warriors do the rest. A miracle to his way of thinking. He still couldn’t wrap his brain around the shift in circumstance most days. The Nightfuries had accepted him. Drawn him in. Given him purpose and a best friend in Mac. Provided him and his son a home while worming their way into his heart. So . . .
No choice at all.
He would stay the course. Sit his arse in the chair. Endure the agonizing claw of mind regression. Recall all the ugly details to protect his pack. No matter how dangerous. No matter how damaging. Even if it proved too much for him to handle in the end.
Forge grimaced. Talk about terrible odds. Nowhere near comforting given his near-frayed mental state. One day he’d simply unravel. Lose it for good. Crash and burn. Mayday, mayday, mayday, fire dragon going down. He snorted in strained amusement. Christ, he was a mess. A total head case, and the dream wasn’t helping.
Every time he closed his eyes the nightmare pounded on him, taunting him with murky imagery without ever giving him a clue. Day after day. Hour upon hour. The unholy screams picked him apart. His blood brothers’ shouts for help in the dreamscape fed on him, leaving him gasping, in the grip of terror, when he woke.
He’d tried everything he could think of to stop the brutal onslaught. Opened his mind to accept the dream. Closed it off to block out sight and sound. Nothing worked. No matter what he did, his dragon half refused to relent, bombarding him with shadow memories—the blurry, indistinct details of a night long past. Now he couldn’t tell fact from fiction. How much was real? What had his subconscious invented in an effort to protect him from what happened the night his family died?
Forge closed his eyes. Another terrible truth. His sire and brothers hadn’t merely died. They’d been torn apart. Murdered by the claws of an unknown enemy.
Bile touched the back of his throat.
His feet slowed to a halt in front of the elevator doors.
Raising his hands, he gripped the back of his head. The movement locked his elbows. His arm muscles protested the tension. He didn’t care. Honed by hardship, he barely felt the discomfort. Pain never bothered him anymore. Jagged sensation focused him instead, tuning him in as he stared at the floorboards between his feet. God. He was so tired of the bullshite. His dragon half needed to decide. Open his mind wide or shut it down tight. Remember everything or let him forget altogether.
The latter wouldn’t make Bastian happy. His commander wanted what he carried inside his head and—
“Christ.” Staring at his reflection in the steel doors, Forge blew out a long breath. “All right, then. Time tae stop fucking around.”
Dropping his hands, he reached out with his mind. Magic flared in the hallway. Heat exploded around him, rushing toward the high ceiling as he called the elevator. Gears ground into motion. A hum burned through the quiet. His mind settled, accepting the inevitable. No more stalling. If he didn’t get his arse into the underground lair in the next five minutes, Bastian and Rikar would come looking for him. He sensed the pair’s growing impatience. Could read the worry as B prepared for the mind regression session inside the clinic.
The elevator pinged.
The double sliders opened.
A pair of aquamarine eyes narrowed on him. “About time you showed up.”
Forge raised a brow.
Mac scowled. “What took you so long? I’ve been riding this bitch for the better part of”—his best friend glanced at his watch—“fifteen minutes.”
“Stopped in tae see my lad.”
“Ah, and how’s G. M. this evening?”
“Hungry as hell. Growing like a weed.”
“Aren’t babies supposed to do that?” Mac asked, a confused look on his face.
“Apparently,” he said, stepping into the elevator. Setting up shop next to Mac, he punched the down button with the side of his fist. The doors closed. The steel cage dipped before descending in a smooth glide. “Myst’s got him now.”
“Is she on standby?”
Forge shrugged. Maybe. Probably. God willing. The last time B mind-regressed him, his dragon half revolted. He’d overheated and gone into V-fib. Myst brought him back with a defibrillator. Three hundred and twenty volts of nasty-ass electricity. Not that he was complaining. He was alive, wasn’t he? Hale and whole, not a brain cell out of place after plummeting into a downward spiral.
“I’m going in with you this time.”
He opened his mouth to argue. Or tell his friend to fuck off. Forge wasn’t sure which, but—
“No arguing.” Mac’s pissed-off tone hit him like a mailed fist. Forge drew a rough breath. Hell and a hand grenade. Trust Mac to object the only way he knew how—by putting up a fight. His presence during the session would impact everyone in the room—Bastian, Rikar, him. Maybe it would help. Maybe it wouldn’t, but one thing, for sure? His friend didn’t care. Mac was in protection mode, his goal clear—to ensure Forge made it out alive. “I can pull you out of trouble faster than B and Rikar can now. And you know it.”
True enough. A serious point in his friend’s favor.
The bond he shared with Mac deepened by the day. True friendship. A strong sense of brotherhood. Serious respect rooted in common interests, shared goals, and a deep liking of one another. Surprising in many ways, not so shocking in others. Some might call the friendship inevitable. Forge called it lucky. He couldn’t, after all, take credit for Rikar’s idea. The smart (stubborn, sneaky) male ensured Forge’s inclusion into the pack from day one, entrusting him with an important task. One that carried significant weight in Dragonkind circles—the mentoring of a fledgling warrior.
Raised in the human world, Mac had been vulnerable after his first shift into dragon form: confused, unable to access his magic, in need of a strong warrior to guide him. The fact Rikar chose him—an unknown male and former enemy—to protect and teach Mac still humbled him. The mentor-apprentice relationship was a serious one, the responsibility enormous, forging the kind of bond that could never be broken.
Now, Forge couldn’t imagine life without the mouthy SOB. Didn’t want to either. He loved the male like a brother. Trusted him like no other, so . . . aye. Having Mac take part in the mind regression session made a certain amount of sense.
No one else would be able to connect with him as fast. To reach into his mind and drag him out before he seized and his heart stopped beating.
“Listen—”
“Not this time.” Challenge in his eyes, Mac crossed his arms over his chest. The movement signified pure stubbornness. It also made his friend flinch, and Forge saw it—the flicker of pain, how fast Mac dropped his hands to his sides, the muscle ticking along his jaw.
Forge’s brows collided. “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
Mac smoothed his expression. “Nothing.”
“Bullshite.”
“Come on, man. Right now isn’t about me, and anyway—”
With a quick pivot, Forge reached out. Mac shifted to one side, trying to stay out of range. Too late. He grabbed hold and squeezed Mac’s left shoulder. His friend cursed a second before his leg buckled. His knee hit the elevator floor. Bone hammered marble tile. The brutal crack raged against steel walls.
“Motherfuck.” The ragged whisper spoke of pain.
Concern rang Forge’s bell. He gentled his grip.
Head bowed, breathing like a wounded animal, Mac listed sideways on one knee. His shoulder bumped into Forge’s leg. “God, that hurts.”
“What the hell, Mac?” Careful not to touch his left arm, he hauled his friend to his feet. Mac swayed. Forge steadied him, waiting until he found his footing, looking him over, searching for the source of his pain. He frowned. No blood stains on his shirt. No lumpy bandages beneath the cotton. No indication he’d missed something. Or hurt Mac during dragon combat training. “What’s wrong? I know you arenae injured. We haven’t had a good fight in days.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“What then?”
“My tattoo. It’s doing some weird shit.”
Forge blinked. Weird shit? That didn’t bode well. Particularly since no one understood the hows and whys of the tattoo. Least of all Mac.
Rooted in magic, the tribal image covered one side of Mac’s chest, then turned north to roll over his left shoulder and mark his upper arm. Intricate, drawn in precise lines, the tattoo had arrived with the male’s change—his first shift into dragon form. No rhyme. No reason. No explanation to be found in ancient tomes brought over from the old country. Forge should know. He, Mac, and Rikar had spent hours in the lower vault, scouring ancient texts written by Dragonkind elders, in the hopes of finding answers.
No luck. Not a single answer on the pages. No way to unlock the mystery either.
“It started glowing, Forge,” Mac said, flexing his hand. “And my skin . . . shit. It’s sensitive as hell.”
“Show me.”
Fisting his hand in the hem of his T-shirt, Mac pulled the cotton over his head. Heavy muscles flexed. Navy ink moved in concert, making his friend wince and . . . ah, hell. There it was, the problem in plain view.
“Christ.”
“I know.” Holding out his arm, Mac stared at the markings he’d inherited in an odd twist of fate. Color swirled inside the design, the pattern flickering like fire. The red glow started at the outer edges and bled inward, reaching toward the center as it spread. Chest, shoulder, and biceps—it didn’t matter. Bright color took over, flowing through the tattoo, flaring in ominous warning, heralding the beginning of bad news. “It’s like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my skin.”
“Does Tania help?” he asked, hoping Mac’s mate took away the pain with her touch. Kept the glow at bay . . . whatever. Just as long as Tania soothed the male enough for him to sleep.
Dragonkind fledglings were fragile at first. Mac was no exception. Four months after his change—and the upheaval of having his dragon DNA activated—he still needed extra care. Good food. Lots of sleep. Loads of TLC.
Mac’s mate gave him all he needed . . . and more.
A high-energy female, Tania connected to the Meridian in ways other women didn’t. Power personified, she held a direct line to the source of all living things, tapping into the electrostatic bands ringing the planet, accessing the kind of energy most males never saw. Or got to taste. But even more astonishing, the rate of her bio-energy vibrated at the same frequency as Mac’s. The perfect fit ensured his friend received the nourishment his water dragon half required to stay healthy and strong. A rare find for any warrior. A fortunate one for Mac given most Dragonkind males searched their whole lives for a female like Tania and never found one.
“Does she take the ache away?” Leaning closer, Forge examined the flickering edges of the tattoo.
“Yeah. She’s the only one who helps.”
“Good. Spend as much time with her as you can.”
Mac threw him a “duh” look.
Forge’s lips twitched. All right. Stupid advice. Bonded males didn’t need an excuse to spend time with their mates. Being with their females was as natural as breathing. “Have you told Rikar?”
Mac shook his head.
“You need tae tell him.”
“I will . . . after we get you sorted out.”
“Mac—”
“I’m going with you. No way you’re going in solo. Not after last time,” he said, a lethal undertone in his voice.
The point slammed home with the force of a dagger. An answering echo panged inside his chest. Forge gritted his teeth. Bloody hell. He shouldn’t allow it. Mac was hurting, less than one hundred percent on the physical front. Vulnerability came in all sizes. Small. Medium. Large, and . . . aye. Extra large with a side order of screwed up. Mac landed in the last category with the freaky tattoo shite in full swing, but . . . God. He wanted the male with him during the session. Would feel safer—saner too—with Mac standing inside the room.
Selfish. Pansy-ass pathetic. Wrong in so many ways.
He should be putting his apprentice first, ensuring Mac’s safety, not worrying about himself. Or letting his unease take over. But as he held his friend’s gaze, Forge went the sane route instead of the safe one and did the unthinkable. He gave in. Just rolled belly-up and let Mac win.
“All right, lad,” he said without heat.
Tugging his shirt back over his head, Mac grunted. “Knew you’d see it my way.”
“Donnae get lippy, Irish,” he said, using Mac’s nickname to soften the warning in his tone. “I’m giving you the green light, but mind your place. Let Bastian and Rikar work. No interrupting unless it goes sideways—got it?”
“Whatever you say.”
Forge snorted. Whatever you say. As if. If only. Dealing with Mac was never that simple. The male always did as he pleased. Which meant . . . yup, screwed-up central, here he came. “You’re a pain in the arse.”
“Look who’s talking.” Raising his good arm, Mac nudged him with his elbow.
The love tap evened Forge out. Made him feel more solid inside his own skin. Hallelujah. He had a wingman, one who wouldn’t hesitate to protect him if Bastian pushed too hard.
The elevator slowed to a stop.
The doors slid open, dumping him into the diamond-shaped vestibule.
Forge hung a right. The foyer narrowed into a hallway that branched in two directions. Mac at his back, combat boots doing double time, he veered left and made for the medical clinic. Circular lights embedded in the polished concrete floor threw v-shaped splashes toward twelve foot ceilings, highlighting chisel marks on solid granite walls. The hum of electricity swirled along the corridor. Keen for the hunt, the beast inside him stirred. His senses contracted, picking up trace energy, hunting for the slightest sound, listening for B’s voice in the stillness.
A low rumble drifted into the hall.
Harsh scraping followed. Metal feet being dragged across concrete, maybe.
The scent of cinnamon swirled into his airspace.
Forge inhaled, sucking as much into his lungs as possible. He adored the smell. The spiciness tugged at his tension, smoothed ragged edges, soothed him . . . seduced him a little at a time. The entire reason Bastian used it. His commander wanted him relaxed, able to open his mind, no matter what it contained—good, bad, or ugly.
Reaching the door, Forge slowed to a stop in front of the clinic. Fronted by glass, the entrance gave him a clear view into a space with pale walls and a shitload of medical equipment. Under normal circumstances, Myst ruled the room, barking orders, running triage, sewing up the Nightfury warrior of the moment after a hard night of fighting. Not right now. Gone was the tidy workstation, no steel gurney or plastic-wrapped packages in sight, just a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. With one marked difference—the leather shackles attached to the padded arms and sturdy looking footrest. Forge drew a deep breath. The moment of truth. Now or never. Another round in the blasted chair. Or a lifetime without answers.
Mac palmed the nape of his neck. “You okay?”
“Aye,” he said, voice steady, lying like an accomplished sociopath. Glancing sideways, he nailed Mac with an intense look. “Keep me out of V-fib.”
“It won’t come to that.” His friend gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Not tonight.”
“Your word.”
“You have it.”
Hard-core commitment in three little words. An oath between warriors.
Nothing trumped it. But as the glass door slid open and Forge stepped into the clinic, heart pounding, fear rising, uncertainty gathering like storm clouds, he started to pray. A little ask. A lot of faith, hoping he managed to walk out again unscathed. Any other day it wouldn’t have mattered. Bashed up and bruised, bleeding like a sieve—who the hell cared? He owned skills, handled whatever the enemy threw at him. Tonight, however, his prowess in a fight meant nothing. The challenge he faced involved a laundry list of variables he couldn’t control. The biggest of which stood across the room: arms crossed, shoulders pressed to the wall, expression neutral as he looked him over.
Forge stared back, refusing to show weakness.
Silence stretched. Bastian held his gaze. A full minute passed before his commander pushed away from the wall. He rolled one shoulder, then the other, the movement designed to break the tension as he moved across the clinic.
Not that it did the same for Forge.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Each step B took cranked him tighter. A paradox. A real kick in the arse. Particularly since he liked the Nightfury commander. Respected the hell out of him too. Bastian might exude a brutal amount of vicious, but he was a true leader of males: cunning, caring, lethal when it counted. The closer he came, though, the harder the invisible strings pulled, making Forge feel as though he’d been stretched tight on a rack.
The chair between them, B stopped a few feet away. “Ready?”
One word. A simple question delivered in a quiet voice. Nothing threatening about it, but . . . bloody everlasting hell. Forge clenched his teeth. Nay. He wasn’t ready. Never would be either.
Pride wouldn’t let him admit it. So instead of telling the truth, he stepped toward the chair. “Aye.”
A snort sounded to his right. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
The remark snapped his head around. His eyes narrowed on Rikar. “Fuck off, Frosty. No one asked you.”
Leaning against the prep counter, Rikar chuckled. “There he is—all fire, brimstone, and pissy attitude. Thank God. I was worried for a moment.”
Teeth clenched, Forge glared at his XO. “How much time do we have, B—enough tae beat the shite out of him before we get started?”
“There we go.” Frost dragon out in full force, snowflakes tumbled over his shoulders as Rikar grinned. “Now he’s ready.”
Bastian’s lips twitched. “Afterward, Forge. I’ll even hold him down for you.”
“Two against one,” Rikar murmured, interest lighting his eyes. “Unfair.”
“But necessary.” Abandoning his position by the door, Mac stopped alongside him. He treated Forge to an affectionate slap. Skin stinging beneath his T-shirt, his upper body rocked forward. The loud whap bounced off the walls as Mac tossed a perturbed look in Rikar’s direction. “Last time you fought dirty. Nearly froze my balls off before I got ahold of you.”
“I love fighting dirty,” Rikar said with an unapologetic smile.
Mac growled. “Next time I’m bringing a blowtorch.”
“Better make it a Flame Thrower,” Bastian said, his gaze on Mac. He frowned. Mac stiffened, and Forge sensed the silent tug-of-war. The clash of wills set up shop inside the room, making the rounds, giving B’s thoughts away, an argument entitled: Time for fledgling warriors to leave for safer surroundings. “Mac—”
“I’m staying.”
Rikar glanced at B. After getting a nod, the Nightfury XO turned his attention to Mac. Uncrossing his arms, he pushed away from the counter. “I know you think you can handle it, Mac, but it’s best if you leave. Once the session starts, we won’t be able to control the magic. It’ll detonate. You’re not experienced enough yet to channel the whiplash. You’ll end up getting hurt.” Rikar gave Mac a pointed look. “Wait outside.”
Mac shook his head, refusing to back down.
Bastian cursed.
Forge jumped into the breach. “Mac stays.”
“Fucking hell,” Rikar muttered, icy eyes meeting his from beneath lowered brows.
“He’s strong enough,” he said, holding his ground, wielding his authority as Mac’s mentor, giving his friend a vote of confidence. Aye, it was risky. But then, danger didn’t discriminate. Everyone involved risked injury—him included—considering the warriors in the room and the potent magic each possessed. The influx would be brutal, the energy blast so massive most males wouldn’t be able to withstand it, but . . . too late to back out now. He’d given Mac his word and intended to keep it. “He stays—for now.”
“Shit.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Bastian shook his head. “Not a good idea.”
“Give me a little credit, B. I know what I’m doing.”
Bastian grumbled something inaudible.
Rikar sighed, but gave in. “Your call.”
Aye, it was, along with setting the ground rules. “Rikar?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s your responsibility,” Forge said, laying out his wishes. Promise or nay, he would only risk his friend so far. The second Mac faltered, he expected Rikar to do what he wouldn’t be able to while deep in mind regression—shield Mac from harm. “Throw him into the hallway if it gets tae intense.”
“You got it,” Rikar said, cracking his knuckles.
Mac scowled. “Motherfuck.”
“No arguments, Irish.” Reaching out, he shoved his friend. Mac stumbled sideways. Forge walked toward the chair. “You want tae be here, you follow the rules.”
Mutiny on his face, Mac nodded.
Forge tipped his chin in acknowledgment. Good enough. One pissed-off water dragon pinned down. Time to get the show on the road. Or rather, his arse in the hot seat.
Feet planted beside the chair he hated more than Razorbacks, Forge grasped the headrest. Leather whispered against his palm. A chill chased uncertainty down his spine. He pushed it aside, refusing to allow fear to take hold, and sat down. Black boots stark against tan upholstery, he settled in.
Metal creaked.
The chair groaned beneath his weight.
Taking a fortifying breath, Forge leaned forward and grabbed one of the ankle shackles. The first went on quick. The second made his hands tremble. Flexing his fingers, he finished feeding the strap through its holder. Glancing to his left, he held out his arm, offered his hand, asking Rikar for help without words. With a nod, his XO buckled him in, working with stark efficiency to secure the cuffs around both wrists.
Forge tested the bonds. Thick, smooth leather pulled at his skin. Panic threatened. His heart started to pound, hammering the inside of his breastbone. A large hand landed on his shoulder. Reacting to the slight pressure, he sat back, allowing the chair to support him, and looked up.
Serious green eyes met his.
“Easy, brother.” Palm pressed over Forge’s heart, Bastian gave him a reassuring pat. “I’ll start slow. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Relax into it. It’s all good. You’re safe here.”
Safe. Right. He wanted to argue, rip the shackles off, and call bullshite. Self-preservation told him to do it. Duty refused to let him. He’d volunteered. Forge huffed. Shite. He’d spent the better part of three days convincing Bastian it was the only way. His commander hadn’t wanted to risk it but, in the end, relented. He knew what Forge did—mind regression remained the best and only way to get the information the Nightfuries needed, so . . . aye, no choice. Time to double down and trust B to control the fallout.
Fighting instinct, Forge forced his eyes closed.
Bastian started talking. About nothing important. Little things. Everyday happenings in the lair: his mate, the baby growing inside her, the son he couldn’t wait to hold. The inflection of his voice remained consistent, the deep timbre smooth and even, no jagged undertones or spikes of intonation. Just the relaxed tone of one male chatting with another.
Soothing. Calming. Velvety sound mixed with a reassuring beat of blended syllables.
Magic flared inside the room.
Heat blazed a trail down his spine.
Taut muscles released.
Forge breathed out. Breathed in. Each inhalation a steady draw, every exhalation a relief. His heart slowed, thumping a sluggish beat inside his chest. Prickles crept down his arms. His fingertips twitched. A sinking feeling took hold. The chair, then the room, dropped away, leaving him floating above the floor. Words came again, sounding far away as hands slid over his nape, then settled, cupping the back of his skull.
The intrusion into his space made him flinch.
The voice murmured a reassurance.
Deep between layers of consciousness, Forge paused mid-breath to think about it: fight or accept. Push the hands away or ease into the cradle of them. The first option seemed like the best. His dragon half disliked the invasion, wanted him to shred the shackles and break free. The other half of him, however, urged him to make the leap. He knew the voice, trusted the male, and half-conscious or not—more out of it than in—Forge understood the silent message. He could let go, allow his human side to lead and the warm, soupy waves to pull him under.
Total relaxation engulfed him.
All worry drifted away.
“Good. Now . . . ,” the voice said, touch growing firmer. Twin points of pressure gathered against his temples. Prickles ghosted along the sides of his head, immersing him in a cocoon of warm comfort. “You’re at home, inside the mountain lair, about to fly out for the night. Your brothers are there, your sire too . . . what’s happening, Forge?”
“Dragon combat,” he mumbled, the words slurred. “First shift. New tae me. Need training.”
The mesmerizing voice came again. “Show me.”
Magic streamed into his veins.
An odd vibration exploded inside his head. The tremor gathered speed, tumbling between his temples. His mind spun away. Images flared, brightening the dark screen on the forefront of his brain. Happy times. Treasured memories of his mother: her and his sire kissing in the kitchen, the laughter and warm hugs . . . the sugary scent of shortbread cookies as she pulled baking sheets from the oven.
Forge hummed in contentment. Hmm, shortbread. His absolute favorite. He loved the treats she made. Enjoyed beating his brothers to the kitchen and—
The scene shifted.
Pictures whirled across his mental landscape. The reel stopped, setting him down in another time and place.
No longer in the kitchen inside his mountain home, he stood outside, atop a cliff, bare skin steaming in the cold, toes an inch from the edge. He leaned forward and peered over the jagged outcropping. His mouth curved. Oh aye. A thousand feet up. Nothing but the brutal bite of winter wind between him and sharp stone protruding from the ground. Exhilaration pumped excitement through his veins. God, he couldn’t wait for his sire to give the word and say GO. He needed to shift into dragon form and spread his wings. Wanted to fly so badly he tasted the anticipation.
His sire whispered, “Now.”
Forge transformed. His body lengthened beneath the spread of dark-purple scales. He flexed his talons, testing his claws, then leapt into the void. The craggy face of Ben Nevis stared him down. Ignoring the mountain’s mood, he dropped into nothingness. Frigid air caught in the webbing of his wings, lifting his bulk into an updraft and the swirl of heavy snow.
He heard his brothers shout in approval.
Forge growled in answer, but didn’t look back. No need. He knew they followed. Sensed each male’s flight path, along with the one taken by his sire. Divide and conquer. Split the odds and attack from different directions. Forge bared his fangs, humming in enjoyment. It had begun—the training that would help him become a warrior. Satisfaction took hold, growing roots inside his heart as he banked hard, rocketing out of a mountain pass. Rough terrain gave way to rolling hills before meeting the edge of swampy moorlands. He scanned the horizon, hunting for his brothers, anticipating the first attack.
His sonar pinged.
Tingles streamed around his horns. The warning jarred him. His eyes narrowed. Strange, but . . . Forge frowned . . . something was off. Not quite right. The buzz in the air felt wrong somehow, nothing like the unique energy signals his brothers emitted. A shadow presence uncloaked in the corner of his mind. The dark form stepped forward and peered into the scene, trying to get a better look. Forge flinched, disliking the intrusion, but kept flying. He needed to know his brothers were safe. That whatever he sensed wasn’t what it seemed—a threat, the invasion of his pack’s territory. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the horizon, searching for the source.
Nothing and nobody. Except . . .
The wind died down. An unnatural stillness settled over the landscape. A torrent of energy flowed over the moor. Not understanding, Forge drifted toward a copse of oak trees. Over there. Somewhere. He was sure the signal was—
A fireball exploded across the night sky.
His brothers yelled his name. He glanced over his shoulder, hunting for them in the gloom. His temples throbbed. The outsider inside his mind moved closer. The fireball stopped mid-flight, pausing in the middle of his mental screen. With a snarl, his dragon woke and spun full circle. Eyes aglow, the beast locked onto the intruder. The shadow presence froze. The monster inside him bared its teeth.
A male started talking. Fast words. Smooth, even tone, calling on his human side.
Forge tried to reach it. He wanted to do as the voice commanded: stay inside the dream and his own head, not succumb to the beast inside him. But it was no use. The dragon had slipped from its cage. Now he rampaged, refusing to listen, roaring with rage and brutal intent. A surging wave of magic hit. Sound went cataclysmic. The boom shattered the screen inside his mind. The image exploded like broken glass, decimating him with shards of memory shrapnel.
Pain ripped through him.
Desperate to protect him, the beast shoved him aside and took over. Inferno-like wrath bled into his veins. Claws deployed, his dragon attacked the shadow figure, trying to burn him alive as his mind whiplashed and his body seized.