Chapter Eleven
Shoulder blades pressed to the rear wall of the viewing chamber, Forge stared through the glass separating him from his best friend. The barrier rubbed him the wrong way. He should be in there doing . . . well, something. What, exactly? He frowned. No bloody idea, but God, the waiting. He hated waiting—along with the MRI surrounding Mac, the human thing keeping him from his best friend’s side. Damned machine. Crossing his arms, he scowled at it and told himself to be patient—for the umpteenth time—but . . . shite. It was hard to do. Hard to wait. Hard to watch. Hard to feel so completely helpless.
His stomach dipped.
Forge smoothed away his unease and forced himself to remain still. Perfectly fucking still. Pacing wouldn’t help. Wearing the floor out never worked. Neither would putting his fist through the wall, considering Mac lay unconscious, stretched out on the patient table, his tattoo glowing red against the walls inside the cylinder. Bright lights blinked above the round opening, painting pale walls with green flashes. A throbbing beep butted against the floor-to-ceiling windows as the medical unit worked, treating Mac to a full body scan.
Forge swallowed a growl of impatience.
Fear tightened his chest.
He couldn’t stand it. He needed to move. Find a target. Kill the threat. Make it right and Mac well again. Forge blew out a breath, then reversed course and inhaled. His chest rose. He held the air, counting out the seconds. Five, four, three, two, one—breathe out, breathe in. Repeat, release, begin again.
The breathing technique didn’t work either. Forge flexed his hands and shifted against the wall, adjusting his stance. Twenty feet. Less than ten strides from here to Mac. From being able to help a male he loved like a brother. “How much longer?”
Seated beside Myst, Tania flinched. Drawn by his voice, she glanced over her shoulder. His heart sunk lower in his chest. He hated seeing her like this. She looked lost, so hopeless and hollow eyed. So scared for her mate, her bottom lip trembled.
“It’s going tae be all right, Tania,” he murmured, trying to soothe her.
Tears filled Tania’s eyes. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
“He will,” Myst said, reaching out to take her hand.
“I need to touch him,” Tania whispered, clinging to Myst, her desperation almost killing him. “I need to hear his voice.”
Struggling to contain his own fear, he prompted Myst again. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” Dragging her attention from Tania, Myst refocused on the double screens. “Half an hour? An hour? I’ve been taking courses online, reading about MRIs since getting the machine, but it’s my first time running it, so . . .” She shook her head, the uncertainty in her eyes telling. “I just don’t know.”
Christ. Not what he wanted to hear, but well . . . hell. None of it was Myst’s fault. Despite her hesitancy, he trusted her with Mac. She knew her way around medicine. Had stitched him up after a night of fighting more times than he cared to count. Which meant he needed to butt out and let her work.
Shoving away from the wall, Forge raised his arms and, cupping the back of his head, pressed his chin to his chest. Taut muscles screamed in protest. He held the stretch, welcoming the discomfort before raising his head. He glanced at Mac, then pivoted and strode toward the exit. Fuck it. Forget staying still. Watching over Myst’s shoulder wasn’t helping. He couldn’t stand inside the viewing room an instant longer.
“Find me when you’re done,” he said, tapping Myst on the shoulder as he walked behind her chair.
She nodded.
Reaching the door, Forge grabbed the handle. He twisted, yanked, and—
Tripped over Rikar.
“Fucking hell,” the male grumbled from his seat on the floor.
Forge stepped around his XO’s outstretched legs. The other males camped out in the hallway shifted. Clothing rustled. Boot soles scuffed across the floor. His throat went tight. What a welcome sight. They were all here, each Nightfury warrior, waiting to hear about Mac.
Their concern thrummed in the corridor, filling the narrow space like a drumbeat. The show of solidarity lent Forge strength, easing his pain. Rock-steady, his brothers-in-arms never let him down. He hadn’t been with the pack long, but he was a bona fide Nightfury now. One hundred percent on board. No doubts. No questions about his loyalty. Just full-on trust. Joining Bastian and the lads had been the best decision he’d ever made.
Rolling his shoulders, Forge met each warrior’s gaze in turn, gratitude in his own, and . . . frowned. What the hell? He’d given Bastian explicit instructions—keep Hope in sight and stop her from snooping. The lass wasn’t stupid. He stifled a snort. Shite. The female was the complete opposite—smart, canny, far too curious for his peace of mind.
Bastian might not know it yet, but Hope represented a threat.
One he could read from a mile away.
He held a unique talent among Dragonkind—the ability to read intention. Forget the way a person talked. Disregard the emotion disguising the truth. Intent drove action. And Hope’s? Forge huffed. Christ. Hers was anything but pure. He sensed her mind, knew her questions and the suspicion that gripped her while in the living room. She recognized a mystery when she encountered one. Now, thanks to a plethora of inconsistencies, Mac’s strange illness, and Forge’s glow show—stupid fucking eyes—she was determined to solve it. So aye. Allowing her to wander around the lair unsupervised? Not a great idea.
His temper showing, he scowled at Bastian. “Where’s Hope?”
“Relax,” B said, amusement in his eyes. “She’s not off unearthing Dragonkind secrets.”
Rikar’s cheek creased. “She went with Angela and Evie.”
“Ange was losing her mind.” His back to the wall, arse sitting on polished concrete, Venom crossed one combat boot over the other. “Evie and Hope are keeping her busy so she doesn’t freak out about Mac. They’re in the clinic, filling the big tub. The second Mac’s done with the MRI, the salt bath will be ready for him.”
Forge nodded. Okay. Good. Mac’s water dragon needs taken care of and on track. Hope nailed down. The secrets of Dragonkind safe for the moment, so . . .
Time to go on the offensive.
Dodging the collection of male bodies, Forge headed for the end of the hall.
B tipped his chin. “Where are you going?”
“Archives.”
He needed to take another look. Mayhap he’d missed something the first time around. If he got lucky, he’d find the information required to save Mac’s life. He hadn’t paid close enough attention to the most ancient tomes. The answer might yet lie buried in an obscure passage. On a single page of text. In one of the gilded pictures drawn by the elders of Dragonkind.
“Good idea,” Rikar said, the determination in his tone mirroring his own.
“I’m going with you.” Bastian pushed from his lean against the wall. “The wait is killing me. I need something to do.”
“All hands on deck.” Unwrapping a lollipop, Venom cracked the candy with his teeth. The crunch echoed in the hallway. Tossing away the empty bitten-to-shite stick, he pulled another sucker out of his pocket and shoved it in his mouth.
Haider rolled to his feet. “The more eyes the better.”
“Let’s go.” Gage popped off the floor. With a quick shift, he grabbed Nian by the scruff of the neck. “That means you, namby-pamby.”
“Hands off, asshole.” Nian rotated his shoulder, brought his arm around, and broke the hold. Planting a hand in the center of Gage’s chest, he shoved him backward.
Feet sliding on smooth concrete, Gage bared his teeth. He raised twin fists.
Rikar stepped between them. “Ease off, boys. Move your asses.”
One eye on the potential scuffle, Bastian glanced toward a recessed alcove. “Sloan, you coming?”
“Not yet. I’ll wait here in case Myst needs me.” Sitting cross-legged, gaze on the tablet he held, Sloan flicked his fingertip, scrolling down. Text whirled across the small screen. The visual onslaught made Forge blink. Sloan didn’t bat an eye, making him worry about the lad’s retinas. He might not know Sloan well, but the male needed to lay off the electronics. Get out of the lair more. Enjoy the night sky and some female company—instead of the Internet—every once in a while. Looking up from the screen, Sloan met his gaze. “But I’ll keep digging online. Some packs have set up chat rooms on the dark net. I ask the right question of the right male, and I might get lucky.”
“Let us know,” B said.
Sloan uh-huhed.
Wick left without a word, walking toward the vault and the library.
Forge’s heart beat a little faster. God, he loved his new pack. Each warrior considered Mac his brother, and Nightfuries never abandoned one another. No one ever got left behind. And as Forge turned into the main corridor of the underground lair, leading the males who protected his back, he prayed the library held the answer. Otherwise he’d be forced to do what he’d sworn he never would—call home. Revisit his past and reach out to his former pack—cousins left behind years ago—with the hope the Scottish archives contained the information Mac needed to survive.
Call home.
Shite. The idea presented a problem. A major one. A potentially life-threatening one, given he suspected a male inside the Scottish pack of helping to murder his family, and his cousins thought he was dead.
Seated in the underground library, the scent of old parchment in the air, Forge set a heavy tome aside and picked up another. A quick glance made him clench his teeth—another volume full of everything but what he wanted to know. He opened it anyway. Musty paper rustled. Tiny dust motes drifted up, glinting in the low light as he scanned the first paragraph and moved on to the next. His fingers kept flipping. Page after page. Chapter after chapter. Hour after bloody hour and . . . nada. Zilch. A big fat zero on the information front. Nary a clue to Mac’s condition.
Or any mention of water dragons on the seldom-read pages.
Lifting his hands from the treatise, he set his elbows on the stainless steel table. Piles of books lay strewn across its long, sturdy surface. Thick tomes. Thin volumes. Some leather-bound, others covered by vibrant linen overlay. Blue. Green. Red, beige, and gold. Every color of the book rainbow present and accounted for. An intellectual feast spread out in front of him, a taunt of the worst kind.
Fingers laced, palms pressed together, Forge stared at his knuckles. Weariness rose, eroding his will to continue searching, allowing hopelessness to float to the surface. Slumping forward, he put his head down. His forehead touched the back of his forearm. The move shoved his chair backward. Wooden feet scraped across polished concrete as he exhaled in disgust and closed his eyes. The buzz of dimmed lights hummed overhead, swirling in the relative quiet.
God, he was tired. So fucking tired of hunting for information that didn’t exist.
Or at least, he couldn’t find.
“Forge.”
Raising his head, he sat back in his chair. “Aye?”
“Time to call it a day.”
“Nay, B. Not yet.” Grit scraped the inside of his eyelids as he opened his eyes. Seeing nothing but blur, he blinked a couple of times. Bastian snapped into focus. Tired green eyes met his a second before his commander placed a thick volume back on its shelf. Ignoring the order to quit, Forge nudged his chair closer to the desk. “I’ve got a couple more hours in me.”
Framed by tall bookcases, B shook his head. “It’s past mid-day, brother. You’re fried. You need to sleep. We all do.”
We. The word stuck in his throat.
The warriors had done better than average, pulling a third of the books off the shelves, riffling through old documents in the archives before calling it quits. The bonded males—Rikar, Wick, and Venom—had left first in search of their mates. Not far behind, Gage, Haider, and Nian packed up, promising to renew the hunt after getting some much-needed shut-eye. A wise choice. Exhaustion wasn’t good for a male. Forge knew it, but couldn’t make himself leave. He wanted to stay, just a little bit longer. Mac needed him. He needed to help, so . . .
“One more tome, B, and I’ll shut it down for the day.”
A muscle jumped along Bastian’s jaw. “If you think I’m leaving you alone here, think again.”
“But Mac—”
Sloan snapped a book closed. “Is alive.”
Forge glanced to his right, meeting Sloan’s gaze. “Has he woken?”
“No, but his vitals are strong. Tania is keeping him stable,” Sloan said, using medical jargon he’d learned somewhere in Texas, under the watchful eye of a human doctor.
How he’d managed to get a college degree in the human world Forge didn’t know. Sloan never talked about his time down south. Not that Forge blamed him. Rumor had it, he lost a female along with his newborn son during his time in the Lone Star State. No one knew much, or anything for sure, but after experiencing the joy Mayhem brought to his life, Forge understood the male’s grief. So nay, he wouldn’t be asking anytime soon. Bringing it up—poking at Sloan’s wound to assuage his curiosity—didn’t seem like something a smart male would do and hope to keep his head on his shoulders.
Setting a thick hardback on top of the pile beside him, Sloan rolled off the floor and onto his feet. With a grunt of discomfort, he stretched out the kinks and crossed to the door. “She’s feeding him the energy he needs.”
“For how long?” Concern tightened his chest. Forge breathed through the lockdown, holding panic at bay. “She can’t feed him indefinitely. The longer Mac’s unconscious—the more he takes—the closer she’ll come tae energy deprivation. She won’t last, Sloan.”
“Mac and Tania are mated, Forge. The marriage ceremony is done. Their life forces are joined,” Bastian said, regret in his eyes, real worry on his face. “If he dies, she dies. No way around it. The best we can do now is let her feed him and keep hunting. Pray like hell we find a cure for him—and help her—before it’s too late.”
Forge snarled in response.
Sloan growled a curse, seconding his unspoken opinion.
“I know.” Bastian flexed his hands, his whitened knuckles standing out in stark relief against his skin. “It’s fucking frustrating, but we’ll screw up . . . miss something important . . . if we’re too exhausted to see it. So, get a few hours of sleep. We’ll come back after the evening meal and look through the remaining tomes with fresh eyes.”
The practical approach made Forge feel sick. How could he leave, give up the hunt without finding a single clue, when Mac lay unconscious in a recovery room? While Tania’s life hung in the balance? He couldn’t lose another female. Couldn’t bear the idea of Tania joining Caroline. Of her entombed in a casket and being lowered into the cold, dark—
“Forge,” Bastian said, a warning in his voice.
“Bloody hell. All right.” With a quick shift, he stood. The chair slammed into the table behind him. The wooden seat back clanged against stainless steel a second before it tipped sideways and hit the concrete floor. Throwing his commander a dirty look, Forge left his seat where it lay and, walking past half-empty bookcases, moved toward the door. “I need tae see my son anyway. Is he with Myst?”
Hot on his heels, B rolled in behind him. “I tucked my mate into bed hours ago. She needs her rest.”
Another thing that made perfect sense.
A pregnant female required three things—tons of time with her male, good food, and plenty of sleep. Bastian ensured Myst got all three. Stretching out sore muscles, Forge shook his head. The two were fun to watch. Myst kept her mate on his toes. She enjoyed pushing B’s buttons . . . and his boundaries. His commander, though, never wavered—no matter how often Myst insisted she needed M&M’S to survive. Not that Bastian cared about the amount of chocolate she ate. Or didn’t know Daimler played a role in her sugar addiction, supplying enough sweets to keep her happy. The skirmish had nothing to do with her health, and everything to do with the enjoyment a male took in teasing his mate.
Forge stifled a snort and rounded the last corner. Stairs led up toward a single door. He took the treads three at a time and, unleashing his magic, punched in the security code with his mind. The electronic lock disengaged. The door into the main corridor of the underground lair swung wide. He stepped over the threshold, turned right, and walked toward the elevators. Daimler, the sneaky bastard played along. The Numbai was hard-core, pretending to deny Myst whenever Bastian stood in earshot. The secret chocolate stash he hid in the pantry, however—for what he called “emergencies”—told the real tale, keeping Myst and the other hellions well stocked no matter the circumstances.
Five females strong. A force to be reckoned with.
A concept Daimler grasped with ease.
Amusing most days. Dangerous sometimes too, ’cause . . . aye. The second Myst discovered her mate’s game, Bastian would be in trouble, and all hell would break loose in the lair. And speaking of which . . .
He glanced over his shoulder. “Myst isnae with my lad?”
Bastian shook his head. “Hope offered to put G. M. to bed . . . and stay with him.”
Forge’s brows collided. Shite. “Stay with him.” Translation: in close proximity, within easy reach, nothing but a sliding door between Hope and his bedroom. The realization shoved good sense out of the way. His mind blanked. Lust-fueled fantasies sped into the void, offering a slew of terrible suggestions. Bearing down, Forge fought to bring his brain back online. No such luck. His imagination remained mired in a savage place full of mental pictures—Hope on his bed, her body bared, her red-gold hair a tousled mess, her lips swollen from—
Christ help him. He was in so much bloody trouble.
Mouth gone dry, Forge swallowed. “I am so fucked.”
Bastian laughed. “Go with it, brother. Why fight it? You want her—take her.”
So simple. Beyond dangerous.
Forge knew himself well. Naught but trouble lay in that direction. After learning about her brother, he recognized her vulnerability. Just as he had with Caroline. Aye, she was different, stronger willed than the female who’d borne his son, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt her . . . and send them both spinning into disaster. So aye. Like it or nay, sleeping with Hope—pleasing her, loving her—would be wrong. So bloody wrong. Instinct joined his conscience, sending a clear message. He needed to leave her alone. She’d told him no. He ought to respect her wishes. Forget about seduction, abandon the field, and retreat to safer ground.
Excellent notion.
Honorable intentions.
Slight problem with the plan.
He wanted Hope with a desperation that shook his resolve. She made him feel things he didn’t understand and couldn’t begin to control. It was odd and aye, even a wee bit scary. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for her. His reaction wasn’t safe or prudent. But as desire rumbled through him, his dragon half fixated on her. Awareness prickled through him. Need boiled beneath his skin. Hunger rose like a tidal wave as he glanced toward the ceiling. She was up there, just seven floors above him, naught but a short ride away.
Rolling his shoulders, Forge slowed his pace. He stopped in front of the elevator that would carry him to the aboveground lair—closer to the female on his mind. With a murmur, he issued a mental command. Heat rushed along his spine. Gears ground into motion, bringing the cage to his level.
A ping echoed inside the diamond-shaped vestibule.
Double doors slid open.
Forge remained rooted to the floor. Getting onboard was a bad idea. He should turn around and walk away. Head deeper into the underground lair until the rest of the Nightfuries got up for the evening. Use his brothers-in-arms as a buffer. Do the right thing and spare Hope the furious nature of his need. He stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall inside the elevator. A second of hesitation and . . .
He stepped inside.
Well, hell. So much for restraint. Uncage the beast and get out of his way. Lust ruled him now, shoving him toward the need to know what touching Hope would feel like. She was a powerful pull, and as the elevator ascended, Forge acknowledged his weakness along with his downfall. He needed her. Longed to experience Hope in all her glory. Be fed by her energy. Be held in her arms and surrounded by her warmth. Nothing less than full surrender would satisfy him. So . . . soft and sweet or a hard, fast loving? One hundred percent her choice. Forge didn’t care how it happened, just as long as she said yes and he mastered her in the end.