Chapter Eight
No need tae run. What kind of advice was that?
Forge bit down on a curse. The worst kind . . . the very worst a male could offer. He flexed his fingers, struggling to forget the feel of the female’s hand in his, the decadent spark of her bio-energy against his palm along with the delicious scent of her.
Unable to help himself, he drew another deep breath.
Tempting and sweet, her fragrance invaded his lungs. His skin started to heat. Prickles sparked across his fingertips. Oh yeah. Give him more. She smelled amazing, like hot cinnamon and shortbread cookies, his favorite of all treats and . . . bloody hell. Not good. He was in serious trouble. She was practically edible.
Forge frowned at the female standing a few feet away. Too close. Far too close. With no effort at all he could reach out and cup her cheek. Learn the texture of her skin. Run his fingers over the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Feel the zap of her energy as he connected to the Meridian, took what he wanted and—
Fuck.
It was official. He was an idiot. A double-damned arse for touching her in the first place. For letting her get so close. For making her feel welcome too. He should be scaring the shite out of her, making her run, not encouraging her to stay.
Or sound happy about all the time they’d be spending together.
God. What the hell had possessed him?
The question banged around inside his head. Forge didn’t bother answering. He couldn’t. He was too busy reacting, backpedaling, resisting errant urges. Out. He needed to get out of the kitchen. Away from her, back to some semblance of himself.
Unclenching his hands, Forge told himself to move. His muscles tensed in preparation. His boots stayed planted on the floor. He snorted in disgust. Hell, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t stuck. He was moving . . . in the wrong fucking direction. Small increments. More lean than true displacement, shifting by degrees toward the female instead of backing away. Stupid. Ridiculous. One hundred percent brainless given he didn’t know her. Had barely talked to her. Had only touched her once.
Which led to an irrefutable conclusion.
Her presence obliterated good sense. Hope-of-the-mouth-watering-energy scrambled his wits or something and . . . God. Someone please put him out of his misery. Shoot him. Hang him. Draw and quarter him. The method of his demise didn’t matter, just as long as his interest in her died before it exploded into full-blown obsession. Too much to ask? He clenched his teeth. Probably, considering he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Waging an internal war, Forge forced strength back into his legs.
His feet shifted.
He started to back away from her.
His dragon half balked, snarling a denial, rooting his feet to the floor, being an uncooperative arse. Prompted by predatory need, his inner beast inhaled, seeking more of her scent. Sweet as Highland heather, it reached him. His nostrils flared again. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Primal instinct detonated, then spiraled into territorial drive. Forge swallowed, fighting to stay in control.
Unaware of her peril, Hope held his gaze and, with a graceful flick, pushed the end of her ponytail over her shoulder. The red-gold strands swung, catching the light, the sparkling sheen enhancing the gorgeous glow of her aura. His body tightened. He lost ground and shifted toward her. Fucking hell. It wasn’t fair. Everything about her called to him. A serious problem considering his new just-made-up plan—all-out retreat before he reached out, grabbed hold, and stripped her naked.
In the middle of the goddamn kitchen.
Before God and all his comrades.
The thought set him straight. His control came back online, allowing him to put a leash on desire and back away from her. One step turned into two. Hope frowned at him. He dragged his focus away from her face. Mac met his gaze. Forge’s eyes narrowed. His friend raised a brow, the message clear: man-up, buddy.
“I’m going tae snap you in half, Irish.” Forge scowled at his apprentice. The traitor. Sneaky bastard. Wanker of the first order. Whatever. Pile on the names, make each one count ’cause . . . shite. Some best friend, throwing him to the wolves—or rather, a bonnie lass—without warning. “Then gnaw on your bones.”
Mac’s mouth curved. “I won’t taste good.”
“I don’t give a shite.”
“That’s going to be fun to watch,” Venom said, running his mouth . . . per usual.
A nasty gleam in his eyes, Wick leaned his elbows on the countertop. “Big fun.”
“We need to make a poster. Get some artwork going—water boy versus fire-acid asshole.” Venom glanced at Mac and raised a brow. “You think Tania will draw it up?”
Mac snorted.
Gage chuckled.
Rikar shook his head. “Before or after she guts you like a Razorback?”
“Before.” Wearing a shit-eating grin, Venom bumped shoulders with the Nightfury first in command. “I want to see the poster first.”
Laughter made the rounds inside the kitchen.
“All right. Enough screwing around,” Bastian said, amusement in his voice. Tilting his head toward the dining room, he slid off his stool and, grabbing Myst’s hand, dropped mind-speak. “I’m hungry. Time to eat.”
“Good plan.” A sharp snap ricocheted as Sloan closed his laptop. Grabbing the high-powered computer, the male headed for the timber-beam archway on the other side of the room. “If it gets cold, Daimler will kick our asses.”
The comment caused a mass exodus.
The thump of multiple boot soles echoed off white cabinets, pale walls, and marble countertops. As the kitchen cleared, Forge waved Hope forward. “After you, lass.”
She hesitated, gaze glued to the group stampeding beneath the archway. After a moment, she nodded as though making up her mind, murmured “Thanks,” and put her feet in gear. A few steps behind her, Forge told himself not to look. He really did, but his eyes didn’t listen. As if possessed by a libidinous poltergeist, his gaze slid down her back. All the blood left his brain, rushing south as he traced her frame. Trim waist, curvy hips, long legs and . . . he stifled a groan . . . her arse filled out her jeans to perfection. He hardened behind his button fly. Christ on a pogo stick. Had he said not good earlier? Well, he’d meant devastating. The view of her going was as compelling as the one of her coming.
Taking a fortifying breath, Forge dragged his eyes from her arse and strode into the dining room. Polished to a high sheen, the long mahogany table gleamed beneath a huge chandelier. Taken from a palace in Europe, centuries-old crystal hung like icicles from a gilded frame, reflecting light, sending rainbows arcing across the coffered ceiling. He heard Hope’s breath catch and understood her reaction. The room was anything but ordinary. Casual in some ways (from the double-sided stone fireplace and laid-back artwork on the walls), fancy and sophisticated in others (well-padded Louis IX dining chairs, the size and scope of an Old World table that sat thirty with ease), the room embraced history, yet epitomized family.
A welcoming place.
A gathering place.
The place the Nightfury pack assembled each day to spend time together, sharing meals along with the latest news.
“You know,” Rikar said, standing behind his fancy-ass chair, looking thoughtful. “I PVRed the game. The Blackhawks played Dallas last night.”
“Blackhawks?” Nian asked, plate and utensils in hand. “What the hell is that?”
Every gaze snapped toward the recent addition to the Nightfury pack.
Forge stifled a laugh and watched his brothers-in-arms’ reactions. Nian held his ground, refusing to hide his curiosity. His lips twitched. Brave lad. Ballsy stance, considering the warriors in the room, and the male’s precarious welcome inside the lair. Born into the aristocracy—the youngest member of the Archguard high council—Nian remained an unknown variable. Haider might have saved his life in Prague, pulling him out of a kill room and Rodin’s reach, but no one knew whether or not to trust the male.
The jury was still out in Forge’s mind.
The lad seemed solid enough. Smart. Strong. In search of a home—the same way he had a few months ago. Just like him, Nian needed a second chance. Forge wanted to give him one, despite Bastian’s reservations—and the fact Gage wanted to kill him. Shite. The warrior asked B for the green light and Nian’s head almost every day. Some leeway with Nian, though, would go a long way. The male longed to be part of a pack, with warriors who valued him. Forge understood the need for acceptance, empathizing with the male’s search for a place to belong.
He’d been in the same position just months ago. Cut off from his birth pack. Alone in the world. So lonely he’d thought he might die. And just like Nian, the condition had been of his own making.
After the murder of his family—and waking in a swamp, buried nostrils-deep in water and mud—he could have gone home. Reached out to his cousins. Stayed safe inside the Scottish pack. Suspicion had kept him from it. Someone inside his birth pack had given the enemy his family’s precise location on the moors that night. A harsh conclusion to draw? Maybe, but Forge didn’t think so. Nothing else explained the ambush and subsequent attack. Both had been too well coordinated, no simple one-off for the bastards leading the charge. The rogue pack had done what they’d intended to do—kill his sire, murder his brothers, take out the entire branch of his family tree in one well-planned assault.
Surviving his family hurt. His inability to protect his brothers and sire still bothered him. A warrior now, he could see the array of options from which he could’ve chosen. Pick one. Follow through. His sire’s words, but in his inexperience, he hadn’t considered a single one. Forge swallowed a curse. He never should have retreated. No matter how shaken, or badly wounded, he should’ve stayed and figured it out. Found the traitor. Avenged his family. Killed all those involved—cousins included. The shame of leaving it undone weighed on him. His family had died on his watch. Through some stroke of fate, he had not. Now he couldn’t imagine returning to the place of his birth, to the memories or the dragon warriors who called Aberdeen home.
Which had left him adrift in the wilds of humanity.
He refused to see the same happen to Nian. No matter his history, the lad deserved better than exile and abject loneliness. Dragonkind males didn’t do well in isolation, and well, if B required a concrete reason to keep the lad around, Forge could offer one. His rationale wasn’t all hearts and roses. He recognized faster than most how things changed for the worst. No one knew what the future held. So aye, having a member of the Archguard in their back pocket could only amount to a good thing.
“I can’t believe you don’t know who the Blackhawks are,” Rikar said, staring at Nian as though he’d grown a second head. “Where the hell have you been—under a rock?”
Nian shrugged. “A close second—in Prague. I had businesses to run and Rodin to watch. No time for fun.”
“That needs to change. How about we start right now?” Devilry in his mercury-colored eyes, Haider glanced at Rikar. “A hundred bucks says Chicago lost.”
A rabid hockey fan, Rikar scowled at the male insulting his beloved Blackhawks. “Too easy, Haider. You don’t want your money? I’ll take it.”
Haider scoffed. “The only one losing money tonight, Rikar, is you.”
“It’s on.” Moving with stark efficiency, Rikar reached for the food dishes. Ceramic lids clinked as they hit the tabletop. He grabbed two plates. A stack of pancakes covered with maple syrup went on one. A mound of eggs and bacon topped with five pieces of cinnamon toast got piled onto the other. Giving the caloric nightmare disguised as flapjacks to Angela, he leaned in, kissed his mate on the mouth, and handed her utensils. “Come on, angel. We’re eating in front of the TV.”
Sloan reached for his computer. “I could tell you who—”
“Don’t,” Rikar growled.
Haider glared at their resident computer genius. “You’ll ruin the bet if you tell us who won. Butt out, man.”
Rolling his eyes, Sloan set the laptop down.
“See ya.” With a laugh, Angela turned from the table and followed her mate.
“I want to see this.” Snagging a couple of plates, Gage passed one to Osgard. “Load up, kid, and be quick about it. Rikar and Haider might beat the shit out of each other during the game. No way I’m missing that.”
A rumble of agreement rose around the table.
Standing to one side, Forge watched the other Nightfuries dig in, loading up plates, feeding their mates, grabbing cutlery before hightailing it out of the dining room. As Wick and J. J. disappeared around the corner of the fireplace, he glanced at Hope.
Laughter in her eyes, she shrugged and, flatware in hand, made a beeline for the pancakes. “I don’t know anything about hockey, but I’m game to learn. You grab the—”
Bastian shoved a chair against the table. The hard rap echoed. Hope froze mid-stride, her attention locked on the Nightfury commander. “Hope, I’m Bastian, Myst’s mate. Welcome to Black Diamond.”
“Thank you, ah . . . sir,” Hope said, standing military straight, hand twitching as though she fought the urge to salute.
Forge didn’t blame her. B might be reasonable—most of the time—but he looked lethal. Flat-out scary to anyone who didn’t know him. To be expected. A commander of warriors, he wore intimidation like a second skin. And a female meeting him for the first time? Aye. No doubt at all. Anyone—male, female . . . the groundhog nesting in the yard outside—would do well to stay wary with B in the vicinity.
The hard-core attitude served Bastian well. Was one of the reasons he led the Nightfury pack with efficiency. Strength, honor, and razor-sharp intelligence rounded out his virtues, making him a male to be reckoned with. Warriors respected him. Their enemies feared him. Everyone listened when he spoke. Even so, B’s tactic with Hope bothered him. He didn’t like the uncertainty on her face. Or the idea another male stood so close to her. Close enough to touch, a fact his dragon half refused to accept.
Bastian ran his hand along the back of the chair and took another step, closing the distance.
The urge to plant his fist in his commander’s face grabbed hold. Forge shifted to stand beside Hope, lending his support, willing to shield her with his body. “Careful, B.”
One side of Bastian’s mouth tipped up. He switched to mind-speak. “Watch yourself, Scot. You’re getting awfully territorial.”
“Fuck off,” he said, borrowing Wick’s favorite expression. Bastian raised a brow. He ignored it in favor of getting back on track. It was either that or let loose and knock his friend’s teeth down his throat. “We’ll fill our plates and join you in the living room.”
“No, you won’t. Not you two.” The last to leave, B picked up his plate and started for the exit. “Stay here. Eat. Talk. Get to know one another.”
Forge tensed. Oh Christ, nay. Alone in a room with Hope. Nothing and no one to stop him from touching her again. Shite. His stomach flip-flopped. Anything but that. The female turned him inside out without even trying. No way would he survive sitting across a table from her without his control slipping. Or suffering a serious case of blue balls.
Panic rose at the thought.
Looking for a way out, Forge challenged his commander. “Is that an order?”
Bastian paused mid-stride, green gaze level, expression full of don’t-fuck-with-me. “Do you need it to be?”
He scowled at his commander. Arsehole. Clever, clever bastard. Bastian was too smart by half. The male had outmaneuvered him, leaving him between a rock and a hard place. Stay or go? Courage or dishonor? Be a warrior and accept his fate or rail against his future for the next few weeks. Forge rolled his shoulders. It seemed foolish to fight, but God, he wanted to start one. Bay at the moon. Let his fists fly. Complain at the unfairness of it.
Bastian waited for an answer.
Forge shook his head, answering without words. No sense prolonging the inevitable. Hope was here to help him recover his memory. Mac said she was good at her job. He prayed for his sake his apprentice was right. He needed a breakthrough. Craved answers. Longed for the pain to end more than he wanted to avoid a female that made him feel too much. But as B left the room and he looked at Hope, Forge knew whatever experiment/therapy she planned would end in disaster. For him? With absolute certainty. For her? No way around it. Now only one question remained. The fifty-million-dollar one—could he keep it professional and stay out of her bed? Good question, given he’d spent less than five minutes in her company and already wanted to lay Hope across the dining room table and treat her like a meal.