His brows drawn tight, Mac took a step back, giving his friend some breathing room. Wiping a trickle of blood from beneath his nose, he asked, “Had enough yet?”
“Bloody hell,” Forge rasped and, pressing his elbow to his side, hugged his rib cage. With a groan, he bowed his head, hit one knee, then crumpled into a heap on the floor. “What the hell was that?”
“Kung fu.”
“Bugger me...where did you learn it?” Giving up all pretense, Forge turned belly-up. Splayed out in the middle of the basketball court, he stared up at the ceiling. “Bruce fucking Lee?”
“Got interested while I was on an op with my SEAL unit,” he said, the adrenaline rush fading. Agony took its place. Mac winced, feeling each blow Forge had landed. Exhaling hard, he collapsed next to his friend on the hardwood. “Been studying it ever since.”
Forge swiped at the cut above his eye. His fingers came away covered in blood. With a grunt, he wiped a red smear on his T-shirt. “You’re going tae teach me...every last move. And tae shoot too.”
“You like guns?” Mac flexed his fingers. Pain screamed up his forearm as he checked for busted knuckles.
“Never held one, but I want tae learn.”
“Done.”
It was the least he could do, considering he’d just beaten the snot out of the guy. And as perverse as it sounded, he was looking forward to another round. Teaching Forge the basics would give him the opportunity to smack him around some more. ’Cause, man, now that he’d burned off the excess energy, his muscles unlocked, unfurling into relaxation.
Pure heaven.
Now all he needed was a swim. Too bad Black Diamond didn’t have a pool. At least not yet.
Daimler—the Nightfuries’ go-to guy—had something in the works with some hoity-toity landscape firm. Mac couldn’t wait to get his hands on the plans. The sooner, the better, but he was exercising patience...and trying not to think about the company Daimler hired. But it was hard. Especially since he knew who worked there. Tania Solares, sex kitten extraordinaire and best friend to Bastian’s mate. So, yeah, he understood the connection and why she’d been given the contract, but...shit. No wonder he had trouble sleeping. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or her. She polluted every thought that ran through his head.
Which didn’t work for him at all.
He’d only met her once—barely talked to her—but from the moment he’d seen Tania across the SPD squad room...
Bam! Reason ceased to exist while desire took control.
With a sigh, Mac rolled to his feet. Time for a distraction. The last thing he needed was another go-around with the woman who invaded his dreams.
Stretching out his bruised shoulder, Mac glanced at Forge. “You coming?”
“Do I have tae?”
“Ah, poor baby.”
“Go fuck yerself.”
Effective if a little less than poetic. “Come on, man. You want Daimler down here kicking our asses because we ruined the meal?”
Like all the males in the lair, the thought of upsetting Daimler put Forge in gear. The Numbai was awesome to the next power. No way anyone wanted to piss him off. Whoever did might end up neglected. As Forge pushed to his feet, he grumbled, “You know I’ll get you back. Just wait until dragon combat training tonight.”
Mac put his middle finger to good use and flipped his friend the bird. “Pansy.”
“Fledgling.” Purple eyes glimmering, Forge smiled around his split lip. “You know you’re gonna—”
“What the hell are you two yahoos doing?” The deep voice rumbled across the gym, drifting beneath the buzz of industrial-grade fluorescents.
“Shite...company.” Forge threw him a warning look.
True enough. Had he listened, they’d already be upstairs, making Daimler happy with their unbruised, unbloodied presence.
“Playing pin the tail on the donkey,” Mac said, sarcasm out in full force as he turned toward the gym entrance.
Shitkickers planted between the doorjambs, Rikar’s pale gaze moved from him to Forge, then back again. “Which one of you is the ass?”
“Him,” he and Forge said at the same time, pointing at each other.
Rikar’s lips twitched. “Who won?”
“Me.”
“Unfair advantage.” Wincing, Forge rubbed the side of his knee. “Fucking guy knows kung fu.”
His XO’s amusement widened into a grin. “Handy.”
“Only if you’re not on the receiving end,” Forge muttered.
Mac shook his head but felt his heart expand. His chest went tight around a flood of gratefulness. Frickin’ guys. He knew what they were doing. With each word, they shored him up, making it clear that, despite everything, they valued him. Trusted him. Knew that sooner or later, he’d get in the game and master the magic—become one with his dragon half, so to speak—and become a full-fledged member of the Nightfury pack.
All he needed to do was believe.
Mac stifled a snort. Right. Believe. Simple, yet oh so complicated. Faith had never been his forte. He was a doer, not a believer. And sitting on his duff praying everything worked out day in, day out? He hated every second of it.
Conjuring a T-shirt to go with his faded Levi’s, Mac strode across the gym. No sense avoiding the inevitable. He could argue with Forge—tell the guy to screw off and leave him alone—but not his XO. Rikar wouldn’t give him a free pass.
Nor should he.
The guy had saved his life, finding him before his dragon DNA kicked in and the change took hold. Not that Mac recalled much of it. Most of what occurred that day was nothing but a big blank. But he remembered Rikar with total clarity. Could still hear the male’s voice inside his head. Feel him as he connected through mind-speak, talked him through the pain, keeping his energy levels stable through seven hours of pure hell.
And that connection? A huge deal in Dragonkind circles.
The shared experience formed an unbreakable bond...a father–son vibe that spanned decades and demographics, shoved differences aside and tied males together. So, yeah, his respect for Rikar ran more than marrow-deep. He wanted to make the guy proud. To prove to himself and the others that Rikar’s faith in him wasn’t misguided.
“Everybody waiting?” Mac asked as he came even with the doorframe.
“Yeah. Daimler’s having six fits. The food’s getting cold.” Pale eyes roaming, Rikar scanned his face, the concern in his gaze palpable.
Mac ignored it, refusing to acknowledge his own worry or that his XO shared it. Talking about that kind of crap never helped. Doing something about it was the only way through.
After a second, Rikar bowed out, respecting his silence, and glanced at the bruise on his cheekbone. “Feel better now?”
“Immeasurably.” Mac flexed his fist, enjoying the residual pain as the nicks pulled at his skin. “I should kick his ass every day.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
“Clever, lads,” Forge said, an eye roll in his voice. “And tae think, you wankers are now my brothers-in-arms.”
Amusement sparkled in Rikar’s ice-blue eyes. Mac grinned back. Thank God for Forge and his wicked sense of humor. Okay, so the Scottish lingo took some getting used to, but it was worth it. No one lightened the mood better than his mentor. Or would allow himself to get kung fu’ed for a good cause.
He hadn’t felt this relaxed in days.
Mac slapped the Scot’s shoulder to show his appreciation. When Forge nodded, Mac left the party of three and stepped into the corridor, where quiet took on a new meaning. Under the buzz of the heavy-duty industrial lights, the silence hadn’t been so complete. But outside it? Noise curled inward, playing keep-away, staying contained. Even the polished concrete floor was in on the game, absorbing each of his footfalls, eating the sound as he strode up a slight incline toward the elevators. The strip of halogens embedded in the floor acted like twin runways, throwing V-like splashes of illumination up the stone walls to touch twelve-foot ceiling
s.
Old came to mind.
Honed from solid granite, the underground lair reeked of history. A century’s worth? A millennium’s? As far as Mac knew, the Nightfuries didn’t have a clue. No one talked about it...or cared. Safety mattered more than passing months unfolding into years. As long as the lair stayed secure—off both human and Razorback radar—no one gave a rat’s ass about the hows and whys of Black Diamond.
Walking beneath the foyer’s vaulted ceiling, Mac stopped in front of the elevators. He reached toward the control panel. A second before his finger made contact, he stopped, hand hovering an inch away, curiosity poking at him. His brow collided as he stared at the up button.
Baby steps.
Forge had been talking about the “little things” all week. About the sequence of learning. About respecting the magic enough not to rush it. Mac blew out a breath. Maybe it was time he pulled his head out of his ass and started to listen. To accept his mentor’s coaching instead of fighting to do it his own way.
Seemed like a good plan. No time like the present to take a baby step and give it another shot.
Dropping his hand, Mac closed his eyes and retreated inward, looking for the thread of magic he’d lost in the gym. Energy sparked. He sank into the heat, fanning the ember into flame. As the ball of energy grew deep inside him, he nurtured it, held the power close a moment, then tossed his request out like a pair of dice. His heart thumped as magic rolled, whispering like static, filling the air around him. Machinery hummed, grinding into motion, obeying his command. His mouth curved. The elevator pinged a second before the stainless steel doors slid open in front of him.
Tears burned the back of his throat. Finally. Holy fuck...finally. He felt it. Wasn’t fighting to hang on or grasping for control. He was connected to his dragon, no longer less than half, but whole. Combating the sear of emotion, Mac inhaled smooth and exhaled long. With a respect born of time, he repeated the breathing technique, exorcising the stress as the fractured pieces inside him clicked together.
A heavy hand landed on the back of his neck.
Mac glanced over his shoulder. Giving his nape a gentle squeeze, Rikar nodded. The show of approval hit Mac chest level. Mother of God. That felt good. The surge of magic in his veins. The pride he saw in Rikar’s eyes. The hope both gave him.
Stopping alongside him, Forge nudged him with his shoulder. As Mac rocked sideways, bumping into Rikar, he met the male’s gaze. He tipped his chin, thanking him without words for his patience over the past month.
“No sweat,” Forge murmured, stepping past him and into the elevator. “Now enough of the bullshite. I’m famished.”
Mac’s stomach growled. Not a good sign. As a fledgling male, he needed to refuel often. Daimler wouldn’t be happy with him for pulling a disappearing act all day. The Numbai worried about the Nightfury crew, working hard to keep them in good eats and give each what was needed to thrive. But he’d shifted focus this past month, babying Mac...overjoyed by the prospect of putting him into the calorie overload his body required to endure the ongoing changes and the new abilities that each shift brought.
Good thing too. Mac didn’t know what he would do without the guy...and his monster triple-decker chocolate cake.
His mouth watering, he stepped into the elevator behind his comrades. The smooth ascent took less than a minute. Without making a sound, the doors slid open, dumping him into the aboveground lair. Hanging a right, Mac entered the double-wide corridor and beat feet, heading for the kitchen.
Antique doors marched like soldiers, trim, orderly, equally spaced on either side of the hallway. Paintings hung between them above the wainscoting, brightening the white walls with splashes of vivid color. Done by guys with names like Monet, Renoir, and van Gogh, the space was more gallery than hallway. A beautiful way to get from point A to B in the lair, the place would make curators and art connoisseurs the world over jealous.
Not that Mac knew anything about art, but...
Wow. The juxtaposition was appealing. Soothing, even. He’d never seen nineteenth-century landscapes play nice with modern, geometric pieces and charcoal etchings. The balance and flow was a big departure from the graphic art posters plastered on the walls inside the Sarah-Jane, his forty-seven-foot yacht and home for the last five years.
But not anymore.
He was 100 percent out of the human world. No more homicide squad at SPD or catching bad guys without a shitload of scales, claws, fangs, and the wherewithal to use them. And as surprising as it seemed, he was A-okay with the switch-up. Especially since it came complete with a crew who thought and acted just like him. The ultimate accessory to his lifestyle makeover, though? Daimler. Hands down. The Numbai took culinary wizardry to a whole new level.
His stomach rumbled again. Mac picked up the pace. The smell of roast beef and fresh bread pulled him toward the kitchen, slingshotting him over the threshold into—
He stopped short. Ah, hell. Not again.
Mac shook his head, struggling not to laugh. It never failed. He always walked in when Bastian was in Don Juan mode. Kind of embarrassing. Not that B cared. He was a little preoccupied. Standing at the far end of the kitchen island with his arms wrapped around Myst, Bastian hugged her from behind, hands traveling as she tried to slice a loaf of bread. Tried being the operative word. It wasn’t going well, the uneven pieces, some thick, some thin, telling the tale.
“Would you quit that?” she said, exasperation combining with laughter. With a sudden twist, Myst bumped her mate’s chest with the back of her shoulders, searching for separation. The nudge made Bastian bolder. While she squirmed, he got busy nuzzling the side of her neck. “God, you’re a pain in the—oh, hey Mac.”
Meeting her gaze, Mac tipped his chin in greeting.
Bastian’s head came up. Green eyes lit him up like twin spotlights, then narrowed, taking inventory, cataloging his injuries, making assumptions. Not surprising. B didn’t miss much, but...shit. Mac could’ve done without the visual pat down. It made him feel fifteen again, caught behind the bleachers with a cheerleader’s legs wrapped around his waist. On the one hand, a great memory. On the other, not so much after the principal got hold of him. But like it or not, the Nightfury commander had that effect on him.
He hoped that changed when he got to know B better. Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, Mac went on high alert as his commander raised a questioning brow. Resisting the urge to hide his beat-up hands behind his back, he walked between the bank of wall cabinets and the island, moving toward censure instead of away. He’d always been like that...a take-it-in-the-teeth kind of guy.
Slowing his roll, he stopped beside the pair. As he leaned his hip against the island’s marble lip, he reached out and snagged a piece of bread off the bamboo cutting board. And oh man, it was still warm. Thick, fluffy, right-out-of-the-oven delicious. Shoving half of it into his mouth, he swallowed the load of umm-umm-good and met B’s gaze. His commander didn’t say a word, just waited.
Mac sighed. No time like the present. “So...had a little mishap in the gym.”
“Really,” B said, tone loaded with yeah, right. Mac didn’t blame him. Not after KOing a wall last week. “Anything broken besides your face?”
“Just my fist.” Cocky as ever, Forge slung his arm around Mac’s neck and held his hand up for inspection. Dimmed down, the halogens above their heads highlighted the damage, throwing contoured shadows across his beat-to-shit knuckles.
“You gonna show him your cracked ribs too?” Icy air rushing in his wake, Rikar pulled up beside them.
Mac stifled a shiver, combating the sudden deep freeze. It was always like that. Everywhere the guy went, the temperature dropped into single digits. Par for the course for a frost dragon. Though how Angela—his best friend, partner in the SPD’s homicide division, and now Rikar’s mate—handled the cold without turning into an icicle, he didn’t know. Magic, probably. Hard-core, never-say-die love? Without a doubt.
His expression in n
eutral, Rikar reached around him to grab his own slice of heaven. After taking a bite, he umm-yeahed around the mouthful and said, “Forge’ll be walking with a limp for a while.”
“One word.” Releasing his hold on Mac, Forge spun and ass-planted himself on the countertop opposite them. Shitkickers dangling against white cabinet facades, he said, “Kung fu.”
“That’s two words, buddy.”
“Who asked you, Frosty?”
As Rikar threw his favorite words—fuck and off—into the ring, Mac laughed.
Bastian grinned and, after giving Myst a gentle squeeze, let her out from between him and the island. No dummy, she escaped Mr. Grabby-Hands, scooped up the cutting board—bread knife and all—and hightailed it into the dining room. B watched her go, then glanced from him to Forge and back again. “You boys work it out?”
Rotating his sore shoulder, Mac nodded. “All good.”
“Better be,” B murmured, turning toward the dining room. “Let’s eat before Daimler goes postal.”
Sounded like a plan. Especially if it meant getting another slice of homemade bread.
Moving in sync, Mac followed his commander, passing beneath the heavy timber-beamed archway into Café Nightfury. As he cleared the threshold, he glanced at the glass French doors leading out onto the patio. Imbued with magic, each pane rippled like black water, lapping at the window edges, cutting off the garden views...blocking out the orange glow of the setting sun.
A shame, really. He loved watching the sun sink beyond the horizon. But that wasn’t an option anymore. Not unless he wanted to go blind and get fried...in that order.
Dragonkind didn’t tolerate sunlight. Their eyes were too light sensitive, hence the need for enchanted glass on all the windows. The stuff served an important purpose, shifting from light to dark, protecting them from the harmful UV rays during the day, lightening at night to allow moonlight into the aboveground lair. But where sunlight stopped, candlelight took over; the golden glow bounced off the collection of covered dishes on the long table and antique sideboard. Like expensive jewelry, cut crystal sparkled alongside fine china and expensive silverware.
Fury of Seduction Page 4