Fury of Seduction

by Coreene Callahan

  “Us, either.” Scooping Angela up, Rikar tossed her over his shoulder and headed for the exit.

  Tania blinked, then swallowed a laugh, listening to the detective squawk in indignation. Funny thing, though? She noticed Angela didn’t struggle. Was actually fighting a smile as she got carted off like a sack of potatoes.

  From the opposite side of the rotunda, Forge said, “Yo, Daimler. You got anything cooking?”

  “Oh yeah,” Venom said, hot on the Scottish guy’s heels. “I could eat.”

  Daimler came to attention with a happy hop. His mouth as quick as his feet, he scurried ahead of the Nightfuries, a long litany of everything he’d prepared for the “mating feast” trailing like a ticker tape behind him. Tania watched them go, a smile threatening. After a moment she gave in and, with a grin, put her pretty footwear to good use and—

  A big hand curled around her wrist, stopping her midstride. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The deep growl sent her pulse thrumming. Oh boy, he sounded good, like a hot-blooded male with only one thing on his mind. His touch confirmed it—soft, seductive, a decadent slide up the inside of her arm. Pausing at her elbow, Mac stroked over sensitive skin, cranking her tight, and moved in close. His chest bumped her from behind. She shivered as he gathered up her unbound hair, twirling it around his hand. With a gentle grip, he tugged her head back, raising her chin, giving himself access. She arched under the pressure. He took advantage and dipped his head. His whiskered cheek prickled her a second before his mouth brushed the side of her throat.

  A soft kiss. A gentle nip. The tease and tug on her hair. That was all it took for her to lose her way. Sensation swirled in a heated coil, making her tingle.

  Fisting her thick strands a little tighter, he growled, “You stay with me.”

  Better than any rope, he tied her up with his words. But even as she surrendered, wanting what his closeness promised, she refused to go easily. He liked her feisty. Tania liked herself that way too, and with Mac? Shyness wasn’t an option. Neither was backing down.

  Anticipation whipped through her. Oh yes. This was going to be so damn good.

  “What if I don’t want to?” Stepping back, she bumped him, then settled, her back to his front.

  “You promised me anything earlier.” Pressing his free hand flat against her belly, he claimed all the real estate between her hip bones. Wrapped tight to his muscled length, Tania bit down on a moan. He smiled against her throat, then drifted up to nip her earlobe. “I’m here to collect.”

  “Payback?”

  “The best kind.”

  No argument there. She couldn’t wait to have him inside her again. To ride him hard and be ridden in return. To hold him skin to skin and have his taste in her mouth.

  Twisting in his embrace, she tugged on her hair. Mac growled in protest. Tania insisted, applying pressure until he let her go. The instant his grip loosened, she turned in the circle of his arms. Face-to-face now, she reached up, traced the contours of his lips before sliding her hands into his dark hair.

  Meeting his gaze, she whispered, “You gonna show me?”

  His nostrils flared. “You gonna let me?”

  Playing the tease, she scraped her short nails along his scalp, holding him on the razor-sharp edge of desire, heightening her anticipation, forcing him to wait. After what seemed like forever, but was only a moment, she asked, “You want me to let you?”

  “Motherfuck, yes.”

  “Say please.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. She held her ground, refusing to back down. He needed to give to receive, and she wanted it all. Every last piece of him before he laid her down.

  “I’m going to make you pay for it,” he murmured, warning in his tone. “Make you beg again.”

  “You first.”

  A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Please, mo chroí.”

  Caressing the tops of his shoulders, Tania smiled. “I’m all yours.”

  And she was. As much as she wanted to deny it, she was his. Logic and all the dragon stuff be damned. Intuition ruled, and the truth hit home. She belonged with Mac in every way that mattered. But even as she acknowledged it and offered him her mouth, fear slithered through her. He would hurt her in the end. Tania knew it deep down, no need to explore further.

  She was headed for a fall. Heartache inevitable.

  She wanted him too much. Couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of his company, the heat of his body, or the decadence of being held in his arms. And as he accepted her invitation and kissed her—tangling their tongues, tasting her deep, making her moan—Tania gave up the fight. She couldn’t say no, never mind walk away. That would take bucketfuls of willpower, and right or wrong...

  She simply wasn’t strong enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Ivar. He’d always suspected he would lose Lothair, in one manner or another. The inevitability had been written in the stars. The sands of time...whatever...fate turning its indestructible wheel. He saw that now. His best friend had been too reckless—his temper too volatile, his personality too obsessive—for him to survive long inside the Razorback ranks. In a war that took no prisoners.

  Still the loss hurt like a son of a bitch.

  And therein lay the irony.

  He never felt. Anything. And yet weeks had passed. Over a fucking month, and no matter how hard Ivar tried he couldn’t let it go. The pain stayed with him, swelling like a balloon inside his heart and mind, pushing at the edges of his control, and...he mourned. Grieved for a male lost too soon. Raged at the unfairness. Wanted to level the nightclub—and every soul in it—as he folded his wings and touched down in the parking lot behind Deuce’s.

  Streetlights flickered, reacting to his magic as his claws clicked against asphalt. He shrugged, flicking the condensation from his bloodred scales, and, shifting to human form, conjured his clothes. The expensive suit fit him like a glove, settling across his shoulders, folding with precision around him.

  Quick. Easy. No fuss, no muss. Ivar tugged at his shirt sleeves, adjusting his favorite cuff links. He didn’t have time to mess around. Not tonight. Or any other, for that matter.

  Skirting a row of dumpsters, he ignored the foul stench of human waste, blocked out the crunch of broken glass beneath his shoes, and strode toward the back entrance. The moment he reached the concrete steps, the human bouncers snapped to attention. In a flap of movement, each picked a door and wrenched the glass sliders wide, saving the fuckers from the smash-bang routine Ivar yearned to deliver.

  Just as well. Wrecking his own club held little appeal. Especially since he’d be on the hook for the bill when he finished ransacking the place.

  Never a good idea. You didn’t cook the golden goose. You nurtured it, and Ivar was nothing if not astute. Deuce’s provided a healthy revenue stream. One he needed if Rodin severed all ties after learning of Lothair’s murder, cutting off the steady flow of capital to the Razorback coffers. Ivar hoped not, but the Archguard asshole was unpredictable, as volatile as his son in some ways, more dangerous in others.

  Which meant dumping plan A—capturing Tania Solares—in favor of putting plan B into effect. The entire purpose of his visit to Deuce’s tonight.

  Hamersveld was in town.

  Satisfaction shoved grief out of the way. With a soft growl, he crossed the threshold and entered the club. Jesus, Hamersveld was quick on the trigger. One message, a politely written, hand-delivered note by one of Ivar’s associates in Prague...that was all it took to tempt the male into hopping the pond. Then again, he always dangled the right bait. And a water dragon within the Nightfury ranks—one Hamersveld didn’t know existed? Pretty irresistible stuff. Enough to get the lethal male to come and take a look-see.

  Now Ivar had the Norwegian exactly where he wanted him. Curious in Seattle. With no allegiance or love for the Nightfuries. Which was where option two came in. He needed to execute it to perfection. Flipping the powerful wa
rrior—bringing him on his side and into the Razorback camp—wouldn’t be easy. Maybe even inadvisable.

  A prickle of unease ghosted between Ivar’s shoulder blades.

  From all accounts, Hamersveld was a lone dragon. Uncontrollable. Without friends. Loyal to none, an entity unto himself. Not the kind of male another trusted, never mind allowed close under normal circumstances.

  But these were anything but normal. Dangerous and out of bounds was more like it.

  Bastian had a sea dragon at his command. A fucking water rat, a male of unknown skill but unprecedented power. No way could Ivar let that stand. His soldiers would get drowned right out of the gate. He must fight fire with fire...or rather, water with water.

  And where did that lead him? Right back to Hamersveld. The unpredictable, prickly SOB currently enjoying the finest BDSM club in Seattle.

  Ivar’s pride and joy. The best-kept secret in the city.

  Deep in the cool confines of his home away from home, Ivar walked past the private rooms situated in the back of his establishment. Senses attuned, he picked up all kinds of trace. Some females moaned in bliss, others screamed as the pleasure-pain was delivered, but all performed (both the professionals he paid and patrons he didn’t), servicing the collection of males who frequented the club, Dragonkind and human alike. The smell of sex and leather, the sharp tang of alcohol, and the subtler, underlying scent of blood mingled, tightening the muscle over his bones.

  Ah, yes. The sweet sting of anticipation.

  Not that he would indulge tonight. His pack, and the safety of his lab and the experiments he conducted there, took precedence over pleasure. And as he listened to a variety of different music drift from behind closed doors—heavy metal, classic rock, R & B, and even a little jazz—he left the private playrooms behind and walked into the main part of the nightclub.

  Standing in the elevated section of the mezzanine, he stopped at the fancy wrought iron railing and looked down on the scene. Hmm, a full house tonight. Good. He needed the business. Could practically see the money flowing as waitresses, dressed in black leather bustiers, microminis, and lacy garters, moved between the tables, taking customer orders and delivering those already placed. Ivar scanned the twin bars flanking either side of the room. Antique glass glittered on the back walls behind each long snakewood-clad length, reflecting the selection of alcohol in colorful bottles of all shapes and sizes.

  Ivar’s eyes narrowed. Bartenders working at a steady pace. Check. Everything neat and tidy. Double check. No need to kill anyone for slacking off. Excellent. Just the way he liked his club run.

  His pace unhurried, Ivar strolled down the stairs and into the fray.

  Standing post at the bottom, Denzeil glanced up at him. The male tipped his chin. “Boss man.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a booth. Back right-hand corner.”

  “Best spot in the house,” Ivar murmured, another round of irony hitting him full force. Deep, comfortable, with curtains that could be drawn for privacy, the booth had been Lothair’s favorite spot at Deuce’s. He stepped off the last stair to stand shoulder to shoulder with his warrior. “Hamersveld’s got good taste.”

  “Eclectic too,” Denzeil murmured, dark eyes flicking over the crowd.

  Ivar raised a brow, asking without words.

  “He’s sampled more than his fair share of females since arriving...all shapes, sizes, and skin color. No straight-up preference or pattern I can detect.”

  “Good.”

  And it was. A relaxed Hamersveld worked to his advantage. Was better than the alternative. An amped-up male would be harder to read, less inclined to talk and be controlled. So screw the male’s preferences. The warrior could fuck every male and female in the club, and Ivar would’ve gotten him more if needed.

  No questions asked.

  Hanging a left at the base of the stairs, Ivar headed toward his quarry, skirting patrons and a few tables, making his way across the bar. Denzeil stayed on his heels, offering backup even though it wasn’t necessary. The likelihood Hamersveld would start something inside a club peppered with humans was slim to none. The intel he’d collected on the male suggested he was coolheaded, cunning with a sharp edge, more inclined to think things through than act rashly.

  Excellent on every score. It meant he’d get to say his piece.

  Ivar came abreast of the corner enclave. Shaped like a horseshoe, the booth’s plush burgundy upholstery glinted in the low light, framing Hamersveld’s Norwegian beauty to perfection. Black eyes trained on the female astride him, big hands locked on either side of her hips, he encouraged her to ride. Ivar’s gaze flicked over her face. His lips curved. Even half-dressed and arched in orgasmic pleasure, he recognized the bleached-out blonde from TV, one of KING channel 5’s up-and-coming stars.

  How...interesting. Serendipitous even. Reporters, after all, could be useful upon occasion.

  The warrior’s focus shifted, his gaze cutting through Ivar like twin laser beams. He clenched his teeth, suppressing a flinch. No way would he show an ounce of weakness. Not to a shark like Hamersveld. Like respected like. The second the male in front of him smelled vulnerability, he’d move in for the kill. So Ivar smothered his reaction instead, his expression one of pure amusement.

  “Give me a minute, Ivar.” Breathing hard, the male held his gaze and increased the pace, making the female moan. “Unless you want in?”

  The invitation temped him to a dangerous degree. But he hadn’t made the trip downtown for a fast fuck in one of his club’s corner booths. “Another time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Always do,” he said, turning to prop his shoulder against the side wall.

  With a good view of the club, Ivar ignored the couple—tuned out the reporter’s moans of pleasure—and flicked his fingers at the nearest waitress. She came toward him through the crowd. He pushed his drink order into her mind. Her eyes glazed over a moment before she spun toward the bar, one thought ruling her...get Ivar a drink, right now. A minute later, he held a tumbler full of Jimmy Beam and Hamersveld’s full attention as the female stumbled out of the booth, blouse hanging wide open, a blank look on her face.

  Good riddance. Arrivederci, sweetheart.

  Tipping his glass in salute, Ivar slid into the opposite side of the booth. “You fuck like a world champion.”

  “Three hundred years of living does that to a male.” Picking up his Heineken, he took a pull from the bottle. “Nice place you got here.”

  “I have particular tastes.”

  “I am aware of them. So is Rodin,” Hamersveld said, his expression thoughtful. “Have you told him his son is dead yet?”

  Refusing to rise to the bait, Ivar stayed cool under fire. “What the asshole doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I like your style, Ivar. I really do.” A dangerous glint in his eyes, the male held his palm up in front of him. Magic flared, slithering on a wet curl of air. The condensation rings made by his beer bottle formed a straight line on the tabletop. A second later the water leaped, flowing into Hamersveld’s palm. “You’ve got some slick moves, not the least of which was getting me over here.”

  “You think I’m lying?” Settling in a comfortable slouch, Ivar sipped his drink. Ice clinked against his teeth and the JB bit, sliding down the back of his throat.

  “Have you seen him...up close?”

  “Close enough to see the fucker’s tattoo.”

  Hamersveld’s interest sharpened, clouding the air inside the booth. “He has tribal markings?”

  “Navy-blue ink.”

  “Slifer’s balls,” the male muttered, taking the dragon god’s name in vain. “Another of my kind.”

  Blond brows drawn tight, the warrior picked at the label on his bottle. Ivar remained silent, watching, waiting for...

  Ah, and there it was. The reaction he’d hoped—and needed—to see. Anger. Blazing, unsurpassable rage from the warrior sitting across from him. To be expected. Accustomed to b
eing the only water dragon in existence, another male encroaching on his territory (aka the entire planet) wouldn’t be welcome news to a bastard with narcissistic tendencies.

  A fortunate turn of events for Ivar. Not so lucky for Hamersveld.

  The male enjoyed his uniqueness and the status it gave him among his peers. That an upstart Nightfury might take that away? Shit, Ivar could almost hear the warrior’s mind churning, running through all the possibilities. And as Hamersveld glanced up, Ivar almost smiled. Fury vibrated through the Norwegian, increasing by the moment, making him twitch. He nailed Ivar with the directness of his gaze.

  “So I guess that leaves us with just one question, Hamersveld...” Ivar paused, preying on the male’s insecurity, wielding his disquiet like a weapon. “Is there room enough inside Dragonkind for two of you?”

  The male hesitated less than a heartbeat. Raising his bottle in silent appreciation, he said, “Call me Sveld. Looks like we’ll be working together.”

  “Thought you might feel that way.”

  “You always right?”

  “Most of the time.”

  Hamersveld laughed. And Ivar thanked God he was right the majority of the time. That facts, data crunching, and precise predictions were his forte. Otherwise he wouldn’t have a sea dragon in his corner. And Bastian’s water rat wouldn’t be in for a shitload of trouble.

  Heat lightning in his arms, Tania bared her teeth and nipped Mac’s bottom lip. Need met desire, then went apocalyptic. Caught in the passionate explosion—and his female’s crosshairs—Mac’s internal compass twisted. Due north? Where the hell was that again? Nowhere near where he stood, that was for sure. And as the ground beneath his mental feet shifted, he wasn’t sure which way to go. Head for safer water? Or dive in and let have Tania have her way?

  Diving in sounded good. Very, very good.

  One small problem with that, though. He was the dom and—

  Tania kissed him hard, sending her tongue deep into his mouth. Pleasure scorched him, swirling down to surround his balls. Already taut muscle flickered, flexing up tight, and he tried to remember. What the hell was he...?