Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  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 who
le, 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.