Elbows planted on the counter, Angela shifted on her stool. “We love him, Hope. He’s important to us. So is the information he’s got locked inside his head. We’ve tried a bunch of different things to get at the memory, but he hasn’t responded well.”
The desperation in Angela’s voice made her heart clench. The we love him caused her instincts to twang. Huh, interesting. Pretty rare for coworkers to feel that way about one another. Intrigued, her psychologist hat firmly in place, Hope tipped her chin. “What can I do to help?”
“You’re the best. If there’s anyone who can get through to him, it’s you,” Angela said. “We want you to treat him. Straight up therapy. Hypnotherapy. Any new treatment methods you want to try. Whatever you feel is necessary to help him.”
“Is he willing to be treated?”
Mac nodded. “He’s on board.”
“The catch?”
“How do you know there is one?” Angela asked.
Hope snorted.
Mac laughed and tipped his bottle in salute. “Smart girl.”
Angela grinned.
“All right, fun time is over,” she murmured, warmed by their antics. “Tell me the rest. What else do I need to know?”
“Solid instincts.” Mac huffed, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Not much gets past you, does it, Doc?”
“No,” she said, tone even, selling the deception. God. One little word, such a huge lie. She missed things all the time. Exhibit one—her brother and the dead college students in Rhode Island. “Intuition is a powerful tool when wielded properly, Mac.”
His mouth curved. A second later, he smoothed his expression and got serious again. “There are things we can’t tell you, Hope. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
Great. Just perfect. It sounded like covert on top of covert. “Will not knowing compromise the work—my ability to help your friend?”
Mac shook his head. “No.”
Angela set her beer down and, reaching inside her leather jacket, pulled a piece of folded paper from the inside pocket. Holding her gaze, her friend set the letter down on the counter, then slid it toward her. “You’ll have to sign a waiver, a strict confidentiality agreement. The second you do, you agree to come with us. Now. Tonight. Treatment will take place on-site. You’ll be blindfolded on the way and won’t know where you are for the duration. Once you’re done, we’ll bring you home.”
“And if I’m unable to help him?” she asked, gaze on the letter.
She understood the odds. Recognized difficult when it came calling. Nothing was certain. Not in the field of psychology. A one hundred percent success rate didn’t exist when delving into mysteries of the human mind.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” A plea in her eyes, Angela tapped her fingertip against the paper edge. “Either way, it’s a week or two—a month at most—of your time. We’re offering you fifty thousand dollars just to show up, and we’ll triple your hourly rate. Whatever the end result—success or not—you wind up right back here. Home sweet home.”
Hope drew a sharp breath.
Holy crap. Fifty thousand dollars, plus triple her fee. Jeez. The dynamic duo meant business. Not that she cared about the money. She didn’t. The almighty dollar didn’t motivate her. She lived to help. Wanted to serve and make a difference in someone’s life. Longed to be challenged in her field of study. Those were her weaknesses, the very things that kept her going each day. And this case? She stared at the letter. No doubt about it. The unique patient psychopathy spoke to her, drawing her in as surely as changing tides called to an oceanographer. Add time away from home into the mix and . . .
No question. A change of scenery sounded like heaven.
It wouldn’t take much to rearrange her schedule. A few calls, and she could disappear for a couple of weeks—perhaps a whole month. Frowning, Hope chewed on the inside of her lip. Space between her and the ordinary. Much-needed separation from the date looming like a shadow. A chance to immerse herself in a challenging case. An opportunity to help someone who really needed her. Time enough to forget and bury the hurt deep, if only for a little while.
She flexed her hands, then unclenched her fingers. Open. Closed. Twin fists shifting into open palms. It would be so good to get away. Was oh so tempting. The perfect solution to the desolation threatening to swallow her whole, but . . .
Her eyes narrowed on the pair staring at her with expectation.
Something wasn’t right. Mac and Angela were hiding something. An important something that had nothing to do with securing her services. She sensed it. Could feel the truth seething just below the surface. The duo might be her friends, but both were smooth operators. Hope recognized the game. Knew it far too well. She’d spent a lifetime playing it with her father. And if there was one thing she’d learned, it was to take nothing for granted or anything at face value. Which meant . . .
She could only trust her friends so far.
“Listen to me—both of you.” Hope paused for effect. “Before we go any further, we need to get a couple of things straight.”
Plucking the confidential agreement off the counter, she wagged it at Mac, then turned to look at Angela. “I’m willing to sign the waiver and keep your secrets, but if I go with you, I’m there for him, not you. He’ll be mine for the duration. No one on your team interferes with his therapy. And if at any time I need more information to help him recover the memories, you will give it to me. No questions asked. No hiding behind classified bullshit. I might be going in blind, but I won’t be hamstrung by either of you.”
Mac grimaced. “Shit.”
“Agreed,” Angela said, throwing her partner a look Hope couldn’t interpret.
Not the most auspicious beginning.
Secretive buggers.
But some give was better than no take, and as she accepted the pen from Mac, signed and dated the letter, the gloom crowding her heart lifted. Not a lot, but enough. Purpose. The chance to make a difference. An adventure. She’d just been given all three. In the nick of time too. Lord knew she didn’t want to face another anniversary alone.
Chapter Four
Arse planted on a stool at the kitchen island, Forge frowned into his teacup. A smooth-tasting chamomile concoction swirled inside, a soothing balm for a ragged soul. At least, it was supposed to be—what the box label advertised. A bloody pack of lies. Tea wasn’t good for the spirit.
Forge lifted the mug anyway and, following Myst’s orders, took another sip. The brew stuck, swimming at the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to swallow. Hot liquid burned on the way down. Intense heat expanded behind his breastbone, and he waited. For the relief. For the blaze to melt the chill sitting like a chunk of ice in the center of his chest and the pain to become bearable.
No such luck.
He was frozen. A solid block of hurt and sensory overload.
Worse than the physical anguish, though, was the jumble inside his head. Two hours, and still, his mind refused to settle, dipping, diving, tumbling until his thoughts fractured, exploding in multiple directions. Now he couldn’t think straight. Mental blur yanked his chain, killing his ability to make sense of his surroundings. Forge snorted. Shite, it was tragic. A total fucking catastrophe. He scowled at the tea leaves staining the bottom of his cup. The extra shut-eye inside the medical clinic should’ve helped. Should’ve been enough to smother the emotional turmoil, laying down a track of all clear on the psychological front.
The aftereffects of a mind regression session didn’t work that way. The effects lingered, refusing to dissipate, leaving him so tense his skin stung and his temples throbbed. Bowing his head, Forge closed his eyes. The murmur of female voices burned across his frayed nerve endings. A tremor rumbled through him. Fuck. He was still so bloody sensitive. Cracked open. Rubbed raw on the inside. The unrelenting pressure made his eyes water.
Irritation times a million.
And it wasn’t getting any better.
The longer he sat in the kitchen, the more pronounced the discomfort became, making him wonder where he’d gone wrong. And how the hell he’d gotten trapped.
Forcing his eyes open, he scowled at the countertop. He’d screwed up somewhere along the way. Taken a wrong turn. Been slow to react. Whatever. The how of the problem didn’t matter anymore. Only one thing would save him now—escaping the dynamic duo before they drove him stark raving mad.
His gaze ping-ponged between Myst and Tania. He toyed with the mug handle, then spun his tea full circle. One revolution whirled into a second, and then another. Round and round. Over and over. Ceramic scraped against marble as he stared at the pair. Bloody hell. He might as well throw in the towel. It was official. He’d turned into a pansy, a male easily neutralized by the flap of feminine concern. Now he was on lockdown. Completely trapped. Cornered by two females who refused to leave him alone. No matter what he said.
Or how often he tried to make a break for it.
Forearms stacked on the counter, he shook his head. The taut muscles bracketing his neck squawked. Discomfort clawed down his spine. Rolling his shoulders, he attacked the tension. No good. Even less effective. Nothing but freedom would work, but well . . . hell. He couldn’t un-ass himself and leave, now could he? At least, not yet. Not until the females messing with his chi released him.
With a sigh, Forge studied his tormentors. Such bonny lasses. Good company dressed in workout gear and high ponytails. Total terrors with iron wills and obstinate natures. Surprising, really, given the angelic expressions and pleasant demeanors each wore like body armor. Focus locked on them, he spun the mug into another revolution. The hellions standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island ignored him. Heads together, eyes locked on the blueprint spread out on the countertop, the pair studied a myriad of intersecting lines. A comment here. An observation there. Yakety-yak-yak. The two never stopped talking, shoulders bumping, soft voices drifting, often finishing each other’s sentences without knowing it.
His gaze paused on Myst, then jumped to Tania. Complete opposites. One blond and slender, the other dark-haired and curvy. One unshakable with the calm confidence of a medical professional. The other a complete worrywart with too much artistic energy and an elaborate landscape to design. Both beautiful. Both stubborn. Both strong-willed, so hardheaded the number count on the obstinacy scale reached the millions.
Forge grimaced. Christ help him. The problem—and his subsequent imprisonment inside Black Diamond—was one hundred percent his fault. Bugger him, but he’d given in. Simply folded in the face of female worry after he’d woken in the clinic and found the lasses fawning over him.
More fool him.
It had been a trick. A trap sprung by wee devils with long eyelashes.
Forge huffed. Who was he kidding? No sense getting bent out of shape about it. None of the other Nightfury warriors would’ve faired any better. The dynamic duo disguised as innocent females made a formidable team. Witness the fact he was at their mercy—inside the bloody kitchen instead of where he wanted to be . . .
Out flying with the rest of the Nightfury pack.
Pushing away from the countertop, Forge glanced at the plate in front of him. He frowned at the piece of cherry pie. Neat slice. A lovely, tidy triangle. Baked perfection set out on expensive china—flaky crust, the ooey-gooey goodness of fruit filling, a dollop of whipped cream—out in full force. His stomach grumbled. Shoving the tea aside, he picked up his fork. Tines hovering above the plate, he stared at the artery-clogging mess. The promise of sweet decadence. Deception wrapped up in comfort food, a distraction designed for one purpose . . .
To soothe his pride.
And help him forget his failure.
Putting the fork to work, Forge squished a lone cherry. Syrupy juice squirted across bone china, obscuring the fancy design rimming the dish. The tang of baked fruit drifted into his airspace. Despite the tasty temptation, he wasn’t interested. No matter how much his stomach grumbled, he couldn’t eat. His appetite had bottomed out, leaving him on edge. Now pent-up energy flowed into a river of frustration. Fucking hell. Forget about the past. Set aside his family’s murder for the moment. The latest lapse was much more serious than that. Shite. He couldn’t remember the last few hours, never mind what had gone on before.
Forge blew out a breath. All right, so that wasn’t quite true. He remembered entering the clinic and sitting in the chair. He recalled Bastian, Rikar, and Mac setting up, getting ready, strapping him down. After that, though? Flicking at the piecrust with a sharp tine, Forge struggled to draw the memory forward. He tunneled deep, searched hard, shining light into the dark recesses of his mind, hunting for answers, willing the truth to surface. Seconds turned into more, ticking into minutes.
Nada.
No flash of memory.
Nothing but a head full of jagged, shadowed images.
Pressure banded his rib cage. God be merciful, it was getting worse. Whatever poisoned his mind continued to eat away at his memories, wiping his mental slate clean. He shook his head, forcing himself to think. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he remember the mind regression session? Why couldn’t he—
“Hey, Forge?”
The soft voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up, taking his attention off the pie. Brown eyes full of uncertainty, Tania met his gaze. The specters of his past—all the dark ghosts haunting him—vanished in an instant. Simply disappeared in the face of her growing insecurity. Forge’s mouth curved. Would wonders never cease? Tania was stewing, worrying about something she considered important.
Different night. Same issue. Identical results.
Tania always landed on the wrong side of worry. Mac’s mate might be lovely, but her nature bordered on obsessive. She picked at a problem until the whole thing unraveled. Some nights, she worried about her sister. Most of the time, she zeroed in on Mac, her love for him overflowing into caretaking the likes of which most males never saw.
Forge swallowed a chuckle.
Oh, the joys of the female mind. He adored women. Enjoyed everything about the fairer sex: the emotional upheaval and behavioral inconsistencies, the ups and downs, the absolute challenge of a woman with a sharp mind. The game—the thrill of the hunt, the grind of a heart-pounding chase, the ecstasy to be found in a female’s arms—captivated him. True challenge. Burning need. Gorgeous conquest. His over her. Hers over him. It didn’t matter who landed on top as long as the female of the moment received pleasure in the end.
Not that every interaction ended with sex.
Sometimes, like tonight, it was about talking. About soothing a female who didn’t belong to him . . . and never would. Myst and Tania, along with other females in the lair, existed in a different category. Each belonged to a Nightfury warrior. Which meant sex never came into play when dealing with them. Mated males were possessive. Dangerously so. Once energy-fuse and the binding spell took hold, a warrior would kill to protect his chosen female. Sometimes for the slightest infraction—a disrespectful comment, an unintended insult, or oh, say, getting too touchy-feely.
Forge never crossed that line.
The women inside Black Diamond belonged to his pack—were his to protect and shelter—not take to bed. What he’d found with his brothers-in-arms’ mates went deeper than the usual surface shite. It was about kinship and support. About helping a pack member who required it. About feeling necessary to another and being included, accepted, and trusted. Heady things for a male who’d been without kin for too long.
Meeting Tania’s gaze, he tipped his chin. “What is it, lass?”
Flipping a sketch pad around, she pushed it across the island toward him. “I need your opinion.”
He raised a brow. “New design?”
“Yeah,” she said, tone full of apprehension. “What do you think—will Mac like it?”
With a flick, Forge pushed his plate aside and reached out. Textured paper caught against his fingertips. Metal spirals holding the pad together scraped
across the counter as he dragged the drawing closer. “You’ve not shown him yet?”
“Not this one. I want it to be a surprise. And anyway . . .” She blew out a breath. “I don’t like the other designs. The lagoon’s not right. None of the layouts work, but this one—”
“Is fabulous,” Myst said, smiling.
“You’re biased.” Tania threw her friend a look of exasperation. “You think everything I draw is awesome.”
“Of course I do. What are best friends for?”
“Hair-raising honesty, I hope.”
“Right.” Myst snorted. “As if. No way I’d survive if I told you one of your designs sucked. You’d smack me upside the head with one of your drafting rulers.”
“Probably,” Tania said, mischief in her dark eyes. “Sometimes violence really is the answer.”
Myst huffed. Snatching a pencil off the countertop, she tapped the tip against the blueprint. “Do you see what I’m dealing with here?” She gave him a pointed look. “Tell her it rocks, Forge, and save me from getting skewered.”
Forge’s lips twitched. “Let me have a look . . .”
Setting the sketch pad to one side, Forge grabbed the edge of the blueprint. He tugged on the thick paper. Myst lifted her elbows, letting him drag the architectural plans across the island. With a quick turn, he spun the design 180 degrees to get a better look.
Precise lines intersected, connecting to create an elaborate landscape. Seven acres of abundant vegetation: mature trees, thick shrubbery, and flower beds full of perennials. The whorl of elegant footpaths. And near the center? A two-tiered lagoon, lush waterfall flowing from the pool above to the larger one below. He traced the lines with his fingertip, then glanced at the sketch pad. Painted with water colors, the secluded oasis leapt off the page, allowing him to picture it. Christ. What a marvel. Tania had outdone herself. Was going for gold with one goal in mind: to please her mate and give Mac—and his water dragon half—what he needed, a place to swim each evening.
“’Tis incredible, lass,” he said, pride for her work in his voice. “Bloody well gorgeous. Mac is going tae love it.”
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 7