Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Myst shifted the baby to her other hip. “Anyway, you’ll meet everyone in a bit and—”

  “Oh hey, you found her,” a woman three doors down said after poking her head into the hallway. Tall and curvy, the brunette rounded the doorjamb and headed their way. She held out her hand. Hope took it and shook, getting the greeting underway. “Tania. I’m married to Mac.”

  “Mac’s married?” The news jarred her. Surprise made her drop Tania’s hand. “Seriously?”

  Tania laughed. “I know . . . shocking. He was a total commitment-phobe before I got ahold of him.”

  “I’m in awe of you.”

  “You should be,” Tania said, brown eyes twinkling. “You have no idea what I went through to nail him down.”

  Myst snorted. “She chased him all over the lair.”

  “Did not.” Tania frowned at her friend, the expression more playful than pissed off. “I made that man come to me.”

  Hope swallowed a huff of amusement, imagining Mac begging for the brunette’s attention. It wasn’t hard to do. Tania seemed kind, and given her witty comments, possessed a wicked sense of humor. She was also beautiful, the kind of woman magazines put on their front covers, so . . . ding-a-ling-ling, someone ring a bell. She was exactly the kind of woman that drew Mac like bears to honey.

  “For that snarky comment . . .” Tania turned to Myst and held out her arms. “You lose the prize. Gimme. I need a snuggle.”

  “Oh, all right.” Myst rolled her eyes, but handed G. M. over. “Enjoy him while you can. The second Forge sees him, you’ll lose him.”

  Wives and babies living in the house? Surprise made Hope’s mouth drop open. Who were these guys? “G. M. is Forge’s son?”

  “Sure is.” With a hum of enjoyment, Tania nuzzled the baby’s cheek. Small hand flying, G. M. grabbed a fistful of her dark hair. He tugged on the long strands. Tania squeaked in discomfort, her head tilted sideways as the baby babbled a happy greeting. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  Hope nodded, but glanced at Myst. “I thought you were married to Bastian.”

  The blond raised a brow. “I am.”

  “But . . .” Hope opened, then closed her mouth.

  Tania laughed. “No need to be polite. Forge is a single dad. We all take turns mothering G. M., but Myst runs point. She’s the one he’ll call ‘mama’ the second he can talk.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding dumb, feeling outgunned, but . . . well. She couldn’t help it. Curveballs kept getting thrown her way, the kind she had yet to hit.

  After untangling her hair from G. M.’s grip, Tania raised her head. Her gaze met Hope’s, then jumped to Myst. “Ange and J. J. are already in the kitchen. We need to pick up Evie on the way by.”

  Myst’s mouth curved. “You mean drag her out of the office.”

  “Probably.” Tania shook her head and started down the hall. “Never seen a girl who loves numbers as much as she does.”

  Keeping pace with the pair, Hope piped up. “Maybe we can bribe her with triple-decker fudge cake.”

  Tania smiled. “Good plan.”

  “Might work.” An unholy gleam in her eyes, Myst chuckled. “Otherwise, we’ll sick Venom on her.”

  Hope frowned. Venom? Jeepers. Another curveball. What kind of name was that? And who did it belong to—their dog? Could be. A good guess considering where she’d landed. Elite Special Forces units took highly trained dogs on ops all the time. Toss in the fact guys gave their pets strange handles—names like Killer and Cujo and Fang—and well, Venom fit the bill. Although, getting him involved didn’t sound like a good idea.

  For anyone. Least of all Evie.

  A minute later and a bunch of doors down, Hope understood the problem. Standing on the threshold of an office with more filing cabinets than floor space, she shook her head. Her gaze trailed over book-laden chairs, then ping-ponged to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed full of accounting ledgers, only to land on the winding trail between stacks of paper that led to the rear of the room. At the end of the paper path, a woman sat behind a huge antique desk piled high with file folders. Mocha skin glowing in the lamplight, an expression of extreme concentration on her face, Evie ran her fingertip down a page, tracing the entries in a ledger. Dark eyes narrowed on a computer screen, her other hand flew over the number pad on the keyboard.

  Myst called her name.

  Grumbling to herself about messy accounts and Daimler’s “pain-in-the-ass chicken scratch,” Evie continued on, oblivious to the world around her.

  “Throw something at her,” Tania said. “I’d do it, but I’m holding the baby.”

  Myst growled at her friend. “Chicken.”

  “Darn right.”

  “Here. Let me.” Picking up a pencil lying on the stack next to the door, Hope took aim. One finger bob. Two finger bobs. Three . . . She let it fly, eraser end leading the way. The clickety-click-clicking of the keyboard cut through the quiet as the HB no. 2 hurtled end over end. “And . . . touchdown.”

  The pencil landed with a smack next to the ledger.

  Evie jumped a foot. “Holy crap!”

  Myst fist-pumped into the air. “Nice shot.”

  “Bull’s-eye.” Tania crowed in delight, making G. M. laugh.

  “God, you two,” Evie said, her scowl fierce enough to start a fire. Nowhere near advisable considering all the paper lying around.

  “Actually, it’s three.” Flush from her pencil-toss victory, she waved at Evie from the doorway.

  “Oh gosh.” Evie blinked once, then popped to her feet. The leather chair bobbed as she skirted the desk and, navigating the paper trail, came toward her. “You must be Hope. Venom told me you were coming. I’m married to him. So nice to meet you.”

  Hope opened her mouth to reply.

  Hooking arms with her on the flyby, Evie dragged her into the corridor. “Time for the morning meal, I guess. Have you met everyone yet?”

  “Ah, no, and . . . wait. Venom?” Not a dog, but a man? “You’re married to—”

  “Yes. He’s awesome. Totally hot.” Still towing her along, Evie winked at her. “You’ll meet him and the rest of the gang this morning. Don’t worry, though. Everyone’s super nice. Well . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the other two. “Except for Wick.”

  Tania and Myst uh-huhed behind her.

  Evie took up the baton and explained. “Don’t get me wrong. He won’t hurt you or anything, but when in doubt, it’s best to stay clear of him.”

  “Or scream for J. J.,” Tania said.

  Hope threw a confused look over her shoulder.

  Amusement in her eyes, Myst shrugged. “Wick and J. J. are married. He turns into a pile of mush around her.”

  Hope considered the tip. Okay. She bought that. It made sense and . . . lesson number two underway. File “scream when unsure” under strategies to employ. Also, underline the heading “Tough Guy Turns to Goo in Presence of Wife.”

  “Super strategy.” Evie nudged her and, eyeing Tania, picked up the pace. As the distance between them and the others grew, she yelled over her shoulder. “If you’re a wimp.”

  “Hey!” Her eyes narrowed, Tania pretended to pursue. After a few steps, she gave up and slowed to walk beside Myst. “You’re lucky I’ve got G. M., otherwise . . .”

  Tania let the threat hang in the air.

  “She’d have to catch me first, and just between you and me . . .” Evie bumped shoulders with her. “I’m pretty fast.”

  “Run, Forest, run.”

  Evie sputtered in laughter. “There’s the spirit. I like you already.”

  The feeling was mutual. God. What fun. The girls were a blast, and for some reason, Hope fit right in, better than she had with her old college friends. Instant acceptance. A sense of belonging. Already included in the club. She liked everyone she’d met so far. A lot. The second Evie pulled her out of the corridor and into the kitchen, however, Hope changed her mind.

  The air thickened, then stall
ed in her lungs.

  Holy ka-smoly. Forget the fabulous layout and design-fueled perfection of the room. Glossy white cabinets and miles of marble countertops were the least of her concern. The guys standing around the massive kitchen island, however? Oh boy. That might prove to be a problem. Her gaze settled on one man, then skipped over to the next. Good lord. Just look at them. Not an ugly face in the group. Suddenly, Evie’s totally hot comment made a heck of a lot more sense. And no wonder. Some had dark hair, some light, but all stood well over six feet tall. Add well-built, muscular, and wearing vicious vibes the same way wolves wore fur and . . . yikes. Looked like she’d found where the Murderers R Us support group met. Either that or she’d hit the special ops lottery.

  Holding up one end of the island, a blond guy with freaky pale eyes frowned at her.

  Hope’s stomach clenched.

  Then again, maybe lottery was too strong a word. Dead might be a better one. Run seemed like the best choice by far. Hope took a step back. And then another. She bumped into Myst and—

  A dark-haired man stepped into her line of sight.

  His purple gaze captured hers. “No need tae run, lass. We’re all friends here.”

  His voice rolled over her, rich as vanilla cream in the perfect cup of coffee. A wave of heat washed in to surround her. Taut muscles loosened. Hope released a pent-up breath and leaned into relaxation. Another burst of warm comfort flowed around her. She sighed. Oh wow, that felt good. Much better than the stress she’d suffered for weeks now. First the approach of the dreaded anniversary, then the trip here, into the unknown. But looking at him made her forget it all. Banished the tension. Pushed aside her despair. Made her feel more like herself than she had in, well . . . ages.

  “Hi.” Hope stepped forward. Screw professionalism. She wanted to touch him. Just once. A simple handshake. A quick how-do-you-do. Nothing to get too excited about, and really, what could it hurt? Excellent question with only one answer. Getting close to him was a bad idea. She knew it even as she moved, but the urge was too strong to deny. Walking between the island and wall cabinets, she stopped a few feet away and extended her hand. “I’m Hope.”

  “You certainly are,” he murmured, his gaze on her face. His thick Scottish brogue stroked over her senses, making her shiver. One corner of his mouth tipped up as he accepted her greeting along with her hand. His much larger one engulfed hers. Heat poured from his palm. Her skin prickled, sending sensation spiraling up her arm, jolting her into a strange kind of recognition. “Forge, lass. Seems as though we’ll be spending some time together.”

  His name spun her out of infatuation. The mental whirlwind blew her back into reality. Her hand still in his, Hope blinked. Ah, crap. Of all the rotten luck. Forge of the gorgeous face and rock-hard body. Mr. Dreamy in all his masculine glory. Her patient for the next couple of weeks. The realization hit like a bullet shot from a .357 Magnum. The impact made her flinch. She tugged her hand away. He let her go, but it was too late. Her libido was in hyperdrive, and she was already neck-deep in trouble.

  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.