Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  God. He loved that about her.

  Her hand clasped in his, he pivoted toward the door. Time to make a quick getaway. Wick and J. J. were already gone, behind closed doors, sweating up the sheets, no doubt. And Venom and Evelyn? Mac glanced toward the wall of windows east of the big screen and the row of wide-assed armchairs. He huffed. Shit. Those two weren’t shy. Mouth fused to Evelyn’s, hands cupping her ass, Venom lifted his mate onto the lip of the pool table. Evelyn wrapped her legs around his waist. Venom groaned in appreciation and settled in, inhaling his female as though he might die if he stopped kissing her.

  No one paid attention.

  Different day, same story.

  Venom couldn’t keep his hands off his mate. Hell, the male didn’t even try.

  Mac snorted in amusement. As if he was one to talk. He was just as bad. A real sex addict when it came to Tania. And speaking of which . . .

  He headed for the exit, his mate in tow.

  A few feet from the archway, a wave of heat rippled over his nape. Someone hissed his name, the voice more static than substance. “Exshaw—Exshaw is coming.” The words echoed inside his head. Mac paused mid-stride. Tania stopped beside him. He glanced around. Nothing out of the ordinary. Game on screen. Chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of it. Half-empty plates perched on his brothers’ laps.

  Mac frowned.

  The low hiss came again. “Exshaw—Exshaw is coming.”

  Prickles tightened his scalp. He glanced toward the windows. Weird, but it felt as though something approached. Something fast. Something furious. Something unstoppable. Transfixed by the sensation, Mac tried to get a bead on it. His tattoo pulsed. Pressure built behind his eyes, then funneled, whirling through his mind before coiling around his rib cage. Pain knifed along his spine. Heat slithered beneath his skin, then spread, pushing an inferno through his veins. His vision blurred. His mind hazed. He blinked, trying to focus, to beat back his confusion, but . . . seething red fog rolled in, swamping his senses, stealing his air.

  He swayed on his feet.

  “Mac?” Coming from far away, Tania’s voice reached through the thick mental sludge. Cold hands touched his face. “Mac? Talk to me. What’s wrong, baby—tell me what’s happening.”

  “I can’t breathe.” Sucking wind, he doubled over. A second later, he hit his knees. Bile touched the back of his throat. His stomach heaved. His windpipe contracted. He lost his breakfast in one violent, muscle-torquing go.

  “Oh God—help! Rikar, help! I need—”

  “Step aside, Tania. Let me see him.”

  Mac threw up again.

  “Christ.” Rikar’s voice. Tania crying out in concern. Strong hands, bigger than Tania’s, bracketed Mac’s head. “Gage, get some water. Haider, get to the clinic, start a salt bath. He’s too hot.”

  “Fuck,” B said, palm pressed against Mac’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  “Get him downstairs,” a female said, tone full of command. Still on his knees, tears in his eyes, Mac fought through the mind-fog. He knew that voice. Not Tania, but . . . Myst, maybe? “He needs fluids. I want to get an IV going.”

  Pain turned a corner, rushing into unbearable.

  Mac cursed. His skin—the tattoo—throbbed. Needle-thin, razor-sharp points ripped over his ribs. His muscles cramped. The debilitating burn arched his spine. Twisting in agony, Mac fought the hands holding him down.

  “Get it off. Get it off!” Clawing at his T-shirt, he tried to pull it over his head. “Jesus fuck—get it off!”

  Rikar yanked the cotton over his head. “Holy shit.”

  Bastian dropped another f-bomb. “Myst—get moving. Sloan—go with her. We’ll be right behind you.”

  As B rolled him onto his back, Mac opened his eyes. Rikar’s face jumped into focus, then blurred. His lungs clogged as he looked down at his chest. Poker hot, the tattoo glowed bright red, lighting up his skin, throbbing like a psychotic heartbeat.

  Mac groaned. “What the fuck?”

  “Good question.” Bastian’s even tone gave him hope. His commander wasn’t freaking out. Which could only be a good thing . . . right? Mac frowned. Right. Excellent deduction, except for one problem. B never got too worked up about anything. Calm as hell. Steady as a rock. The guy never panicked. Was always cool under fire, especially when bad shit went down. “Let’s get you upright and mobile, then figure it out . . . yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Mac rasped, trying to move his legs. But God, it hurt and . . . motherfuck. There wasn’t enough air. “Tania?”

  “I’m here, baby.”

  “Need you.”

  “I’ve got you,” she said, the worry in her voice almost killing him.

  Mac didn’t want to cause her pain. He was supposed to take care of her, not the other way around. She shouldn’t have to worry about anything, least of all him.

  “Mo chroí . . .”

  “Easy, my love. I’m right here.”

  Cool hands touched his abdomen and slid up, over his skin. Powerful energy sped from her fingertips, sinking into his bones, soothing him, helping his muscles unlock. His chest expanded. Oxygen filled his lungs.

  He refocused, desperate to see her face. “Stay with me.”

  Tears in her eyes, Tania leaned over him. “I’m not going anywhere. Now—get up.”

  A command from his female.

  Mac redoubled his efforts. His dragon half responded, lending him strength. Sweat trickled over his temple, the slow, wet slide registering an instant before his body cooperated. With a grunt, he rolled and, using Rikar and Bastian as crutches, struggled to his feet. His head bobbed on his shoulders. His brain sloshed inside his skull. Gritting his teeth, he reached for Tania. His fingers brushed her hair and—

  A wind gust blew into the room.

  The sizzle beneath his skin intensified. A chant started up, the beat hammering his temples. “Exshaw—Exshaw is coming.”

  Mac turned toward the windows.

  Blinding light exploded through the highest pane.

  Like a long-tailed comet, the horrific glow rocketed across the great room. An unearthly shriek echoed. Mac sucked in a breath. The fireball slammed into the center of his chest. Air exited his lungs. Fiery tendrils attacked his tattoo, burrowing into the tribal markings. Pain ripped him apart as the shock wave threw him backward. In full flight, Mac hit the wall. Gypsum cracked behind his back. Two-by-fours shattered as his shoulders smashed through wood. The big screen exploded, hurling shards of glass toward twin billiard tables.

  Tania screamed his name.

  His brothers-in-arms shouted in alarm.

  Mac slid to the floor with a thud, his body failing, the world sinking beneath a veil of darkness.

  Chapter Ten

  Sitting at the table across from Forge, Hope stared at him, searching for flaws. She needed to find a whole bunch. Pages full—right now, but well . . . her strategy wasn’t working. Luck and intellect had abandoned her half an hour ago. No matter how good the argument, she couldn’t deny his appeal. Her gaze drifted over his face. The strong line of his jaw, the sculpted cheekbones, the color of his eyes, and dark day-old stubble—each feature pointed to one god-awful conclusion. He was gorgeous. Pure male beauty. The kind no woman on earth could ignore.

  Or resist.

  Bad news for her. Even worse for professional ethics. The longer she looked at him, the less her brain worked. Now she didn’t know what to do—keep talking to him or push the pancakes aside and kiss him senseless.

  The urge startled her. Worried her a whole bunch too. She’d never been attracted to one of her patients before. Never sat across from anyone meant for her therapist’s chair and wondered what he tasted like . . . or if he was any good in bed.

  The thought made her choke on a strawberry.

  As she coughed, Hope tried to make sense of her reaction. Why Forge? Why now? What about him shoved her beyond the limit of her usual calm? She never had these kinds of problems. Compartmentalizing her thoughts and feelings c
ame naturally. No matter the client, no matter the issue, she managed to put each one aside. Something about Forge, though, unbalanced her. Put her on edge. Sent her skidding uncontrolled into the danger zone.

  All right, so the man oozed sex appeal. Sexy. Strong. Smart with a wicked amount of charm. And his mouth. Holy God. It should be illegal. Or at least on the most wanted list. Every time he opened it and that delicious accent rolled out, she got a little hotter. A little hornier. A little more imaginative about the best way to wrap herself around him.

  Hope shifted in her seat.

  Stupid brain.

  Stinking libido.

  Both were in overdrive, putting unethical thoughts in her head. Now all she could think about was how good he’d taste. Like maple syrup and man, no doubt. Sweet and sultry. Hot as all get out. Dark and delicious. Erotic with a debilitating dash of just-do-me-now. Stabbing another berry with her fork, Hope indulged in a silent redirect. She needed somewhere else to look. Something else to focus on. And while she was at it? A way to shield herself from the vibe he emitted like pheromones would be advisable too.

  Help.

  She was here to help, not jump into bed with him.

  But oh, wouldn’t that be nice? Oh, so nice. The best way to scratch her itch, assuage the growing ache, and get some relief. It had been ages. Hope pressed her knees together beneath the table. Far too long since her last man-induced orgasm and—

  “Are you all right, lass?”

  “I’m fine.” She put her fork down. Grabbing her napkin, she wiped her mouth and waved her hand. “Just a little sex on the brain.”

  Fork poised over his pancakes, Forge blinked.

  She drew a shallow breath. Oh crap. Bad brain. Bad, bad mouth. Had she really just said that out loud? “I mean . . . I didn’t mean . . .” Cheeks flushing hot, Hope sputtered, struggling to find words. The ones that would backpedal her right out of the situation.

  One second ticked into another. Nothing came to her rescue. No great epiphany. No humorous just-laugh-it-off comment. Nary an interruption in sight.

  Silence throbbed through the room.

  A look of consideration on his face, he raised a brow.

  “God.” Planting her elbows on the tabletop, Hope palmed her forehead. So much for professionalism. She’d just blown it sky-high, imploding any chance of hiding her attraction to him. She pressed her thumbs to her temples. Dear God. She needed a reset, a do-over . . . whatever. Just as long as it wiped out the past thirty seconds and put her on firm footing again. “I can’t believe I said that. Talk about awkward.”

  “Why?” he asked, setting his utensils down. The knife and fork clinked against fine china as Forge sat back and stretched out his legs. He nudged her foot with his beneath the table. “I want you too.”

  Surprise brought her chin up.

  He met her gaze, pure challenge in his.

  Hope froze. “You do?”

  “Aye. I have from the second I saw you.”

  “Oh well . . .” She trailed off as her libido raised its unruly head. Butterflies took flight, fluttering in her belly. Hope shut that crap down, refusing to be pleased. It was a dumb reaction. She shouldn’t be happy Forge wanted her. She should be finding something to say instead. Something intelligent. Something that didn’t start with “Where’s the nearest bed?” and end with her unbuttoning his jeans. “Guess it’s good we got that into the open.”

  “Mayhap. Mayhap not.” Wiping his mouth, he tossed the cloth napkin beside his juice glass. Unruffled, he shoved his plate aside, set his forearms on the table, and leaned toward her, one hundred percent comfortable in his own skin . . . and the topic at hand. “But now that it is, we need tae decide what tae do about it.”

  “Ignore it?” she asked, hoping he agreed.

  “Or we could follow our bliss and fuck ourselves silly while you’re here.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not, lass?”

  She scowled at him. “I’m a professional. I don’t sleep with patients.”

  “Good tae know,” he said, sounding pleased . . . with her. Hope squirmed in her seat. Weird. His approval did something for her, warming her inside, making her want to please him again. Do anything to hear his sexy Scots voice deepen into a rumbling purr one more time. “But we’ve a problem, you and I.”

  “You think?” A huge understatement. Colossal, really, given her inner sex addict adored his suggestion. Was lapping it up like a kitten would cream. “Serious issues.”

  “Simple tae fix, Hope.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  His mouth curved. “You’re here to help me regain my memory. ’Tis unlikely to happen with both of us suffering.”

  “Really,” she said, whipping sarcasm out like a sword. “Big ego, much?”

  He huffed, the soft sound full of laughter. “Nay, not really, but something needs tae be done. The attraction will come between us. Make things more difficult in the long run.”

  “So what—we screw like rabbits?”

  “It’ll take the edge off.” An untrustworthy gleam sparked in his eyes. He bumped her with his foot again. “Be a helluva lot of fun too.”

  Well, at least he was honest. In an unthreatening, playful kind of way.

  The psychologist in her appreciated the first. The woman in her enjoyed the second. Despite his outrageous suggestion, she liked him. Was enjoying the conversation along with the man, but . . . sleep with him? Cross professional boundaries? Break rules she always adhered to, no matter what? Chewing on the inside of her lip, Hope entertained the notion for a moment. Really thought about it, imagining how much fun she could have with him. How much pleasure he would give her. How well he could help her forget what her brother had done.

  The thought stopped her cold.

  Damn it. She was better than that, more responsible.

  Using Forge to bury the pain was a bad idea. It wasn’t right. She deserved better, and so did he. “I’m not in the habit of using people.”

  “Neither am I, lass.” His brow furrowed. “What would make you say that?”

  Holding his gaze, Hope hesitated before answering. Should she deflect or be honest? Dodging his question would be easier. A helluva lot less painful too, but as she held his gaze, instinct warned her to tell the truth. Honesty could be a weapon, an effective one when dealing with grief, pain, and trauma. Intuition told her Forge would respond best to a little give and take. The more she shared with him, the more he would with her.

  All of a sudden, she knew what to do. This was her strategy, how she would get through to him, how he would learn to trust her, and—despite her aversion to sharing her past—it was the best way to begin their first session together.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she sat straighter in her chair. “I lost my brother. He was everything to me, my whole world. Now that he’s gone I tend to . . .” Without mercy, old memories surfaced. Happy times. Challenging times. All the times Adam shielded her, taking the brunt of their father’s anger. Her heart started to hurt. Hope swallowed past the tight knot in her throat. Sweet, sweet Adam, loyal despite his troubled end. “I don’t know . . . I guess I bury myself in work, distract myself to keep from thinking about the fact he’s never coming back.”

  “I’m sorry, Hope.” Concern in his eyes, Forge reached across the table.

  Hope moved her hands and leaned back, getting out of range. She didn’t want him to touch her. Not right now. Fragility had set in, unearthing vulnerability, making her feel brittle and broken, tainted by a past she refused to let go. “Thank you, but I’m not telling you because I need sympathy.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Because I want things to be clear between us and . . .” Fighting to find the right words, Hope stared down at the place mat. Tiny dragons, embroidered on the fabric, made her mouth curve. Such a pretty sight, unlike her messy confession at the moment. “I thought you’d understand. You know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

  “More than just
someone,” he said, dark shadows in his eyes. “Everyone.”

  “Then I’m sorry too.”

  He murmured a “Thanks,” accepting the gift of her comfort. Silence descended. Seconds ticked into more. Forge shifted in his chair. Hope resisted the urge to do the same and waited him out. She’d opened her heart, entrusting him with a piece of her life. The next move needed to be his.

  A line between his brows, Forge picked up his orange juice. He took a sip, set the glass down, then turned his attention back to her.

  Dark-purple gaze full of pain, he tipped his chin. “What was his name?”

  The question, softly spoken, startled her.

  After a second of surprise, Hope answered. “Adam. Fun-loving, generous Adam . . . until he walked into a library with a semi-automatic and killed eleven people.”

  “Christ.”

  “Yeah, I know. Shocked the hell out of me too.” Fighting tears, she cleared her throat. “I blame myself for not knowing he was in trouble. I think that’s probably why I can see you’re doing the same.”

  Forge’s hand flexed around his napkin. “Different situation.”

  “I’d like to hear about it.” She paused, backed off a little, giving Forge the space she sensed he needed. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Is that how this works?”

  “It can,” she said. “All I ask is that you be honest with me. Surrender to the process, Forge, and tell me the truth. I’ll keep your confidences. Whatever you choose to share with me, stays with me.”

  Taking a deep breath, he nodded. And she didn’t push.

  With the groundwork laid, he needed a chance to process. To think things through and decide what he wanted to bring to the table. Fair play, after all, was her strong suit. So was honesty, which meant she couldn’t stall any longer. Forge needed an answer to his outrageous proposition, the one that landed her in his bed.