A shiver ghosted through her.
Hope breathed through the tremor and . . . crap. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t accept his offer. Sleeping with him was a terrible idea, for so many reasons. For one, sexual intimacy would muddy the waters—for her, for him, for everyone counting on her to do her job. And two? Her integrity meant something. She couldn’t cross into uncharted territory and hope to find her way back to a place where professionalism lived and values mattered.
“Listen, Forge, I—”
“Donnae decide now,” he said, cutting her off. Hope eyed him. He raised a brow, as if he expected her to challenge him. She wanted to, almost opened her mouth and told him where to stick his gorgeous accent. At the last second, she decided against it. His mouth curved in approval and . . . weird. It was almost as though he could read her mind and knew what she wanted to say. “Think on it. Take all the time you need, lass. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hope smothered a snort. There went his ego again . . . along with the deepening of his sexier-than-sin voice. She grimaced. Wrong thought. Not at all helpful given the gorgeous man seated across the table. Her gaze drifted to his lips. Full. Perfectly shaped. A mouth made for kissing. She swallowed her dismay and dug deep to unearth her resolve. No way would she give in to her urges. Her inner alley cat was not running the show. She repeated that to herself, pointing a mental finger at her out-of-control libido. Not—she shook her imaginary finger again—absolutely NOT in charge, no matter how much the bitch whined.
“I don’t need time.” To emphasize the point, she treated Forge to her best no-nonsense look. “I’m not going to change my—”
A loud crack split the air.
Bright light flashed, bleeding in from the living room. The house shuddered around her. The table shook, dancing across the hardwood floor. Covered dishes clanked. Glassware clattered, spilling juice onto expensive place mats.
Male voices shouted.
“Holy crap,” Hope said as Forge leapt to his feet. “What is it—an earthquake?”
Already on the move, he spun toward the living room. “Stay here, lass.”
The house shook again, rattling picture frames on the walls.
A man roared in agony.
Shoving away from the table, Hope shook her head. “Not on your life.”
Forge didn’t hear her. Arms and legs pumping, he sprinted past the fireplace, under the archway, and into the living room. Shoe soles scraping over the hardwood floor, Hope lunged after him. She skirted the end of the table as he disappeared from sight. Nuts. Freaking guy. Where did he think he was going without her? Nowhere, she hoped. Being alone while powerful tremors tore the house apart wasn’t a great idea. She might end up buried alive with no one to help her. And standing in the open under a timber-beam ceiling? List that under things she refused to do. She didn’t know much about earthquakes, but obeying Forge didn’t seem like a smart play.
She remembered something about taking cover in doorways. Or hiding under tables, but neither of those options felt right. Forge seemed like the safer bet. Despite his fast exit, she knew—without proof or complete understanding—he would protect her. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was insanity. Maybe she’d somehow come to trust him, just a little, while sharing her past—and denying him sex—but none of that mattered. Only one thing held sway . . . following and finding him.
Picking up the pace, Hope hightailed it after him. She rounded the base of the enormous stone fireplace. Cursing erupted from the living room. She ran beneath the arch, down a short corridor and—
Straight into chaos.
Her brain took a quick snapshot: a huge hole in the wall, shattered glass on the floor, Mac prone, covered with a blanket, and unconscious. Tania on her knees beside him, tears running down her face. Bastian holding his legs down while Mac’s body shook, Rikar checking his vitals. Forge knelt on the floor at Mac’s head, using his hands to keep his neck from moving. Classic CPR maneuver. An indication of injury. Alarm jolted through her. Her heartbeat ramped into a full gallop as concern punched through. It looked serious. Really bad and . . .
Hope took a steady breath and pushed panic aside. Mac was hurt. He needed help, not her freaking out. Fighting to stay calm, Hope slid to a stop beside a sectional sofa, bumping into its leather side.
“What happened? Is he all right? What can I do to help?” she asked so fast the questions ran together.
Forge’s focus snapped toward her. “I told you tae stay put.”
“I didn’t listen,” she said, stating the obvious. He scowled at her. She flexed her hands and stepped forward until she stood a few feet away. The earthquake subsided. The house settled. The rattling stopped as she fought to contain her worry. “What can I do? He’s my friend too, Forge. Please, give me a job.”
His hard-ass expression softened. “Ange went tae get the stretcher. Go help her.” Hands steady around Mac’s head, he tipped his chin toward a door leading into the kitchen. “Through there. Take a right into the main corridor.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Good lass,” he murmured, his gaze locked with hers.
Hope told herself to turn and go. She needed to help Angela, be useful, but . . . Forge wouldn’t let her. The heat in his eyes held her immobile. His irises started to shimmer as he stared at her. The purple glimmer expanded into a simmering glow. A warm current rolled in on a strange wave. Tingles washed over her shoulders and down her spine, relaxing tense muscles. Her heartbeat slowed. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her mind ceased its rapid racing. Hope blew out a long breath as panic receded.
The corner of his mouth tipped up. Forge looked away, breaking eye contact. The shimmer disappeared, releasing her, making her question whether she’d seen it at all. “Off you go, jalâyla.”
The odd endearment whispered through her.
Hope shivered and, remembering her task, hurried toward the door. But not before she looked back one last time. She couldn’t help it. That glow. So strange. A trick of the light? Conjured by a flight of fancy? Or something else entirely? She frowned. Crazy thought. Nothing but her unruly imagination hard at work. But as she rushed through the kitchen, past glossy cabinets and marble countertops, intuition told a different tale. Black Diamond was not all it seemed.
Something odd was going on.
Something intriguing.
A something she couldn’t explain.
The situation, each inconsistency, roused her curiosity, prompting her need to know. She loved a good mystery. Enjoyed the hunt and chase of unearthing an interesting story. She did it with her patients all the time, asking the right questions, reading between the lines, revealing the truth anchoring their lives. She wanted to do the same with Forge, but more than that too. The urge to figure out what made Angela’s friends different hummed in her veins. The idea sparked her interest. Irresistible. Undeniable. A secret waiting to be uncovered. A dangerous game given the men who called Black Diamond home.
Chapter Eleven
Shoulder blades pressed to the rear wall of the viewing chamber, Forge stared through the glass separating him from his best friend. The barrier rubbed him the wrong way. He should be in there doing . . . well, something. What, exactly? He frowned. No bloody idea, but God, the waiting. He hated waiting—along with the MRI surrounding Mac, the human thing keeping him from his best friend’s side. Damned machine. Crossing his arms, he scowled at it and told himself to be patient—for the umpteenth time—but . . . shite. It was hard to do. Hard to wait. Hard to watch. Hard to feel so completely helpless.
His stomach dipped.
Forge smoothed away his unease and forced himself to remain still. Perfectly fucking still. Pacing wouldn’t help. Wearing the floor out never worked. Neither would putting his fist through the wall, considering Mac lay unconscious, stretched out on the patient table, his tattoo glowing red against the walls inside the cylinder. Bright lights blinked above the round opening, painting pale walls with green flashes. A throbbing beep butted against th
e floor-to-ceiling windows as the medical unit worked, treating Mac to a full body scan.
Forge swallowed a growl of impatience.
Fear tightened his chest.
He couldn’t stand it. He needed to move. Find a target. Kill the threat. Make it right and Mac well again. Forge blew out a breath, then reversed course and inhaled. His chest rose. He held the air, counting out the seconds. Five, four, three, two, one—breathe out, breathe in. Repeat, release, begin again.
The breathing technique didn’t work either. Forge flexed his hands and shifted against the wall, adjusting his stance. Twenty feet. Less than ten strides from here to Mac. From being able to help a male he loved like a brother. “How much longer?”
Seated beside Myst, Tania flinched. Drawn by his voice, she glanced over her shoulder. His heart sunk lower in his chest. He hated seeing her like this. She looked lost, so hopeless and hollow eyed. So scared for her mate, her bottom lip trembled.
“It’s going tae be all right, Tania,” he murmured, trying to soothe her.
Tears filled Tania’s eyes. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
“He will,” Myst said, reaching out to take her hand.
“I need to touch him,” Tania whispered, clinging to Myst, her desperation almost killing him. “I need to hear his voice.”
Struggling to contain his own fear, he prompted Myst again. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” Dragging her attention from Tania, Myst refocused on the double screens. “Half an hour? An hour? I’ve been taking courses online, reading about MRIs since getting the machine, but it’s my first time running it, so . . .” She shook her head, the uncertainty in her eyes telling. “I just don’t know.”
Christ. Not what he wanted to hear, but well . . . hell. None of it was Myst’s fault. Despite her hesitancy, he trusted her with Mac. She knew her way around medicine. Had stitched him up after a night of fighting more times than he cared to count. Which meant he needed to butt out and let her work.
Shoving away from the wall, Forge raised his arms and, cupping the back of his head, pressed his chin to his chest. Taut muscles screamed in protest. He held the stretch, welcoming the discomfort before raising his head. He glanced at Mac, then pivoted and strode toward the exit. Fuck it. Forget staying still. Watching over Myst’s shoulder wasn’t helping. He couldn’t stand inside the viewing room an instant longer.
“Find me when you’re done,” he said, tapping Myst on the shoulder as he walked behind her chair.
She nodded.
Reaching the door, Forge grabbed the handle. He twisted, yanked, and—
Tripped over Rikar.
“Fucking hell,” the male grumbled from his seat on the floor.
Forge stepped around his XO’s outstretched legs. The other males camped out in the hallway shifted. Clothing rustled. Boot soles scuffed across the floor. His throat went tight. What a welcome sight. They were all here, each Nightfury warrior, waiting to hear about Mac.
Their concern thrummed in the corridor, filling the narrow space like a drumbeat. The show of solidarity lent Forge strength, easing his pain. Rock-steady, his brothers-in-arms never let him down. He hadn’t been with the pack long, but he was a bona fide Nightfury now. One hundred percent on board. No doubts. No questions about his loyalty. Just full-on trust. Joining Bastian and the lads had been the best decision he’d ever made.
Rolling his shoulders, Forge met each warrior’s gaze in turn, gratitude in his own, and . . . frowned. What the hell? He’d given Bastian explicit instructions—keep Hope in sight and stop her from snooping. The lass wasn’t stupid. He stifled a snort. Shite. The female was the complete opposite—smart, canny, far too curious for his peace of mind.
Bastian might not know it yet, but Hope represented a threat.
One he could read from a mile away.
He held a unique talent among Dragonkind—the ability to read intention. Forget the way a person talked. Disregard the emotion disguising the truth. Intent drove action. And Hope’s? Forge huffed. Christ. Hers was anything but pure. He sensed her mind, knew her questions and the suspicion that gripped her while in the living room. She recognized a mystery when she encountered one. Now, thanks to a plethora of inconsistencies, Mac’s strange illness, and Forge’s glow show—stupid fucking eyes—she was determined to solve it. So aye. Allowing her to wander around the lair unsupervised? Not a great idea.
His temper showing, he scowled at Bastian. “Where’s Hope?”
“Relax,” B said, amusement in his eyes. “She’s not off unearthing Dragonkind secrets.”
Rikar’s cheek creased. “She went with Angela and Evie.”
“Ange was losing her mind.” His back to the wall, arse sitting on polished concrete, Venom crossed one combat boot over the other. “Evie and Hope are keeping her busy so she doesn’t freak out about Mac. They’re in the clinic, filling the big tub. The second Mac’s done with the MRI, the salt bath will be ready for him.”
Forge nodded. Okay. Good. Mac’s water dragon needs taken care of and on track. Hope nailed down. The secrets of Dragonkind safe for the moment, so . . .
Time to go on the offensive.
Dodging the collection of male bodies, Forge headed for the end of the hall.
B tipped his chin. “Where are you going?”
“Archives.”
He needed to take another look. Mayhap he’d missed something the first time around. If he got lucky, he’d find the information required to save Mac’s life. He hadn’t paid close enough attention to the most ancient tomes. The answer might yet lie buried in an obscure passage. On a single page of text. In one of the gilded pictures drawn by the elders of Dragonkind.
“Good idea,” Rikar said, the determination in his tone mirroring his own.
“I’m going with you.” Bastian pushed from his lean against the wall. “The wait is killing me. I need something to do.”
“All hands on deck.” Unwrapping a lollipop, Venom cracked the candy with his teeth. The crunch echoed in the hallway. Tossing away the empty bitten-to-shite stick, he pulled another sucker out of his pocket and shoved it in his mouth.
Haider rolled to his feet. “The more eyes the better.”
“Let’s go.” Gage popped off the floor. With a quick shift, he grabbed Nian by the scruff of the neck. “That means you, namby-pamby.”
“Hands off, asshole.” Nian rotated his shoulder, brought his arm around, and broke the hold. Planting a hand in the center of Gage’s chest, he shoved him backward.
Feet sliding on smooth concrete, Gage bared his teeth. He raised twin fists.
Rikar stepped between them. “Ease off, boys. Move your asses.”
One eye on the potential scuffle, Bastian glanced toward a recessed alcove. “Sloan, you coming?”
“Not yet. I’ll wait here in case Myst needs me.” Sitting cross-legged, gaze on the tablet he held, Sloan flicked his fingertip, scrolling down. Text whirled across the small screen. The visual onslaught made Forge blink. Sloan didn’t bat an eye, making him worry about the lad’s retinas. He might not know Sloan well, but the male needed to lay off the electronics. Get out of the lair more. Enjoy the night sky and some female company—instead of the Internet—every once in a while. Looking up from the screen, Sloan met his gaze. “But I’ll keep digging online. Some packs have set up chat rooms on the dark net. I ask the right question of the right male, and I might get lucky.”
“Let us know,” B said.
Sloan uh-huhed.
Wick left without a word, walking toward the vault and the library.
Forge’s heart beat a little faster. God, he loved his new pack. Each warrior considered Mac his brother, and Nightfuries never abandoned one another. No one ever got left behind. And as Forge turned into the main corridor of the underground lair, leading the males who protected his back, he prayed the library held the answer. Otherwise he’d be forced to do what he’d sworn he never would—call home. Revisit his past and reach out to his former pack—cousin
s left behind years ago—with the hope the Scottish archives contained the information Mac needed to survive.
Call home.
Shite. The idea presented a problem. A major one. A potentially life-threatening one, given he suspected a male inside the Scottish pack of helping to murder his family, and his cousins thought he was dead.
Seated in the underground library, the scent of old parchment in the air, Forge set a heavy tome aside and picked up another. A quick glance made him clench his teeth—another volume full of everything but what he wanted to know. He opened it anyway. Musty paper rustled. Tiny dust motes drifted up, glinting in the low light as he scanned the first paragraph and moved on to the next. His fingers kept flipping. Page after page. Chapter after chapter. Hour after bloody hour and . . . nada. Zilch. A big fat zero on the information front. Nary a clue to Mac’s condition.
Or any mention of water dragons on the seldom-read pages.
Lifting his hands from the treatise, he set his elbows on the stainless steel table. Piles of books lay strewn across its long, sturdy surface. Thick tomes. Thin volumes. Some leather-bound, others covered by vibrant linen overlay. Blue. Green. Red, beige, and gold. Every color of the book rainbow present and accounted for. An intellectual feast spread out in front of him, a taunt of the worst kind.
Fingers laced, palms pressed together, Forge stared at his knuckles. Weariness rose, eroding his will to continue searching, allowing hopelessness to float to the surface. Slumping forward, he put his head down. His forehead touched the back of his forearm. The move shoved his chair backward. Wooden feet scraped across polished concrete as he exhaled in disgust and closed his eyes. The buzz of dimmed lights hummed overhead, swirling in the relative quiet.
God, he was tired. So fucking tired of hunting for information that didn’t exist.
Or at least, he couldn’t find.
“Forge.”
Raising his head, he sat back in his chair. “Aye?”
“Time to call it a day.”
“Nay, B. Not yet.” Grit scraped the inside of his eyelids as he opened his eyes. Seeing nothing but blur, he blinked a couple of times. Bastian snapped into focus. Tired green eyes met his a second before his commander placed a thick volume back on its shelf. Ignoring the order to quit, Forge nudged his chair closer to the desk. “I’ve got a couple more hours in me.”
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 15