Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  Easier said than done with his dragon half AWOL.

  The bloody bastard was running for the fences, refusing to listen. Baring its teeth, the beast broke the chains, escaping lockdown, and ambushed him by opening the floodgates. Unquenchable need poured out. The torrent of lust rushed through him. His mind blanked. Good intentions vanished.

  Both hands buried in his hair, Hope breathed his name.

  Her plea rammed through his crumbling defenses. His control detonated. The explosion ripped through what remained of his honor. Forge cursed. Fucking hell. He needed help, some kind of rescue. He couldn’t resist her any longer. Not with his dragon half on the rampage and Hope half-naked beneath him.

  Flat on her back underneath Forge, Hope lost all sense of herself. Self-control was a thing of the past. Her body had grown a mind of its own, wrapping her legs around his waist, fisting her hands in his hair, demanding he kiss her deeper, harder, and hmm yes, longer. A purr of satisfaction rumbled through her and . . . oh yeah. Absolutely. No question about it. He was desire personified. It was the only explanation for her reaction. His mouth acted like a drug, delivering a lethal dose of dear-God-more. She crumbled in seconds. In less than an instant. Time split as the intensity of his kiss turned her first taste of him into an addiction. And now she knew—finally understood the depths to which obsession could sink. How her patients became addicts in the face of driving impulse. How quickly someone succumbed to vice with the right impetus.

  Forge qualified as the catalyst—the launchpad, the lash into wicked behavior.

  At least for her.

  He was a force unlike any she’d ever encountered . . . and she’d seen a lot. Had helped countless people beat the odds—unearth emotions long buried, deal with unresolved hurt, and overcome addiction—and now she wondered if she’d ever truly understood. If any of her advice was rooted in reality. Hope moaned as he drank deep. God, he tasted amazing. Was a high she couldn’t ignore and refused to temper. He gave so much, bombarding her with delight, whipping her frenzy so high that ecstasy beckoned, whispering her name.

  Her body throbbed.

  Her libido begged.

  Her professional ethics didn’t make a sound.

  That ship had sailed, and far too easily. Without a peep of protest.

  The realization should’ve pissed her off. Hope wanted to scowl. She kissed Forge back instead, abandoning her scruples. The wrong thing to do. Somewhere in the part of her brain that still worked, she acknowledged the mistake. The sensible side of her screeched in outrage. Lust brushed the objection aside. She needed what Forge fed her. Wanted the pleasure, craved the connection along with the man. Her reaction to him didn’t make any sense. For once, Hope didn’t care. She let her analytical side sink to the bottom, burying it deep inside her. Just once. Please, just once. She’d be good later. Do the right thing, but . . . not now. Not yet. She needed to loosen the reins, let the rigid ethics she lived by slip from her fingers and—

  “Da!” The unhappy cry came from the next room. “Da, da, da . . . da, da!”

  “Shite.” Forge raised his head, releasing her mouth. She made a sound of protest. With a growl, he returned to nip her, then turned his head to glance at the digital clock sitting on the bedside table. “Three fifty-three p.m. Right on time.”

  He sighed, the sound full of frustration.

  Hope squirmed beneath him, so needy she throbbed in discomfort. Gosh darn it all. So unfair, but babies couldn’t wait. G. M. was the priority, and as Forge’s gaze returned to her, she knew she wouldn’t be getting what she needed from him—the body-banging orgasm she craved.

  Amethyst eyes shimmering, Forge dipped his head. She lifted her chin, meeting him halfway. He licked over her bottom lip, delivering his taste, making her shiver and ask for more without words . . . like an addict would her dealer.

  Forge treated her to another gentle kiss. “Sorry, jalâyla. Bad timing, but my son—”

  “Da!”

  Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Isnae the most patient of lads.”

  “He’s hungry?”

  “Aye.” His lips twitched. “He’s always hungry.”

  “Growing boys usually are.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, pushing away from her.

  Hope resisted a moment, then let him go. No sense broadcasting her neediness, but God, it was difficult to release him. She did it anyway, unwrapping her legs from around his waist, removing her hands from his hair, allowing him to push to his knees. Cold air washed over her skin, raising goose bumps as he skimmed her face, her breasts, and lower, over her belly. Her nipples tightened. His eyes heated an instant before he dipped his head and licked one pebbled peak. Heat sped through her veins. Bliss arched her back, offering him more, begging for the pleasure.

  He growled against her skin. “Donnae move, lass.”

  “But—”

  “Stay exactly as you are.” He sucked her nipple hard, the pleasure-pain made her whimper before he released her to turn his attention to her other breast. His mouth surrounded her, the suckle and draw forcing a groan as he bit down, holding her between his teeth with gentle pressure. “We’ll finish what we started when I get back.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Good. Donnae think when you’re beneath me—that’s my job.” Gaze dark with desire, he gave her a warning look before rolling to his feet. Heading for the door connecting his room with the nursery, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Five minutes. Get naked, lass. Be in my bed when I return.”

  Get naked. Be in bed—NAKED and waiting for him.

  The words shivered through her. A lovely set of syllables when combined and . . . oh man. Time to be honest—Forge hadn’t just used words, he injected each one with command. An order not to be disobeyed. His tone said it all, and Hope wanted to obey. Her body leapt up and down at the idea, going preschooler with its need to please. Or maybe it was the promise of pleasure he offered. The thought made Hope pause. Common sense came roaring back. She blinked. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Something serious.

  Something in need of adjustment.

  Something she must kill . . . dead, immediately.

  The realization prompted her get-up-and-go. Get naked, her ass. No way, no how. Without Forge touching her, her brain came back online. The therapist—the one with principles and sense enough to panic—raced to the rescue. Yeah. Absolutely. Going had just become priority number one. Hiding until she formed a plan was a close second. Hope snatched her T-shirt off the floor and popped to her feet. Dragging it over her head, she turned toward the door—the one leading into the hall. But more importantly, the one Forge hadn’t just disappeared through.

  Time to escape.

  Her libido wasn’t happy with the idea. Forge wouldn’t be either. But as she listened to him talk to his son in the other room—his tone so pleased and loving—her heart quaked, then cracked, the fissure reaching a place inside her she’d thought long dead. God, this man. What was it about him that called to her, compelled her, made her want to break all the rules? Hope didn’t know, but one thing for sure, the return of her faculties—along with a healthy dose of self-preservation—dictated the course.

  She needed to run: hard, fast, and—she glanced toward the double doors on the other side of the room as she scurried toward the exit—very, very quietly. She didn’t want him to catch her. The last thing she’d survive was a confrontation. The second Forge touched her, she’d cave. Her body still hummed. Need and sexual frustration weren’t far away, so . . . you betcha. New plan. She needed to find a quiet spot to think. To regroup, put the train back on the tracks, and figure out a way to resist him before she ended up naked in her new client’s bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Krkonoše mountain range—Czech Republic

  Ancient treetops rocked as Zidane flew overhead. On a collision course with warriors hidden amid inhospitable cliffs and low-lying mountain valleys, he banked into a tight turn. Twin streams whistled f
rom his wing tips. His brown, orange-speckled scales rattled. Snow spun in his wake, the mad rush matching the rise of his fury. A yellow glow sparked in his dark eyes. His gaze swept east, the citrine glow staining the washed-out winter landscape in front of him.

  He needed a target. The mock battle—dragon combat training with the crew he’d chosen as his personal guard—might not be real, but at least it was something. The perfect remedy. A way to focus his rage, the promise of a fight that would leave him bruised and more than a touch bloody.

  It was either that or explode.

  Not a great plan considering his firepower in dragon form. An ill-advised explosion was the last thing his father’s physician would prescribe. The flammable poison he exhaled would burn him from the inside out, leaving his throat raw, his scales scorched, and him with a terrible case of indigestion. Zidane snorted at the thought. Sure. Right. Never again. He’d already done that last week, swallowing his fire along with the impatience riding him. Not that he could help it. The impulse to move before sanctioned—before being given permission to get his ass across the Atlantic—was more than he could bear.

  Stupid Archguard.

  The high council moved slower than snails.

  Inch along. Stop to ponder. Backslide into indecision.

  The political bullshit never ended. It went on ad infinitum, forever and forever amen. Thank God his sire dealt with all of the discussion and discord. No way he could handle it. He was a fighter—a killer of warriors—not a political animal. Which explained his need to break rank and fly free. A tempting thought, but not something he could do. At least, not yet. He needed the green light from his sire and the Archguard, the go that would put him and his warriors on a plane to Seattle. The second he landed in Nightfury territory, he would pick a fight . . . and the war would begin.

  Zidane bared his fangs. Payback. He wanted a reckoning, a chance to even the score and take out the entire Nightfury pack. Maximum pain. Complete annihilation. Merciless extinction of the males responsible for murdering his brother. Zidane’s chest tightened. Hovno, he missed Lothair. Missed his voice. Missed the weekly calls. Missed the teasing verbal skirmishes and easy acceptance. His little brother had deserved a better death. An honorable one and a fitting burial. So had Ferland, his best friend and pack-mate for the better part of three decades. Both males lay dead now, ashed out and forever gone, two holes in his heart that would never be filled by anything but fury.

  His rage grew by the day, expanding until his chest ached and his head hurt.

  The delays weren’t helping.

  Neither was his imagination.

  Images of what he would do to the Nightfuries filled his mind. Gage topped his hit list. The insolent male deserved nothing short of brutality. The kind Zidane longed to deliver. He clenched his teeth on a growl. He wanted to shred the male. Could hardly wait to get his claws on the asshole. He’d kill Gage slowly: cut him up, watch him bleed out, enjoy every ounce of his suffering. But first, the Archguard needed to get off their asses. Grow some brains and get the vote out. One or the other. Either would do, just as long as the status quo changed.

  With a curse, Zidane corrected his flight path. Frost kicked up, chilling the weave of his interlocking dragon skin. The scales along his side ruffled, clicking into place beneath a faint glimmer of moonlight. His sonar pinged. He hummed. Excellent. Contact off his right wing, three miles out and flying in fast. Night vision pinpoint sharp, he scanned a ridge of rocky outcroppings. He was seconds away. Just moments from another round of dragon combat training. From ripping his warriors new—

  “Zidane.” The deep voice cracked like a whip, opening a channel into mind-speak.

  Zidane grimaced. Kristus. Seriously? Now? Just when he was about to get some action? He sighed. His sire had the worst timing. “Da, Father?”

  “Come back to the pavilion. I need you here.”

  “Is it done?”

  “Almost,” his sire said, the eagerness in his voice unmistakable. A good sign. An excited Rodin meant one thing—victory for Zidane, Xzinile (exile and sanctioned assassination) for the Nightfury pack. “We’re tallying the votes.”

  “How’s it looking?”

  “Five for, three against, with four more to count.”

  Zidane curled his lip. Frigid air ghosted over his exposed fangs. So close. So very close to being unleashed. “On my way.”

  “Make it quick. I will win this round.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Da,” he said, Russian accent thicker than usual. Another excellent sign. Confidence rang in his sire’s voice. “The instant the vote concludes, I will anoint you commander of the kill squad.”

  “I’m twenty minutes away.”

  “Perfect. And son . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Dress accordingly—ceremonial robes only.”

  Excitement skittered through him.

  The jagged spikes riding his spine rattled. Hmm, ceremonial robes. The words echoed inside his head. Zidane smiled. Goddess bless him, he was more than close now. He could practically taste victory. If Rodin wanted him and his warriors dressed in formal robes inside the Archguard’s sacred chamber, it was a done deal.

  Success assured.

  Somersaulting into a sideways flip, he hissed. Finally. At last. Real action along with a firm target. The idea took shape and form. Zidane let his imagination go, allowing the violence to expand inside his mind. Baring his fangs, he roared in triumph. His battle cry echoed through mind-speak and across distant mountaintops, signaling his personal guard. Six strong, the soon-to-be-sanctioned kill squad answered the call, shifting course mid-flight to meet him. Time to leave the wilds behind. Prague beckoned. A pavilion full of Dragonkind elite and his sire awaited his return. He must enter the real world once more. No time to waste. He had a plane to catch and a pack of Nightfuries to kill.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cursing his bad luck, Ivar leapt off the third-floor balcony. The violent free fall blew his hair back. Frigid air burned over his cheekbones. Focused on the ground, he bared his teeth and timed his landing. The blackness was absolute. No porch light on behind his aboveground lair. No glow from streetlights bleeding into his backyard. No moon to break through the murky thread of midnight. Just stony silence and the abysmal threat of another fucked-up night.

  Suppressing a snarl, Ivar called on his magic. His night vision sparked. Frozen grass came into focus, the brown, bladed edges sharp and battle worn in the darkness. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

  He let his fire dragon loose.

  Pink flame licked over his skin. Heat blasted through the cold. His body lengthened beneath the spread of blood-red scales and the crack of razor-sharp claws. Winter wind snapped at the spikes adorning his tail. Brick facade of 28 Walton Street blurring in his periphery, Ivar spread his wings. The webbing caught air as an inferno raced along his spine and warm, humid air coiled around him. Ignoring melting icicles on newly repaired eaves, he tucked into a spiral, rising above building tops and human filth to turn north.

  City lights fell away.

  A thicker quiet descended.

  Storm clouds rolled in as suburbia gave way to dirt roads and ancient forests. His attention on the roughening terrain, he scanned the stretch of giant redwoods, looking for threats, longing for a fight, knowing he wasn’t in the mood for either. He needed—his brow furrowed—what, exactly? Ivar shook his head. The hell if he knew. He couldn’t say with any certainty, but well . . . he needed something. Anything to quiet the unease buzzing between his temples. The swath of woodland should’ve done the job. Settled his nerves. Soothed his worry. Made him happy something on the planet remained healthy, despite humankind’s best efforts to kill everything.

  It didn’t. Not much could at the moment.

  Ivar growled. Fucking number seven. Turned out, it wasn’t the charm. Seven attempts, seven failures, zero relief. The answer—the cure, the antidote, his salvation—remained out of reach. Nothing he di
d came close to the answer he sought. Dipping low, Ivar got up close and personal with a copse of Douglas firs. His tail whiplashed. Enormous treetops rocked, swaying violently in the dark. He pursed his lips. Such bad luck. The worst, when he considered the latest failure inside his lab. He’d always liked the number seven. Even considered it one of his favorites, but . . .

  Not anymore.

  Seven sucked. So did eight. Perhaps nine would bring him better luck.

  Gaze narrowed on the jagged peaks of distant mountains, Ivar exhaled. Sparks exploded from his nostrils, lighting up the night. Fingers crossed his latest attempt would work. Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. Time would tell—the incubation of the newest drug hours away from completion—but not soon enough. Human females were dying too fast for him to stop. And where was he—in his lab concocting the next round of antivirals? Bent over his microscope testing the supercharged immune cells in Evelyn Foxe’s blood? He swallowed a snarl. Not even close. He was seventy-five miles away from the most important scientific discovery of his life, stuck judging the first round of Hamersveld’s Dragonkind Olympics.

  Frustration pumped impatience through his veins.

  Ivar sighed. He wanted to rip his XO in half, but really, what would that solve? He only had himself to blame. The competition seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps it still was, but—Jesus. He didn’t need the added aggravation. Too many things had gone wrong in the last month. Now, he didn’t know where to turn. Or how to fix the things he’d fucked up. The list kept getting longer, which didn’t bode well for the future, never mind his peace of mind.

  The realization spun him toward the only thing that ever calmed him. A picture formed in his mind’s eye, one of Sasha Cooper: blond hair messed up, gaze dark with desire, gorgeous mouth his for the taking. Floating on an updraft, Ivar closed his eyes. God. The feeling of her wrapped around him always turned his thoughts from the negative. Her presence inside his head, the very image of her, carried him toward contentment. He’d loved every second of the night spent in her arms. Despite the danger—and the fact she’d nearly killed him—he wanted to do it again. And again. Tap into the sex kitten side of her and soothe the raging side of himself. Love her over and over until all the stress and worry melted away.