The sound had been fantastic, if less than mature. Another bad move. One hundred percent selfish considering the potential backlash. The females in the lair used the colorful collection during Pilates classes and . . . shite. Myst would be up in arms. Totally pissed he’d left the ladies with a pile of plastic confetti instead of bouncy balls. Still . . .
The destruction had untangled the worry knotting his chest.
Absolutely worth the eventual scolding.
Taking another deep breath, Forge pushed away from the wall. He needed to get his thoughts together. Standing in the recovery room with his thumb up his butt wasn’t helping Mac. Or Tania. The female might be doing her best to keep her mate stable, but time would win out. Without the reciprocation of healing energy from Mac, Tania would give too much and weaken. A dangerous state for a female. Eventually, she’d reach a tipping point and fall into energy deprivation. Major organs would start to shut down. Her brain would follow, pushing her into a coma and the inevitable slide toward death. So . . .
Forge squared his shoulders.
Time to figure it out.
Even if it meant proposing something radical. A strategy that might get him grounded by the Nightfury commander. But God, anything was better than waiting—than watching his best friend die one breath at a time.
Dragging his gaze from the bed, he headed for the door. His boots scraped over the industrial-grade floor.
“Forge?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
Arms wrapped around Mac, Tania raised her head off a pillow. Tired brown eyes met his. “Heading out?”
“Aye, but . . .” Hand curled over the door handle, Forge tipped his chin. “Donnae worry, lass, I’ll be back. Eat something, and try tae get some sleep.”
“Okay. You too. Grab something at the evening meal, Forge. Mac’s going to need you when he wakes up,” she said, unrelenting conviction in her gaze. Admiration for her grabbed him by the balls. She was magnificent. So fucking strong, exactly what Mac needed and everything his friend deserved. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
Throat so tight he couldn’t answer, he nodded.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. Heavy-duty hinges went to work behind him, hissing as the door met its frame. The electrical charge in the air disappeared. Quiet descended. Bowing his head, Forge stretched tense neck muscles, working out the kinks, and turned toward—
“Any improvement?”
His head came up. Intense green eyes stalled his forward progress. His stride slowed. Feet planted in the middle of the hallway, he took in Bastian’s terse expression and shook his head. “No better, no worse.”
B flexed his hands. “Fuck.”
“Christ.” Standing behind B, Rikar rolled his shoulders, the worry in his eyes telling. “What the hell is wrong with him?”
Good question. A fifty-million-dollar one.
“No clue, but . . .” Trailing off, he tipped his head toward the doors at the end of the hall. A conversation was in order. Time to roll out his idea, set the plan he’d been stewing over in motion, and pray Bastian agreed. He couldn’t wait any longer, and judging by the worry on the pair’s faces, neither could they. “We need tae talk, but not here. I donnae want Tania overhearing.”
Mac’s female didn’t need to know. The mission was dangerous enough. No way he wanted her worrying about anything other than her mate.
Brushing past his comrades, Forge made for the double doors. Without waiting to see if the duo followed, he pushed both open and stepped into the clinic. The scent of antiseptic soap assaulted him first. The low buzz of overhead fluorescents came next, joining the visual rush of medical equipment. He walked toward the row of cabinets lining the sidewall. As he skirted the warrior-size operating table, memory flooded him, making him remember past injuries, highlighting the risks of his plan.
Electricity crackling in his wake, B strode into the clinic. “What’s up, Forge?”
“I have an idea.”
“About time someone did,” Rikar said, snowflakes tumbling above his shoulders, broadcasting his upset as he cleared the door.
“First, I need tae know if you’ve heard from Azrad.”
Bastian frowned at the mention of his younger sibling. “Nothing yet, but it’s early. He won’t break cover unless he’s got solid intel to share.”
“Shite,” Forge murmured, wishing B’s brother would hurry the hell up and find something to say. Not that he blamed the male for being cautious. Embedded inside the Razorback pack, Azrad played a dangerous game. One that involved hiding his true identity while he spied on Ivar for the Nightfury pack. The intel he’d given so far had been invaluable. Too bad there wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming tonight. “I’d hope tae learn what’s happening inside the Razorback pack, before . . .”
He trailed off. Rikar raised a brow. “What?”
“Information about rogue movements might’ve come in handy tonight.”
“What are you thinking?” Bastian asked, moving across the clinic toward him. “What’s the plan?”
Framed by cabinets behind him, Forge blew out a breath. “You arenae going tae like it.”
Focused on Forge, B tipped his chin. “Tell me anyway.”
“It might be, well . . .” Searching for the right words, Forge stepped back and, with a hop, planted himself on the countertop. Ass cheeks cooling on stainless steel, boot heels banging against lower cabinets, he ignored the bump of the top cupboards against his shoulders and eyed his comrades. “Crazy.”
A fatalistic light entered Rikar’s eyes. “A little or a lot crazy? Please tell me it’s the latter. I haven’t killed anyone in weeks.”
Bastian grunted in agreement.
His gaze moved from B to Rikar and back again. “My plan leans heavily toward the ‘a lot’ side of the equation.”
“Fantastic.” Nudging a rolling cart out of his way, Rikar cracked his knuckles.
Leaning on the edge of the operating table, B crossed his arms over his chest, and his feet at the ankles. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”
“Not a what,” Forge said. “A who.”
Rikar frowned.
B stared at him a moment, speculation in his eyes. One second ticked into more before the big male followed his line of thought. He sucked in a quick breath. “Fuck me. You want to go after Hamersveld.”
Forge nodded. “Capture and cage him.”
“Holy fuck,” Rikar murmured. “Bring him to ground like we did you in the shipping yard.”
“Aye,” he said, suppressing a shiver. The powerful Taser they’d used to bring him down had hurt like hell. Knocked him out cold. He’d woken hours later, deep underground, inside an energy-infused prison cell with a magic collar full of explosives around his throat. “Pretty fucking effective. Pump the bastard full of enough electricity, and we’ll bring him down and shove him into a cage before he wakes up. After that, the fun begins.”
Bastian raised a brow. “Torture.”
“If necessary,” he said, not an ounce of remorse in his voice. He didn’t like the torture route. Hit hard, kill fast was his claim to fame . . . under normal circumstances. But with Mac’s life on the line, all things decent took a backseat. “We need answers. I think Hamersveld has them.”
“You think the bastard knows what’s wrong with Mac?” Rikar asked.
“Stands to reason,” B said, his eyes narrowed. “He has similar markings to Mac, and given our boy’s tattoo is glowing—”
“Bright red,” Rikar said, voice deepening with the beginnings of hope. “The sickness is linked to the tattoo.”
Staring at the wall above the row of medical machinery, Bastian shook his head. “Tricky, though. Hamersveld’s a water dragon, and without Mac to keep him in check . . .” He paused, mind working overtime. “We’ll have to amp up the voltage.”
“To compensate for the damping effect of his magic?” A thoughtful look on his face, Rikar’s eyes n
arrowed. “Makes sense. It’s risky but—”
“Doable.” Raising his hand, Bastian scraped his fingernails against the stubble on his jaw. “Not easy. Dangerous as hell, but doable.”
Forge breathed a sigh of relief. “It’ll get bloody.”
“Shit, I hope so. But first we need to find the asshole.” Thumping him on the shoulder, Rikar brushed past him on his way to the exit. “I’ll talk to Sloan. Have him get into the database, see if he’s got anything on Hamersveld in his files, then gather the others.”
“Good. I’ll speak with Gage about the Taser. He built it, so he’ll know how to amp it up.” B pushed away from the operating table. “Meet back here in an hour. We need a plan and everyone on board before we fly out.”
Motion sensors went active.
The glass door slid to one side.
Moving like a male on a mission, Rikar jogged into the hallway.
Following Rikar’s retreat, Bastian strode across the clinic. A second before he reached the exit, he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and Forge?”
“Aye?”
“See to your female before we leave.”
His female. Forge blinked. Did he mean Hope? The question swirled inside his head before setting in. Hope—his . . . all HIS. Shite, that sounded good. Seemed right, even though it shouldn’t. He needed to deny it. Should set Bastian straight before he got any bright ideas.
“She isn’t mine, B.”
“Keep lying to yourself.” Amusement in his eyes, Bastian’s mouth curved. “Sucks for you, but it’s going to be fun for me to watch.”
“Arsehole.”
Halfway out the door, B laughed.
Forge growled, the nasty sound spiraling into empty air.
“She seemed a bit upset last I saw her,” B said, poking at him, making concern rise and the need to soothe her course through his veins. “She’s got good form, though. Sure knows how to hit a heavy bag.”
Heavy footfalls echoing, Bastian disappeared from view.
The urge to go after him—to beat the shite out of the teasing bastard—grabbed hold. His dragon half buried the impulse, fixating instead on the one thing guaranteed to get him in trouble. Hope was in the gym, working out. She’d be hot and sweaty and . . .
The visual dug its claws in.
Longing blasted through him.
“Goddamn it,” he said, fighting the attraction.
He lasted less than a second before his dragon half took over. Need swamped him, rushing in like a fast-moving current and . . . ah, hell. Screw it. He might as well admit it. He was cooked. Finished. Undone by the mere thought of her. Now he couldn’t resist. She was just down the hall. Less than a hundred yards from where he sat. One hallway and a couple of doors away. Abandoning his perch, Forge hopped off the countertop. His feet touched down, but didn’t stay put. Her pull on him was too strong. He wanted to see her, and it needed to be now.
Chapter Eighteen
Raising her fists, Hope kept her guard high and pivoted around the heavy bag. Footwork perfect, her bare soles skimmed over the hardwood floor. Shift right. Dance left. Keep her opponent in her sights. Rope creaked. The black bag swayed from her last strike. Muscles pulsing with energy, she flexed her hands inside the sparring gloves and, timing her punch, hammered the sucker again.
The violent thump echoed across the weight room.
The impact jolted up her arm.
Satisfaction hummed through her as her biceps squawked in protest.
Ignoring the discomfort, she struck again. And again. Jab right, a quick left cross before powering into an uppercut, moving in a rhythm that would make her trainer proud. Over and over. Again and again until her surroundings fell away. Concrete walls nothing but blur in her periphery, she brought her feet into play. Kicking high, she slammed her foot into the target zone. Black leather groaned. The heavy bag rocked sideways. Sweat rolled down her spine as she swung into another turn and, snapping her knee, slammed her heel into the imaginary bad guy.
Pivot. Spin. Slam-bang . . . do it over again.
Her heart pounded, each collision increasing the throb behind her breastbone. Now all she heard was blood rush. Not that she cared. Heart-attack, smart-attack. She needed the release, wanted the pain, longed for the mental shift into weariness. Feet and fists flying, she upped the pace until her chest heaved and her body ached, fatigue making her mind haze and . . . oh yeah. Thank God. About time. She’d hit the sweet spot, sliding down the slippery slope into exhaustion.
Maybe now she’d settled down.
She needed her brain to stop whirling long enough to formulate a plan. Execution was everything. At least, when it came to Forge. If she couldn’t get her act together—and her attraction to the gorgeous but annoying Scot under control—she’d fail to keep him at arm’s length, a safe distance away.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Hope pulled her punch mid-swing. She staggered back a step, wobbling on her feet, all of her hurting, and shook her head. What to do—what to do? The question knocked around inside her head, scattering neat ideals like bowling pins. Gosh darn it all. When had she lost the ability to think? Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, for sure. Now, for the first time in her life, she didn’t have a clue what to do. Couldn’t begin to understand how to help Forge—how to treat him, help him recover his memories—without becoming a nymphomaniac.
Opening her eyes, she frowned at her hands. Well used and worn in place, the red gloves didn’t offer a solution. Hope sighed. Having a libido sucked sometimes. Particularly when it came to Forge. The second he got anywhere near her, she became one great big throbbing urge, the kind that tossed her into needy so fast it made her head spin.
And her body sing.
Hope huffed. “How the hell am I supposed to combat that?”
Good question. Another to add to the growing pile.
Not that it mattered.
Existential ponderings could wait for another day. The only thing that interested her now was Forge—and how to deal with him. She frowned. Or rather, herself. Forge wasn’t the problem. She was to blame, responsible for her own actions, not the pointer of fingers. What she required was a straightforward plan of attack. A strategy that was not only viable on paper, but achievable in real life, so . . .
Job one—murder her inner alley cat.
Task two—hit the bag hard enough to obliterate the lust Forge inspired.
Mission three—get her head screwed on straight and grow a backbone.
Sounded like a plan. Not perfect, by any means, but reasonable nonetheless. Now, if only she could—
Movement flashed in her periphery.
Hope spun toward the exit.
Forge stood in the doorway. So tall his dark head brushed the lintel, he looked her over. His gaze heated, darkening with desire, then wandered down, caressing her face, stroking over her body, and Hope shivered. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, pooling at the base of her spine, sensitizing her skin. The tank top and shorts she wore made it worse, cupping her like a lover, holding the heat in, making her throb with the pressure.
He stepped into the room.
The space contracted. The air warmed. Her senses narrowed, seeing only him: the width of his shoulders, the size of his hands, the hard planes of his face. God, he looked good enough to eat. She wanted to touch him, lick him like a lollipop, have the taste of him on her tongue again and—
Wrong thought. The worst really, given the plan she was trying to hatch. Figured, didn’t it—that he’d show up before she implemented job one and task two? And crap, forget about mission three, its achievement so far out of reach Hope wanted to scream at the unfairness.
The realization sparked her temper. Swiping a damp chunk of hair off her forehead, she pointed her boxing glove at him.
“You’ve ruined everything. I’m supposed to treat you, not want to sleep with you, and now . . .” Knowing she sounded like a spoiled three-year-old, she huffed. God, talk about irrational. She shouldn’t be blaming him
for her weakness, but with him standing there looking so hot she could hardly stand it—her brain ceased to function at normal levels. Now she devolved, spiraling into unreasonableness. “And now, I’m so mad at you, I can’t think straight.”
“I know.”
Surprise dropped her guard. Arms at her sides, she scowled at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Nay?”
“No—you big jerk.”
“Donnae call me names, jalâyla,” he said, tone soft with warning as he moved into the room. “It’ll get you in trouble.”
“Trouble? I’m already in trouble.” Baring her teeth, she snapped at him. “I’m not your plaything.”
“You could be,” he said, voice rough with desire. “I would love you for a playmate, lass.”
Hope blinked. Temptation tugged at her. Thick yearning rose, tightening her chest, clogging her throat and—the self-serving, gorgeous idiot. He was baiting her, egging her on, hoping she gave in to the attraction and . . . God. She wanted to do it. Needed him so much, she actually considered it.
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Come any closer, and I’ll punch you.”
Halfway across the gym, he slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. He ghosted left, making her shift with him. A sly move. The perfect strategy. She huffed. Talk about a smooth operator. He knew how to maneuver, pushing her buttons, pulling her strings, moving her across the hardwood floor like a master puppeteer.
He walked closer.
Hope sidestepped the heavy bag, maintaining distance between her and the man stalking her across the gym. He was bigger than her—stronger, faster, no doubt smarter in a fight too. She hated to admit it. Disliked the advantage he held, blocking the only exit, but Hope refused to deny the facts. Forge moved like a dream, forcing her to pivot, ensuring she mirrored his movements. All of which opened her stance, leaving her more vulnerable by the second.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 23