A mate for him, a second mother for his son.
The possibility swelled, taking root inside him. Pictures flashed in his mind’s eye—a snapshot of Hope holding Mayhem, the sight of her growing round with his bairn, the idea of him creating a family of his own. And as he held her gaze, he wanted it so badly his arms tightened around her.
“Hey.” Shifting to rest more fully on top of him, Hope folded her arms on his chest. “You all right?”
“Aye and nay.”
“Give me the bad news first.”
“I need tae go.”
“Oh, well . . . okay.” She glanced away, breaking eye contact, but not before he saw hurt glint in her eyes. Gathering the blanket, she shifted away, preparing to leave him. “No problem. I’ll just . . . go.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She pushed to her knees.
With a muttered oath, Forge grabbed her waist, lifted her, and, sitting up, set her astride his hips. She gasped in surprise. He pressed down, nestled her core against his erection and her bottom on his thighs. The blanket slipped from around her shoulders, leaving her glorious and bare. Lust lashed him, urging him to lay her back down. An iron grip on her, he kept her in place and shoved desire back into its box, reasserting his control.
Unable to move off his lap, a blush spread over her face. She grabbed for the blanket.
Forge growled. “Leave it.”
Hope froze, the blanket halfway up her back.
“Drop it, lass.”
She hesitated a second, then let the heavy fleece fall. Soft and full, the folds pooled over his thighs and around her hips. With Hope naked in his arms, he looked his fill. Her nipples pebbled. Her color heightened. The hot flesh pressed to his groin grew hotter, slicker, sliding over him as she shifted in his lap. He groaned. She whimpered. Fucking hell. He needed to regain control of the situation. Fast. Without delay. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going anywhere, and Bastian would get an eyeful when he came to drag him out of the gym.
Inhaling deep, he exhaled smooth, throttling down. “Hope—look at me.”
Leveling her chin, her gaze met his.
“When we’re together like this, you donnae hide from me. No retreating. No running away. No jumping to conclusions either,” he said, tone firm as he set more ground rules. He might have blundered by stating his intention to leave without an ounce of tact, but that didn’t matter. She needed to understand he planned on keeping her, to have her in his arms for as long as the fates allowed. “Now, ask me for the good news.”
“What’s the good news?” she whispered, white teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“I donnae want tae leave you. If I could, I would stay, but I cannae. Not tonight,” he said, hoping to reassure her.
He understood her reaction, and the insecurity that drove it. Women were complicated. No matter how confident, a female required reassurance after sex, kindness and cuddles, all the kisses she could handle. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t care. The females he slept with understood he never stayed afterward. He gave each one what she asked—maximum pleasure in a minimal amount of time—then left.
No strings. No love words. No need for the softer side of things.
Hope, however, was different. For the first time in his life, he wanted to stay and give her what she needed. Forge huffed. Hell, he craved the intimacy too—the kind of closeness that would permit him to lounge in bed with her all day.
Holding her gaze, he traced her lips with his fingertip. Swollen from his kisses, her mouth parted, letting him push inside. Sucking on the pad of his thumb, she rolled her hips, sliding her slick heat against him. The muscles roping his abdomen tensed. “Bloody hell, lass.”
“Sorry to be leaving?”
“Aye, bad girl, I am.” Cupping her bottom, he stopped her from moving again and leaned forward. Hope met him halfway, returning his kiss before he pulled away. “Will you be all right until I get home?”
“Of course,” she said, reacting as expected, like a strong female who’d had her independence questioned. His lips twitched. Her eyes narrowed. Forge swallowed a chuckle, knowing laughing at her would get him in trouble. The kind he might not survive given the fierceness of her expression. He clenched his teeth to keep from smiling. Fuck, he adored her spirit. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got lots to do. I still need to plan our sessions.”
“Good enough,” he muttered without cringing.
A miracle. A true testament to his control. Christ, he deserved a gold star for hiding his uncertainty. Hypnotherapy. Forge swallowed his distaste. Shite, the word sounded as unappealing as the treatment. Not that he knew much about it. Mac said it would help. Forge wasn’t so sure. Hope might be skilled, but nothing he’d tried rebuilt the memory. That night remained a black hole, the missing piece in a puzzle he couldn’t complete. Bastian hadn’t been able to help. Returning to the scene of the attack years after it happened hadn’t worked either. Maybe he was a lost cause. Maybe hoping was a waste of time. Maybe the memory would never come back. But as he pushed to his feet and set Hope on hers, Forge wanted to give the female in his arms the benefit of the doubt.
“Keep the home fires burning, lass.” One last kiss. A brief nuzzle against Hope’s cheek. A quick pat to her bottom, and Forge turned toward the door. The holes in his memory would have to wait. The next few hours were about Mac, not him. About getting his best friend what he needed to survive whatever continued to attack him. “I’ll be back for you later.”
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, Hope rolled her eyes. “You are such a caveman.”
Pausing on the threshold, Forge grinned at her. “Jalâyla, you have no idea.”
She laughed.
The sound lightened his heart and cemented his resolve. He hadn’t lied. He would be back for her. Would have her flat on her back in his bed when he got home. He consoled himself with the image and, footfalls thumping on the hardwood floor, left the sparring room and crossed the gymnasium. The buzz of industrial lights hummed, following his progress as he conjured his clothes. Magic flared. His favorite jeans and T-shirt settled on his skin. Leaving his feet bare, he walked across the basketball court toward the double doors.
Time to put his plan in motion and join the others.
Attuned to the chatter, he listened to his pack-mates talk, picking out the individual voices drifting in from the hallway, and sent a quick prayer heavenward. A quick word with the goddess, a ritual of his, one he observed each time he flew out of the lair. Life was short. Especially for a warrior in the heart of war. No matter how carefully planned, a mission could go sideways without warning. Tonight’s op would be tricky, the raid more dangerous than most. A potential clusterfuck in the making. Downing any dragon without killing him was difficult. Caging a powerful water dragon would be even more so. So instead of shrugging off the ritual, Forge took solace in his routine, murmured each of his brothers’ names, asking for safety and mission success.
Superstitious, maybe.
He didn’t care.
Every little bit helped. And praying never hurt.
Chapter Twenty
Stretching out his shoulders, Forge turned left into the corridor and strode toward the clinic. Hardwood floors gave way to smooth concrete floors. The high polish gleamed dark gray as the round lights embedded in the floor threw splashes of light onto granite walls. Chisel marks stood in stark relief against the pale paint, reminding him of home and his painful history. Bowing his head, Forge cupped the back of his skull. He pressed down. His chin touched his chest. Taut muscles squawked. He kept his feet moving, knees bending, bare soles whispering in the quiet, pace steady despite his tension. Goddamn history. The past never left him alone. As unrelenting as a hungry wolf, it circled, making him recall the good times, taunting him with the bad.
Not that he could remember all of it. Which made him want to forget all the more.
A picture of Hope rose in his mind. Forge shook his head. Guess forgetting wasn’t an option anymore. No sens
e turning away from the truth. Sooner or later, his female would dig it out of him. Supposition? Guesswork? Not even close. His time with her spotlit an unshakable truth: energy-fuse. His dragon half accepted her. Nay. More than that, the beast craved her now—wanted her close, needed her touch, longed for the sound of her voice. Combine that with the fact she gave new meaning to the word skilled in her field of study and . . . aye.
Sooner rather than later, Bastian would get what he needed: Forge’s memory—the intel everyone hoped would implicate Rodin in the murder of his family—signed, sealed, and delivered by Hope.
Forge blew out a long breath. The idea shook him a little. Which pissed him off. Retrieving the memory was the whole point. Why Mac had gone out on a limb and asked Hope to help. And yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted the memory dug out of his head anymore. Remembering—seeing his family die all over again—would hurt like hell. Torn . . . he was torn by the thought. Stretched taut between needing to help his new pack and protecting himself from the inevitable pain. Although, this time around, he wouldn’t be alone. Hope would be there to help him pick up the pieces in the aftermath. He frowned. At least, if she chose to stay with him, instead of fleeing the second she learned of Dragonkind.
The possibility cranked him tight.
Fucking hell. He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts. Bastian was right. Hope was his female . . . HIS. Every stunning inch of her.
She belonged to him.
He was meant for her.
Only a fool would deny it now.
The idea scared him. With the Archguard out for blood, he had a target on his back. Which meant if he mated her—performed the ancient ceremony joining his life force with hers—the bull’s-eye would expand to include Hope. Dropping his arms to his side, Forge flexed his hands. He wanted her. He really did, but fuck, the optics sucked. If Rodin came for him, it would be a fight to the death. One winner. One loser. His mate caught in the middle. As a mated male, if he died, so would his female and—
He slammed into something.
The something shoved back.
Jarred out of his thoughts, Forge rocked back on his heels. His head came up along with his fists.
“Forge—pull your head out of your ass, man.” Ruby-red eyes flashed in irritation. With a growl, Venom batted Forge’s fist out of his face. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Shite,” he said, taking a step back, giving his friend room to breathe. His gaze bounced around the hallway. Crowded between the chiseled walls, eight males stared back and . . . hell. Talk about inattentive. The entire pack was assembled, living large in the corridor outside the clinic doors. Rubbing the back of his neck, Forge cleared his throat. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”
Venom snorted. “I noticed.”
B chuckled. “The right female will do that to a male.”
Gage raised a brow. “What—make him stupid?”
“Worse,” Rikar said, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Relocate his brain behind his button fly.”
“And keep it there,” Wick said, serious amber eyes leveled on him.
“Bloody hell.” Forge scowled, fighting the urge to adjust the insatiable beast inside his jeans. “Does it get any better?”
“Nope,” Venom said with such glee Forge wanted to punch him. “Get used to it, buddy.”
“Lovely.” Forge sighed. No relief in sight—ever. Such a terrific way to start the night.
Stepping alongside him, Bastian threw him an amused look. The unsaid “I told you so” rubbed Forge the wrong way. B might be right about him and Hope, but that didn’t mean the arsehole needed to grind salt in the wound. He glared at his commander. Unperturbed by the warning, the big male slapped him on the shoulder. The love tap reverberated down his spine and out through the soles of his feet.
“We’ve got a plan,” B said, dropping the subject of females. “Ready to hear it?”
Unease transformed into a sense of purpose. Forge exhaled in relief. Good. Better. The best, in fact. He appreciated the save. Particularly since he wasn’t ready to talk about Hope—and her startling effect on him—yet. Glancing around the room, seeing the serious faces, Forge nodded. “Lay it out.”
“Three teams,” B said. “Venom, Wick, and Sloan will take the north side of the Sound. Gage, Haider, and Nian, the south. You, Rikar, and I will set up on Bainbridge Island.”
Nine warriors. Three groups. Multiple locations.
Doing the math, Forge tilted his head. “Roughly, what—five miles apart?”
“Yeah.” Rikar turned toward the map taped to the wall. Three X’s marred the glossy surface, pinpointing the triangulation. The Nightfury first in command drew a circle around Puget Sound. “Outside the three-mile marker. Far enough away to avoid detection, close enough to close the gap quickly.”
Great plan. Thorough, well thought out, but . . . Forge’s brows furrowed. “How do we know he’ll show up?”
“He won’t be able to resist.”
Glancing sideways, Forge looked at the speaker. His focus narrowed on Nian. The male didn’t flinch. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Haider, the Archguard prince met his gaze head-on. Forge’s mouth curved. Well, all right, then. About time, actually. He’d been waiting for Nian to assert himself and get involved. Contributing—adopting the warrior values of the Nightfury pack—was the only way to win his brothers-in-arms’ respect.
Tipping his chin, Forge kept his attention on Nian. “Tell me why.”
“I know Hamersveld. I had dealings with him in Prague.” Eyes shimmering like multicolored opals, Nian rolled his shoulders. The stitching on his bomber jacket stretched. Leather creaked, joining the faint sound of rushing water. “The bastard’s a creature of habit. He swims between three and four a.m. every night, in the biggest body of water he can find. No exceptions. The ocean—all that salt water—will draw him. He won’t be able to stay away from Puget Sound.”
“All right,” Forge said, accepting the intel as fact. “How many volts do we hit him with tae bring him down?”
“A shit-ton, times two,” Gage said, setting his boot on the huge black case at his feet. “Wick and I will wear the Tasers.”
He raised a brow in surprise. “We have a second one?”
“Another prototype. More powerful than the first one I built.” A nasty gleam in his eyes, Gage grinned. “It’ll zap the shit out of Hamersveld. The asshole won’t know what hit him.”
“Perfect.” And it was. The more painful the encounter for Hamersveld, the better. “Let’s go.”
A rumble of agreement sounded in the hall.
As one, the pack shifted toward the wall dead-ending the corridor. Boots scraped against concrete. Heavy footfalls pummeled the quiet. Magic flared, raining down like sparks in darkness as each warrior banged on the portal, asking the force field that protected Black Diamond—hiding the lair from humans and Dragonkind alike—to open the doorway into the landing zone.
Faced with nine warriors, the magic-born beast didn’t balk.
Solid stone went wavy, then cleared.
Arched at the top, the door stood tall, leaving a clear pathway to follow. Musty air blew in from the LZ. Forge reached the portal first and stepped through. Smooth concrete transitioned to rough granite. Like giant fangs, stalagmites rose on either side of him. Ignoring the show of teeth, Forge ramped into a run and sprinted toward the cliff edge.
Magic throbbed in his veins.
Gravel crunched beneath his boot treads.
Wind whipped at his face. The rush spread like a shock wave. Light globes against the high ceiling bobbed, raining dust motes as Forge transformed. Hands and feet turning to talons, his body lengthened, dark-purple scales clicking into place. Armored up and buttoned down, he bared his fangs and, claws scraping over stone, leapt beyond the lip of the LZ. His tail whiplashed. The spikes along his spine rattled. His wings caught air, lifting his bulk as he banked hard and rocketed into the underground passageway. The rumble of falling water echoed against jagged rock
walls. He heard his pack-mates take flight behind him.
Forge didn’t slow.
He increased his velocity instead, blasting through the waterfall hiding the entrance, and launched himself into the night sky. No time to lose, even less to waste. The faster he downed Hamersveld, the sooner Mac got what he needed, and Forge would have Hope in his arms once more.
Chapter Twenty-One
Standing in the antechamber connected to his laboratory, Ivar tapped his fingertips against the keyboard space bar. The bank of monitors mounted to the wall woke up, the prompt for his password an island surrounded by an ocean of blue screen. He stared at it a moment, worry sitting like a hair ball in the pit of his stomach.
He’d landed less than five minutes ago.
The instant the timer on his watch went off, and the first round of Dragonkind Olympics had concluded, he’d dragged Hamersveld out of the hot tub and flown home. The male wasn’t happy. Ivar didn’t care. His XO needed to get his head screwed on straight. Choosing males to breed his HE females when the Meridian realigned might be important, but the development of his antiviral drug took precedence. Females were dying—babies, toddlers, teenagers, mothers or not. The virus he’d released in Granite Falls didn’t discriminate. Which meant, as much fun as the competition was turning out to be . . .
Playtime was over.
The need to know had pointed him home. Upon arrival, he hadn’t hesitated. His feet had taken him across his backyard, up the stairs of 28 Walton Street, into the elevator, and down to his underground lair where the test results waited. Hamersveld on his heels the whole way. Now, his XO stood at the back of the room, shoulders propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face.
Ivar clenched his teeth. Jesus be good to him, he needed his current attempt to work. Otherwise, the warrior standing at his back would doubt him, along with every male in the Razorback pack. Not the best place for a leader to find himself. Military coups started that way—when dissatisfaction turned to frustration, and anger into action.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 26