Fury of Ice

by Callahan, Coreene

  His eyes rolled back in his head. Oh, fuck, she was good: hot, wet, and delicious. A feast for a starving male. Drinking his fill, Rikar worked her. Listened to her keen as he sucked the bud of her sex and slid one finger inside her.

  “Oh, God…yes. Like that…” Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, Angela tilted her hips, rolling on a wave of delight. “Just like that…Rikar!”

  He sent a second finger deep, stretching her, sucking hard. She arched, twisted beneath him, lips parting on a moan. He nipped her gently. Angela screamed, coming in a pulsing wave around him, blasting him with mind-numbing energy. Pleasure rocked him, then grabbed hold, hurling him sideways into oblivion. Unhinged. Enthralled. Addicted to Angela, needing inside, he surged between the spread of her thighs and thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt.

  She convulsed again. Wrapped her legs around his hips and begged him for more.

  Surround by her tight heat, his breath hitched as she clung to him, moved with him, using her body to milk his. Perfect. Powerful. Unprecedented. And for him, right as hell.

  No one compared to her. She was the sun and moon. His bright and shining star. And as he invaded her mouth—kissed her deep and felt her throb around him—Rikar lost control, losing all of himself to her as she took him home.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Shoving the last bite of pasta primavera into his mouth, Mac umm-yeahed and got busy chewing. Goddamn, that was good. A culinary masterpiece. One that fired up all the right taste buds while simultaneously filling the bottomless pit that had become his stomach. Which…yup, was a total understatement. No matter how much he ate, he couldn’t get full. Was always one step away from feeling half-starved.

  Normal, he guessed. A side effect of going through the change, one he would suffer for a while. At least that’s what his new friends told him. But man, he’d never been this hungry before, and constantly hitting Daimler up in the eats department was getting embarrassing.

  Not that the Numbai minded. The guy’s eyes lit up every time he saw Mac coming. Could hardly wait to feed him the next meal. Snack. Or shit…snack between snacks.

  Mac shook his head. Jesus. He might as well just camp out beside the fridge. Drag his bed right into the kitchen and set up shop. It would make the free-for-all a whole helluva lot more efficient.

  With a satisfied sigh, he leaned back on the stool, away from the kitchen island, and put his fork down. Silver clinked against fine china. Mac’s mouth curved up at the corners. The highfalutin utensils were a marked difference from what he was used to: a sign his life had changed for the better. Usually, he ate off a paper plate or out of a Chinese takeout container. But not here. Black Diamond wasn’t anything like the tight quarters on his boat, and Daimler had never been at his service.

  The Numbai said that more than was healthy. At your service, master. Of course, master. Anything else I can get you, master? Daimler was a one-man Martha Stewart with elfish pointy ears and built-in bling thanks to his gold front tooth. And as he watched the Nightfuries’ resident go-to guy move around the kitchen—stirring the contents of bubbling pots, checking the timer on the stove—Mac thanked his lucky stars.

  Black Diamond was his home now. The Nightfury warriors and Daimler, his family. Hallelujah. About fucking time. He’d found the one place he truly belonged.

  Nudging his plate away, Mac pushed the stool back and stood. After a full-body stretch, he snagged the long, black case sitting beside his chair off the floor. “Hey, Daimler?”

  Planted in front of the six-burner stove, the Numbai glanced over his shoulder. A hopeful glint in his eyes, he asked, “Another serving, master?”

  He shook his head.

  “A piece of chocolate cake?”

  Mac laughed. The guy never said quit. The elf lived to serve, and he could get used to the star treatment. “Not right now. I’ve gotta get going, but thanks, man.”

  A wooden spoon poised in midair, Daimler’s face fell.

  The disappointed look backed Mac up a step. Or five. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt the guy’s feelings. “Toss it in the fridge for me, will you? I’ll come back for it.”

  Daimler perked up, happiness lighting him up as he opened a drawer and took out a big serving knife. Mac shook his head, heaved the heavy case, and turned toward the exit while the Numbai went at the cake, whacking an enormous slice from the whole. Mac hummed. No doubt about it. He’d be back for that puppy. And another just like it. Chocolate was his favorite, after all, but…

  Later. Right now he had work to do. Rikar had hit him up with mind-speak an hour ago, requesting a special delivery. Thank God.

  Two days. Forty-eight frickin’ hours of waiting. Of wondering. Of worrying about Angela. And finally his XO was coming up for air.

  Not that Mac blamed the male.

  Angela was beautiful, smart…sexy as hell. At least every guy Mac knew thought so. And he should know. He’d warned enough of them away from her. Had even beat the snot out of a few when they’d gotten too persistent. Not that Angela knew about it. Which was how he wanted to keep it. Mac grimaced, imagining her reaction. Jesus. You’d think he had a death wish or something, messing with her love life, and if she ever found out, she’d kick his ass from one end of Seattle to the other.

  Not advisable. Not much fun, either.

  The rifle case bumping against his thigh, Mac walked along the artsy-fartsy gauntlet that doubled as Black Diamond’s main corridor. His combat boots brushed over hardwood floors, barely making a sound, while white walls gleamed under halogens, spotlighting paintings with names like Picasso and Jackson Pollock, van Gogh and Renoir scrawled across the bottom corners of the canvases.

  Large and small. Colorful. Monochromatic. Etchings or charcoal line drawings.

  Hell, the place had it all. Was serious art gallery material—the Louvre on steroids.

  Not that Mac knew much about art. But from what he saw in the corridor, a boatload of cash had been dropped to dress up the walls. Not that he cared at the moment. He was too busy counting doors. The ones that marched down the hallway, interrupting the colorful art show with honey-colored wood.

  Nine. Ten. Eleven…jackpot. Rikar’s bedroom door.

  Mac faced off with it for a second. The thing looked innocent enough. Just a collection of antique planks put together to form a barrier between here and there. Well, at least until you considered what had been going on behind the thing for the last two days. Mac clenched his teeth. Frickin’ guy. He didn’t know what to do first. Congratulate Rikar for keeping Angela in bed for forty-eight hours straight. Or knock the SOB’s teeth down his throat for sleeping with his baby sister.

  It was a toss-up, really.

  He wanted to do both. Play Cupid and the protective big brother all at the same time.

  Blowing out a breath, he rolled his shoulders, stretching out tense muscle. He needed to get himself under control before he knocked on the door. Hammering his XO wouldn’t win him any brownie points with Angela. She wanted Rikar—might even need the guy for more than just the physical pleasure he gave her.

  Exhibit A? No one had forced her into Rikar’s bedroom. No one was forcing her to stay there, either. So treading carefully was a good plan. Especially if he wanted to keep his balls where they belonged.

  Raising his hand, Mac rapped on the wood with his knuckle. Supersonic dragon hearing up and running, he heard sheets rustle, a sleepy murmur, then quiet footsteps approach the door. Within seconds, the knob turned and the door swung wide. Arctic air blew into his face, the kind that rivaled an Alaskan winter. He blinked, adjusting to the climate change, distracted as hell before—

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  His grip on the case’s handle tightened as his gaze met Rikar’s. Mac swallowed a growl. The male looked way too satisfied: pale eyes shimmering, body relaxed, so well fed he oozed nothing but mmm, mmm good. A vibe that bordered on obscene.

  Lucky bastard. Freaking jerk.

  Mac’s free hand curled into a fist. �
�How is she?”

  “Sleeping, but good.” Blocking the view into the room with his body, Rikar raised a brow. “You wanna hit me?”

  “Fucking right I do.”

  “I would kick your ass if you didn’t,” he said, his eyes full of understanding. “I get your need to protect her. I feel it, too, but…she’s my mate, Mac. The one I’ve been waiting for. I need her.”

  Need wasn’t good enough. Not for his baby sister. “Do you love her?”

  “Yes.”

  A quick affirmative. Good for Rikar. Less great for him. Looked like he wouldn’t be knocking any of his XO’s teeth down his throat. At least not today.

  “All right, then,” he said, exhaling a pent-up breath. His muscles uncoiled, following the natural flow, and the tension drained, washing down his spine and out through the bottoms of his shitkickers. “But you hurt her…so much as one hair on her head? I’ll open up your skull and rip out your brain. We clear?”

  “I hear ya.” Rikar’s lips twitched as he stepped toward him. Slapping his hand to Mac’s shoulder, the male squeezed, then nodded at the rifle case he carried. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rikar frowned. “You sure about this?”

  “She’s a better shot than I am.” Which was saying something. Mac was an excellent marksman, his reputation in the SEAL teams garnering him some serious high-five action back in the day. But Angela’s skill with a long-range rifle outdid even him. She could hit a target—just KO the frickin’ thing—from nine hundred yards out. Incredible by any standards, but in sniper circles and among Seattle SWAT, she was revered for her steady hand and lethal accuracy. “Set her up a thousand yards out, and she’ll shred the target every time.”

  “What about a moving one?”

  “How much time we got to practice?”

  “A week or so.”

  Translation? The energy-regression was still on-the-go. Sloan had explained the process—the how and why a male altered a female’s energy beacon, keeping her safe from other Dragonkind. Pretty cool stuff, and man, Mac hoped it worked. No way he wanted to get out in the field and discover that Lothair could still track his partner. Having her there would be bad enough. No one needed the op to go south right out of the gate. Just the thought made his blood pressure rise, launching him into no-fucking-way territory.

  “I’ll get her up to speed on the shooting range,” Mac said, eyeing his new buddy. “You gotta do something for me, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let her out of frickin’ bed.”

  Rikar raised a brow. “You think it’s my fault we’re still here?”

  “Motherfuck,” Mac muttered, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. The guy was begging for an ass kicking…Angela style. “I’m telling her you said that.”

  “Better not.” Rikar reached for the gun case. As Mac relinquished the load, he murmured, “Unless, of course, you want your balls handed to you on the end of a blade.”

  “Jesus.” Wincing, Mac cupped his package with both hands. “Bad visual.”

  “Even worse outcome,” Rikar said, grinning.

  Heaving the case, he turned into the room, and Mac got his first sneak peek. Laid out belly down—covers up around her shoulders, head half-buried under a pillow in the center of the king-size bed—Angela was fast asleep but 100 percent okay.

  Relief hit Mac chest-level, making his throat go tight.

  Good for her. She’d followed through on her promise. Hadn’t copped out or run away even though she’d been afraid to let Rikar make love to her, giving her relief from the pain. Mac swallowed. He was so proud of her. And so thankful he didn’t know what to do.

  Rikar distracted him—thank fuck—flipping the case up and setting the kit on the mattress beside her. The handle rapped against hard plastic, echoing in the quiet as his XO glanced at Angela. After a second, Rikar leaned in, planted his hands on either side of her, and pressed a kiss to her temple. She murmured in her sleep, more sigh than hum as her mate lingered, resting his cheek against her hair as though he couldn’t get enough. Or be that close to her without touching her one more time.

  Mac’s heart throbbed a crazy beat as he watched the pair, wondering what the hell he was doing. He shouldn’t be in the room. Shouldn’t be witnessing a precious moment between mates. Should have the decency to back up, but his feet were nailed to the floor. He couldn’t look away. Was forced to play the voyeur while Rikar stroked his hand along his partner’s back. To witness another tender kiss. To hear the soft murmur and see his XO’s expression.

  Awe. Gratitude. Devotion. All took a turn on the male’s face.

  The entire situation suited Mac just fine. Case closed. Slap a sticker on that bad boy and bury the file six feet under. Fait accompli. No way would Rikar ever let Angela go. Not now. So, yeah. His little sister was at Black Diamond to stay.

  Turning away from her, Rikar conjured a length of ribbon. Slippery satin sliding in his hand, he tied it around one end of the narrow case, finishing it off with double loops. Ah, how cute. A present complete with a shiny red bow.

  Mac bit down on a grin. What a total pansy-ass thing to do. One Angela would no doubt appreciate when she woke up. Most women wanted jewelry—something expensive and pretty—from their men. But not Angela. Rikar had it right. His partner liked weapons. Which made the M25 sniper rifle the perfect gift.

  After scribbling a note, the besotted SOB left it next to the bow, then slid the bedside table drawer open. Metal rattled against cardboard as Rikar set a box of 9 mm ammo for her Glock next to the slip of paper. His eyes on her face, he paused, stood poised above her for a heartbeat, then kissed her one last time and turned toward the door.

  Mac raised a brow, letting his XO see his amusement.

  “Go to hell,” he growled, coming at him like a human steamroller. Unwilling to get flattened, Mac backpedaled into the corridor. Pale eyes narrowed on him, Rikar crossed the threshold. As the door clicked closed behind him, he turned right down the hallway. “Let’s go, water rat. The others are waiting.”

  “We headed to the cellblock?”

  “Collision inevitable.”

  “About time.” And it was. He’d been waiting for days to meet Forge. “What’s the play?”

  “Bastian and I will handle it,” Rikar said, heading for the elevators. “You and the boys are on standby…there for support.”

  In other words? Be seen, not heard. “Why do I suddenly feel like a three-year-old?”

  “Eyes and ears open, all right?” An intense expression on his face, Rikar glanced over his shoulder at him. “Put all of the cop shit to good use. Feed me cues…body language, expression, anything else you notice. If you see something that’ll help crack him, connect through mind-speak and give me a heads-up. Got it?”

  Mac nodded. Good plan. One he and Angela had often employed. One interrogated. The other listened, concentrating on speech pattern, body language, and emotional cues. No matter how small, a suspect always gave something vital away. Information that sometimes helped break a case wide open. The fact the Nightfuries were about to deal with Forge the same way—and wanted his help—jazzed him. It made him feel included, like a valued member of the pack.

  “Hey, Rikar?” Mac stopped as the corridor dead-ended at the elevators. Reaching out, he hit the down button with the side of his fist, then stepped back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his XO. “Got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The whole energy-regression thing?”

  “What about it?”

  “Once Ange’s energy signal is altered and Lothair can’t track her anymore…” Mac trailed off, struggling to tie all the threads together: the how, what, and whys of Dragonkind. “How the hell are we gonna set the ambush?”

  “Easy.”

  The elevator pinged as the doors slid open.

  Rikar glanced at him before stepping inside. “I’m tapped into her life force now. That connection gives me access…the abil
ity to manipulate her unique energy frequency and mimic it. Old. New. Doesn’t matter. Once we’re set…when Angela’s in place and ready to go…I’ll send out her original beacon. Lothair will pick up on the signal, think it’s her and—”

  “The fucker’ll come running.” Setting up shop at the back of the Otis, Mac planted his shoulder blades against the stainless-steel wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go after her and get us instead.”

  “Bingo.”

  The perfect plan. Except for one thing. “I don’t want her anywhere near the front line.”

  “She won’t be,” Rikar said, icy gaze glittering. “An M-twenty-five rifle and a thousand yards out with you watching her six, remember?”

  As if he could forget. He’d gone over the plan again and again, running every scenario, looking for holes, weaknesses…a better fucking strategy. Any reason at all that would keep Angela at home instead of putting her in the middle of the firefight.

  But that wouldn’t happen.

  The second he and Rikar tried to sideline her, she’d go it alone and end up hurt. So it didn’t matter that the odds made him jumpy. The situation wasn’t SOP (standard operating procedure). Was opposite of normal with a pack of freaking dragons in the mix. Anything could go wrong and—if things went true to form—usually did. Which scared the hell out of him. He would never forgive himself if Angela got caught in the crossfire.

  Or worse. Ended up recaptured by the sadistic SOB who’d hurt her.

  Rolling his shoulders, Forge craned his neck to one side. The collar dug in, scraping the underside of his jaw. Shite, the thing was driving him around-the-bend crazy. Chafing his skin. Tightening around his throat with each movement, cranking his internal pressure cooker into KABOOM territory.