Fury of Denial

by Coreene Callahan

  He growled. “Who the hell is Frank?”

  “The delivery guy. He drops the orders off for me at each cafe. Oh, and after that I’ll pack a bag.”

  “A bag?”

  “Of course, I’ll need a few things,” she said, talking fast, hoping to confuse him into going along. “I’ll pack one for Elise too. Just a few of her favorite things. She left all her stuff behind, you know?”

  Frowning behind his sunglasses, he opened his mouth to answer.

  The timer buzzed.

  “Great!” Clapping her hands, she treated him to a sunny smile, then sped past him into the kitchen. “The apple spice muffins are done. Perfect timing.”

  Mouth hanging open, he turned to watch her go.

  With quick hands, she snatched oven mitts off the counter and slid to a stop in front of the double ovens. Holding her breath, praying he didn’t say what he was thinking, she cranked both doors open and pulled the tins from the oven. A gorgeous mix of apple and spice rolled into the room. Wallaig rumbled his approval, the sound more growl than word.

  “Would you like one? They’re really good.” Turning, she set her bounty on the cooling racks, tossed her oven mitts aside, and picked up a fork. She wiggled a muffin free with the tines and without looking, tossed it in his direction. The treat sailed through the air. A second before he caught it, she murmured, “Careful, it’s hot.”

  He plucked her gift out of mid-air. “You think feeding me will change anything?”

  “Yes,” she said without knowing why. Pure conjecture driven by female intuition. “It’ll keep your mouth shut for a few more minutes.”

  He snorted. “And after that?”

  “I’ll give you a scone. Or a piece of lemon cake. Maybe the entire loaf.” Yes, lemon. Seemed like the right answer. For some reason, she knew lemon infused treats were his favorite. Nice information to have, but as Wallaig turned the muffin over in his hand, she wondered whether distracting him with sweets would be enough. She hoped so, but just in case, sweetened the deal by grabbing the butter dish from beside the toaster and pulling a knife from the utensil drawer. Amantha set the entire mess down at the end of the kitchen island. “Better with butter, don’t you think?”

  His lips twitched. He shook his head, but didn’t shoot her down. Footfalls thumping, he walked over and picked up the knife. “You’re a terror, lass.”

  “Maybe,” she said, grinning.

  Slathering butter on his muffin, he smiled back.

  A ripple of awareness shivered through her. The connection strengthened, funnelling into a current that made her body buzz and her attraction to him grow. Heaven help her, he was something. So well put together. Handsome without a trace of frat boy, he was all man, no polish. All ruthless vibe and chiseled cheekbones. His height didn’t hurt his cause either, and God…the way he moved, long lean muscles in concert with a confident stride made her hormones sing and dance and…make all kinds of lude suggestions behind the curtain.

  Wallaig would no doubt be good in bed.

  He carried himself like a man who know how to please a woman. Guys with lots of experience usually did, and as she liberated the last muffin from the tin and set it on the cooling rack, Amantha imagined the possibilities. Hot, sweaty sex with Wallaig. Oh, baby. He wouldn’t be polite. He would take what he wanted, be bossy and demanding while giving his partner more pleasure than she could handle.

  The image set off a firestorm inside her mind. Her cheeks heated. She wiggled where she stood beside the island, her libido awake for the first time in months. God, she wanted that—wanted him wrapped around her and…merde. Not the best thought. She needed to shut her inner sex tap off right now. She had muffins to make and no time to screw around. Wallaig might turn his fine ass toward the door any second and never look back.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, she took stock of the ingredients in front of her. Flour, sugar, a bag of oatmeal. Baking powder, salt, a pallet of eggs. Wooden spoons at the ready and…huh. No bowl. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted the clean ones across the kitchen.

  “Hey, Wallaig?” Dragging the flour closer, she picked up a measuring up. “Could you grab the big bowl on the top shelf for me?”

  A heartbeat passed. No answer.

  Hand hovering above the bag, Amantha looked his way and stilled. Something was wrong. He didn’t look right. Nor had he heard her. Ignoring her, he stood unmoving, brows furrowed, attention locked on the large windows in her living room.

  His gaze snapped toward the ceiling. “Shite.”

  She put the measuring cup down. “What is it?”

  “Trouble.” Tossing what remained of his muffin aside, he stepped around the end of the island and into her personal space. “Do you have a winter coat, Amantha?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about warm boots?”

  She nodded. “I’ve got a toque and mittens too. Why?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Coat rack,” she said, pointing at the front entrance. “What’s going on?”

  Wallaig didn’t answer. He herded her out of the kitchen, half carrying her towards the door. As his boots touched down on the welcome mat, he glanced at the ceiling again. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We need to go.”

  “What—right now?”

  “Aye.”

  “But my muffins.”

  “Forget about the bloody muffins. Here….” Grabbing her coat off the hook, he wrapped it around her. “Arms in.”

  Shock made her slow.

  His impatient growl sped her up.

  She shoved her arms into the sleeves as he knelt and picked up her boots. A large hand gripped her calf. Heat bled through her pyjama bottoms, sending tingles up her leg. He tugged. Deciphering the unspoken message, Amantha lifted her foot. With more speed than grace, Wallaig pulled on her made-for-twenty-below-zero Sorel’s—first one, then the other. He laced up each one, treating her like a two-year-old, then stood and zipped her ski jacket as well. A hat went on her head. Her mittens got tugged out of her pocket and slipped onto her hands.

  Five point five seconds…that’s all it took for him to bundle her into her winter gear. For what purpose? She had no earthly idea. And no wonder. Her brain wasn’t working right. Critical thinking—the capacity to reason and react—failed her. No need to look for another explanation. Nothing else explained why she stood stock-still, acting like a puppet, allowing him to pull her strings while staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.

  “Let’s go, lass. We need to move before they land on the roof.”

  Land on the roof? She frowned. Seriously? What the hell was he talking about? She opened her mouth to ask. Wallaig didn’t give her the chance to voice the question. Yanking the door open, he lifted her off her feet and, without a backward glance, carried her out of her apartment and into the hall.

  Eight

  A thump sounded overhead. The lights flickered as the whine of metal under sharp claws drifted down the corridor. Cursing under his breath, Wallaig stopped halfway down the hallway. Time to backtrack. Taking the stairs up to the roof was no longer an option. Neither was going back to Amantha’s apartment. Nothing but death lay in that direction now.

  He needed a new plan.

  Preferably one that didn’t involve getting cornered by a rogue pack inside the building.

  Tightening his hold on Amantha, he unleashed his magic. Energy coated the walls, rushing in all directions, washing over the neighborhood. Pushing the boundaries, he cast his net wide. Like a brilliant patchwork comprised of light, a grid expanded inside his mind giving him a map of the area. His sonar pinged and…shite. The enemy couldn’t be accused of being stupid. Eight strong, the bastards arrived in force. His eyes narrowed as individual energy signatures popped up on his mental screen—six warriors in full flight, two others had just landed on the roof, cutting off his preferred avenue of escape.

  Wallaig growled.

  Amantha quivered against him.

  “Shh.” Palming
the back of her head, he tucked her head beneath his chin. Unable to help himself, he stroked her hair, sifting through the soft strands, wanting nothing more than to comfort her. “It’s all right, kazlita.”

  “Please don’t lie to me. I feel your tension. You’re worried. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do.” Small hands fisted in his jacket, she pressed closer. “Something is really wrong, isn’t it? Who’s after you?”

  “No one.” Not really. He’d covered his tracks too well, left no trace when he flew into Edinburgh, which meant…the rogues weren’t after him. Hell, the idiots didn’t yet know he stood in the building, so…cross that possibility off the list. Eliminate it as a matter of course. Which left only one other conclusion to draw.

  The bastards had gotten a hold of Elise’s address.

  He bared his teeth. Fucking Grizgunn. The male never quit. He’d been at it for weeks. Attack after attack on the Scottish pack, his mission clear—hurt Cyprus anyway he could. Now, it appeared the rogue leader was backtracking, searching for the female Cyprus had rescued and now claimed as his own. Not good news for Amantha. The rogue’s plan put a bull’s eye on her back. Grizgunn wouldn’t hesitate. The male lacked honor and enjoyed hurting humans. He wouldn’t care that the high-energy female living in apartment seventeen wasn’t Elise.

  He would take Amantha instead.

  The idea of her being hurt made his blood run hot. His temper stirred. He wanted to kill the bastard for flying into her neighborhood. For daring to land on her roof. For threatening the female he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

  “Wallaig?”

  “Donnae be afraid,” he said, hating the scent of her fear. “I’ll get us out safely, but you must be strong and follow my lead. I need you to trust me, lass. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  “Good girl.” Her quick answer squeezed his heart, making his respect for her grow. “Let’s move.”

  She nodded.

  Taking her hand, he pivoted and headed for the central staircase. Not his first choice. Neither was going out the front door. Exiting via the street—like a fucking human—never amounted to a good idea. He needed to shift and get airborne, the quicker the better. Not an easy prospect from the sidewalk. Height equaled leverage and speed. He needed both to out-fly the rogues already in dragon form. Precious seconds would be wasted leaping up from between cars and tall buildings. His wings wouldn’t catch as much air, but…Wallaig clenched his teeth. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. With the bastards already on the roof, his second option had just become his best one if he held any hope of protecting Amantha from the arseholes invading her home.

  His boots banged down the first set of steps.

  Amantha lost her footing. Her hand jerked in his a second before she careened into him from behind. Without breaking stride, he grabbed the back of her coat and swung her off her feet. She squeaked in alarm. He refused to stop. Feet doing double time, he swung her up and around, throwing her onto his back. She landed with a muffled “ooh”, but caught on fast, wrapping her arms and legs around him, riding piggyback style as he ran down the stairs.

  He rounded the last landing.

  The lobby came into view.

  Headlights flashed against double glass doors as a car drove past the building.

  Heart hammering, he slid to a stop beside the entrance. His back to the wall, Amantha still hanging on tight, he glanced outside. Nothing moved on the street. No humans out for a midnight stroll. No taxis waiting curbside. No dragons sitting on street corners. A clear path to the end of the avenue.

  “All right.” Reaching around, he cupped her cheek. She turned into his touch, receiving comfort, soothing him in return, then she pressed her mouth against his palm. A shiver of awareness rumbled through him. An odd prickle ghosted across the top of his shoulders. Suppressing a shiver, he gave her a gentle squeeze. “Hold on tight, lass. Donnae let go…no matter what happens.”

  “Got it.”

  Unable to help himself, he smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Kiss me before we go.”

  A stupid request given the circumstances. Wallaig almost took it back, but…God. With her pressed against him, he couldn’t resist her allure. He needed a taste. Just a wee one before he risked both of their lives and flew into danger.

  “Please,” he murmured, feeling foolish as the plea rose in the silence.

  Her breath hitched, and he waited, hope beating as loudly as his heart.

  Shifting her grip, Amantha held onto him with one hand, then lifted her chin and leaned in. Her mouth met his, the brush of her lips soft as butterfly wings. He groaned. She grew braver and pressed closer, demanding entrance. He opened for her, kissing her back, tangling his tongue with hers, giving her what she wanted, getting what he needed.

  Bliss spun into the desire.

  His hunger for her, banked but still burning, surged to the forefront. His dragon half rose, asking for more. Unable to resist, he took the kiss deeper. She hummed, tightening her hold on him as he gripped her wrist with one hand and cupped her throat with the other. Her bio-energy blazed into a torrent of current. His fingertips tingled. The Meridian crackled, plugging him into the powerful stream, allowing him his first real taste.

  Greedy for her, he drank deep, drawing the nourishment he required to stay healthy and strong from her into his own veins. His beast hummed in approval. Amantha moaned and, with a wiggle, tried to get closer.

  Wallaig didn’t argue. No need to dissuade her. He kissed her back instead. Gave her all she asked, reveling in her response, thankful for what she so generously provided. And as she revived him, feeding him from the source, flooding him with pleasure, he knew he would never let her go. She belonged to him and, in that moment, he became hers. His dragon had decided. Energy-fuse was already taking hold. He sensed the bond growing, felt the connection, recognized his mate the second his skin touched hers.

  No need to ask questions or deny the truth.

  Nipping her bottom lip, he lifted his mouth from hers. “Hmm…you taste good, lass.”

  “So do you.” Following his retreat, she kissed him softly.

  He returned the caress. “Time to go.”

  “Okay, but we’ll continue this later.”

  Goddess willing. He wanted her more than anyone else in a long time. Needed her in ways he didn’t yet understand, but instinct told him existed all the same.

  Turning his attention back to the street, he shook his head. A mate. His mate. A female to call his own. The idea shocked him. He’d never considered he might find her—that she might want him in return. But as Amantha shifted on his back, hugging him tighter, and he got ready to move, his priorities reshuffled. She was here. He would claim her. But first, he had a gauntlet of enemy dragons to run…without much needed backup from his brothers-in-arms.

  Nine

  Crouched next to the front door, Wallaig slid Amantha off his back and conjured a cloaking spell. Magic snapped like a whip. Heat billowed up, blowing across the lobby as he and Amantha disappeared from view. A necessary illusion, one he knew wouldn’t last long when he exited the building.

  Leaning to one side, he glanced out the glass doors, then shook his head. Outnumbered and surrounded…not the greatest odds with a female to protect. Not that it mattered. All he needed was thirty seconds of cover. Enough time to get the lay of the land. Count the number of parked cars. Gauge the width of the intersections bookending the block. Find the best place to shift into dragon form and get airborne.

  Simple enough plan. Huge consequences if he failed.

  Every second counted.

  The instant he transformed, the enemy would pinpoint him and mobilize. Launch a full-scale attack. Attempt to kill him before he gained the necessary altitude to defend himself. So aye, reaching open skies needed to happen in a hurry.

  Dragging his gaze from the view of the street, he turned to look at Amantha. Aura ablaze, her features defined by bright light, her gaze m
et his. He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she slid her much smaller one into his.

  “It’s going to get bad, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, bending the truth, not wanting to frighten her. “But…”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to see things you never have before.” With a gentle tug, he drew her alongside him. She nestled in, holding his hand, pressing her cheek against his upper arm, trusting him to keep her safe. Dipping his head, he kissed her temple. Warm skin beneath his lips. Her scent all around him. His female in all her glory—the best off all reasons to protect, fight and annihilate. “Whatever happens…no matter how strange it seems to you…stay calm, lass.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “’Tis all I can ask.”

  Gathering magical threads, Wallaig tightened the invisibility spell and nudged the door open. He stayed low, shielding Amantha as he slipped over the threshold and broke cover. Rain-soaked concrete met the soles of his boots. Puddles splashed underfoot. Well-oiled hinges creaked behind him. Wallaig didn’t bother to look back. The soft sound wasn’t a concern. None of the rogues would bother to investigate. Not for something so minor—a regular noise in a human neighborhood. What concerned him was the layout. Small cars parked along narrow avenues. Nothing tall enough to use as a launch pad. Crappy news given the terrain and bad odds.

  Deep in the shadows, he crept along the building foundation. The wind shifted, bringing the scent of multiple dragons north of his position. He veered left, ran between parked cars and crossed the street. Amanda scurried along behind him, her fingers clutching him tight. Reaching an intersection, he gave her a reassuring squeeze and back pressed against a building, peered around the corner. Energy shifted and rolled, allowing him to see in the dark and…ah. Right there. Two bogies at one o’clock. Perched on the rooftop at the end of the block, the rogues sat on opposite ends of the building, attention locked on intersecting alleys below.