Fury of Ice (13 page)

Silence expanded, interrupted only by the squeak of rubber tires on concrete.

“Hey,” Myst said when she spotted him. Her voice drifted in the quiet, raising goosebumps on his skin.

Swallowing hard, Forge forced his chest to expand. He needed to keep his wits about him, but…shite. He could hardly breathe as he stared at her. She’d come. Myst Munroe, the female he owed but could never repay.

Forge tipped his chin in her direction. The lackluster greeting was the best he could do. He’d never once imagined she would visit and…Jesus, her generosity slew him where he stood.

Rolling to a stop, keeping her distance, she smiled a little. “Guess you didn’t expect this, huh?”

Forge shook his head. Bloody hell. What was the matter with him?
Talk, motherfucker…charm her…make her feel your pain
. He needed an ally, and Myst was the best sort. A female who hated to see another suffer. But even as the instructions roared through his mind, his voice refused to obey. Surprise had him by the throat. And respect? Aye, a shitload of that was circling too, the male in him responding to the courage she showed.

He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump.

She glanced at the collar around his neck, the beep-beep-flash loud in the silence. Touching her fingers to her own throat, Myst met his gaze and said, “I’m sorry about that. Bastian doesn’t trust you.”

His voice made an appearance…thank Jesus. “Smart male.”

“The smartest.”

“Enough tae know you’re here, female…without protection?” The second the words left his mouth, Forge wanted to kick himself.

He shouldn’t be growling at her. Not if he wanted her on his side, but the conscience he said he’d ignore reared its ugly head. He planned to use her, so aye, it was only fair he give her a fair chance…forewarn her in some way. And if snarling at her a little evened the playing field, he’d live with that.

Which didn’t make a lick of sense. Stupid collar was obviously giving him brain damage.

“Nice try, Forge,” she said, rolling her eyes.

His brows collided.
Nice try?

“Really…it was.” Pursing her lips, she tilted her head as though judging his performance. One hand on the stroller’s handle, she kept the canopy between him and his son. Good plan if she wanted to drive him flipping nuts. He couldn’t see a thing with the canvas in the way. “You get an A for effort on the tough-guy act, but I’m not convinced. You want to know why?”

A little baffled by her, but mostly charmed, he dialed back the snarl factor. “Sure.”

“You would no sooner hurt me than cut off your own arm.”

Forge opened his mouth, then closed it again. Freaking female. She was whipcord smart. Way too perceptive. Which didn’t bode well for his game plan.

“So, let’s make a deal, okay?” Moving around the side of the stroller, she pushed at the canvas, folding the canopy back. His throat went tight. Little hands. He could see his son’s wee fists waving from between the folds of a blue blanket. “You cut the crap, and I’ll stay a little longer. Maybe even introduce you to someone who’d like to meet you.”

His gaze flashed back to Myst’s.

She raised a brow.

He scowled at her. “That’s blackmail.”

“Yes, it is.” Expression serious, she waited, let the silence build, wielding her advantage and his desperation like a weapon. “So…what’s it gonna be? Will you behave or not?”

“I’ll behave,” he said, feeling like a chastened four-year-old after a full-blown temper tantrum. Not that it mattered. She’d brought his son, so…fuck it. To hell with his pride. “May I see him…please?”

Myst leaned down and gathered up the blue bundle. As she settled his lad in the crook of one arm, she murmured to him. The bairn cooed back. Forge exhaled, already fighting tears. Seconds ticked by, lasting forever as Myst adjusted the blanket and approached his prison cell. The barrier snapped, crackling in warning, and she flinched, stopping a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t come any closer. The current will hurt him and—”

“I know,” he said, the wait nearly killing him.

With a soft smile, Myst tilted her arms, and he got his first glimpse of a wee face. His heart went loose inside his chest, and as the damn thing flopped around, he lost the battle. Tears gathered, blurring his vision. God, he was beautiful, so perfect it made him ache from the inside out.

Wiping beneath one of his eyes, Forge studied his lad. Eyes wide open, he chewed on his fist, baby drool glistening on chubby fingers, dark Mohawk of hair shining in the low light. Unable to stop them, Forge’s fingers curled. He wanted to hold him, feel the slight weight of him in his arms, and listen to each happy sound he made.

“Thank you,” he rasped, his throat so tight the words came hard. “Thank you for bringing him.”

“He’s your son. You have a right to know him. Caroline would’ve wanted that.” Tears in her own eyes, she stroked the bairn’s cheek with her fingertip. “I named him Gregor.”

He grimaced. “A human name?”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Making a sound of exasperation, Myst glared at him. “You guys and your stupid names.”

“Stupid,” he murmured, watching her closely. “Gregor is just as—”

“Say it, and I swear to God I’ll find a gun and shoot you.” With a grumble in her tone, she said, “His middle name is Mayhem, okay? So don’t get your panties in a wad.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Mayhem’s good, strong…a warrior’s name.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. His grin broke free and, for the first time in a long while, he felt lighter somehow. Like he’d been touched by an angel, one who’d taken pity and lifted his burden, if only for a minute. The carefree moment sobered him and, as Myst returned his smile, shining light into his darkness, the urge to warn her took over.

“Myst,” he said, his happiness fading into seriousness. “Your mate is right not tae trust me.”

“Maybe. But you and I both know the truth.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”

“I know you’re not a bad guy…” She paused to drill him with her violet eyes. “…and so do you. Bastian’s fair-minded, Forge. Make peace with him. Otherwise, you stay locked up here, away from your son and everything that’s important.”

Uh-huh. A pretty speech. Too bad he’d been there, done that, and didn’t deserve a do-over. “You cannae save me, female.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

Wonderful. Just what he needed…a female on a quest. Shite. He might as well add stubborn to her list of qualities. Though pigheaded might be a better word. Aye, definitely. He liked that one much better, and as he—

Door hinges creaked, metal clicking against metal.

“My lady?” Edged by urgency, the British accent floated into the cellblock. “Myst?”

Her arms still snug around his son, Myst pivoted toward the exit. “What is it, Daimler?”

“Oh, thank goodness…I found you.” Twin tails of his tux flapping behind him, the male
Numbai
—a member of serving class to Dragonkind—pranced into view. Pointed ears visible beneath hair pulled back at the nape, Daimler danced to a stop in front of his mistress. “Master Rikar needs you, my lady. He’s inbound with an injured female and—”

“Angela?” Forge asked.

The Numbai’s gaze flicked to him a second before settling back on his mistress. As he opened his mouth to answer, Myst cut him off. “How bad is she? I need details, Daimler, and an ETA.”

“I don’t know. And ten minutes, my lady,” Daimler said, answering each question rapid-fire. “Master Sloan’s already in the clinic, setting up triage.”

“Can I help?” The second the question left his mouth, Forge felt like an idiot. What the hell was he doing? Offering to lend a hand? Playing the hero? Jesus, he needed his head examined. Aye, that, and a swift kick in the arse to smarten him up. But even as he told himself to zip it, his mouth opened and, like a pathetic pea brain, he dug his hole a little deeper. “I’ve been trained as a paramedic.”

His offer made Daimler’s mouth fall open.

Myst wasn’t surprised.

“Told you,” she said, a smirk on her face. “Keep it up, Forge, and I’ll make a good guy out of you yet.”

“Bloody hell.” Forge wanted to growl at her…he really did. Instead, he stood stone-still, fists clenched and heart aching as she strode to the stroller and settled his son inside. Out of sight, but never out of mind. “Myst, could you—”

“No,” she said, tone sharp, her expression serious. “Play all the games you want, it won’t work with me. You want out? You want more time with your son? Grow a brain and make peace with my mate. Otherwise, you’ll stay exactly where you are for a very long time.”

An ultimatum with teeth. Deadly, and oh…so…tempting.

Could it really be that easy? Hit one knee, bow his head, and swear loyalty to the Nightfury pack and…bam! Instant acceptance.

Forge shook his head. No way. Nothing was ever that simple. The visit today. Myst’s warning. All of it smacked of conspiracy, one older than time. Show the prisoner something he wanted—would kill to possess—then take it away unless he gave up the goods. Bastian wanted information about energy-fuse; the ins and outs of how a male used it to protect his female through the
hungering
when the Meridian realigned, her pregnancy, and finally, the birth of a child.

The strategy was diabolical. And right up Bastian’s alley.

As suspicion banged around inside Forge’s head, his admiration for Myst grew. Aye, she’d brought his son, but not out of kindness. It was psychological warfare. She would never be his ally. He would never win her over. Even knowing it, however, didn’t stop the urge to call out and beg her not to walk away with his son.

He almost did it. Almost opened his mouth and asked her to come back.

Almost
, but not quite.

He was stronger than that, a warrior born and bred. So he killed the temptation to give in and swallowed the plea. But as the door clanged closed behind her, his cell got a little smaller, and the collar much, much tighter.

Chapter Ten

The murmur came from somewhere south of sanity, pulling Angela through thick mental fog. Floating inside her own skull, she kept her eyes closed and listened to the voice. A hint of an accent in the undertone, the timbre broke through the noise inside her head. She clung to each note. Listened to the pitch and swell. Let it hold her high. Away from the pain. Away from terror. Away from the unknown.

Except that wasn’t right.

She knew who—correction…make that
what
—held her. Remembered the beach as she’d come to, felt the swaying glide of flight and the hard scales against her cheek. Another dragon; white scales to the rat-bastard’s black. That had to be a good sign, right? Heroes and saviors always wore white. Or did that only happen in fairy tales?

Angela frowned. She couldn’t remember. Her brain was stuck deep in fluff and mental feather down. Not much made sense. Not the flight. Not the warmth of the dragon’s scales. Nor the fact he held her gently in the cradle of his talons.

Maybe that’s why she wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t struggling. Was just floating, lost inside her own mind while her white dragon in shining scales talked to her. God, it was nice; the depth of his voice, the words, and how safe he made her feel.

Which was just plain nutso. But sometimes, Angela decided, crazy made sense.

“Just a little further, angel,” her dragon said, soft tone full of reassurance. And there she went again, falling into each syllable, taking solace from the sound of his voice. “Almost there.”

Almost
where
? She shifted in the palm of his talon and cracked her eyes open. Yellow flashed up ahead, pushing a gentle glow through the darkness. Angela squinted. Was she really seeing that? Or were her eyes playing tricks, screwing with reality? Seemed like a good guess because that looked like a cliff wall. Or the inside of a tunnel, one with jagged outcroppings and narrow ledges.

His wings angled, the dragon swung around another corner. The light became stronger, illuminating a wide landing pad. An abrupt shift. A moment suspended above the solid rock outcropping, and then…

Touchdown. To the accompaniment of claws scraping stone.

All right. Now was probably a good time to start screaming. Or searching for a weapon. Anything to hold him at bay. But something malfunctioned, crossing her mental wiring. She didn’t want to do any of those things. Didn’t feel the need to, either. All she wanted was to hang onto the voice, to hear him talk to her some more.

“R,” she whispered, a soft call for comfort.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured. “It’s okay. I’m gonna get you help.”

Help sounded good. Excellent, really, because…God. Now that she was more alert, her leg hurt like hell and, as the pain poked at her like a bully with a sharp stick, each breath came a little faster. A little harder, one on top of the other.

With a whimper, she reached for him, needing something solid to hang onto as she opened her eyes. She expected to see a dragon. A man’s pale gaze met hers instead, and wham! Sparks lit off, exploding into a kaleidoscope of color inside her head. The wall around the memory—the one she hadn’t been able to touch—collapsed, and images flashed like playing cards. McGovern’s bar. The cracking sound of billiard balls, the gorgeous guy making her laugh, helping her relax and drop her guard. His callused hands on her bare skin. The soft rasp of his whiskered cheek against her own…the unbelievable pleasure.

“Rikar.” His name came out like a question, though she didn’t mean it like one. She remembered now. “You’re a…big…jerk.”

Cradling her in his lap, his mouth curved. “Bang-on, angel.”

Not true. Angela knew it, but man, if felt good to give him a hard time. The show of spirit meant she was still alive. And as her focus sharpened, her mind followed suit, turning over enough to give him heck for McGovern’s and the fact she’d woken up alone…with a chunk of her memory missing. Something weird—and okay, half-wonderful too—had happened between them that night.