Fury of Ice (2 page)

The rat-bastard.

Yeah, the name had a nice ring to it. Then again, maybe “black-eyed son of a bitch” was a better fit. Asshole Razorback sounded good too. Well, whatever she called Lothair, it wasn’t “friendly.” The guy carried mean like a baseball bat and knew how to wield it.

“Ready to see your new home, female?” the rat-bastard asked, shifting closer, making her lean away, his boots scraping the steel floor while her heart pounded. “You’ll like cellblock A. It’s cozy. And you’ll have company.”

Angela’s stomach twisted into a knot. Thus far she’d avoided talking to Lothair. She couldn’t stand his proximity, never mind the sound of his voice, but…

She couldn’t let that intel go. If other women were imprisoned in the Razorback complex, she needed to know.

“How many?” As the question left her mouth, she winced. God, she sounded raw. Like the victims of violent crimes she talked to every day. But then, she guessed that description fit her to a T now. And just the thought made her want to sit down and cry. “How many are here?”

“Two so far. With more to come.” He hummed behind her, his pleasure so obvious Angela wanted to turn and take his head off. Too bad she didn’t have a weapon. “High-energy females just like you…good breeders. Good feeding, better tasting than the whores downtown. Hmm, yeah. I can’t wait for another taste of you, sweetheart.”

Angela clenched her teeth, refusing to react to the endearment. Lothair was smart, ruthless with a slap-happy helping of brutal. He wanted her to remember the feeding, to relive the press of his mouth against her throat, hard hands on her body, the awful suck and draw and…

Uh-uh. No way.

She refused to go there. Didn’t want to relive a second of the violation or dwell on the fact Lothair had taken something vital from her. What? She didn’t know exactly, but the awful experience wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept reminding her until her eyes burned with the threat of tears. She blew out a shaky breath and pushed the panic away: compartmentalizing the pain, moving the memory to a different mental zip code while she brought another front and center. One she couldn’t quite touch but knew was there…buried in her mind, surrounded by some sort of impenetrable wall.

R.
She remembered a name that started with R
.
And something else too. Pale blue eyes: beautiful, concerned, shimmering in the darkness. She clung to the visual and how it made her feel—safe, sane, strong enough to cope with whatever came next.

Which needed to be a swift kick in the pants.

Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help. Resourcefulness and a quick mind, however? Yeah, those were vital. She was tough, skilled, and able to set the parameters of what she allowed to hurt her. And as she set up mental roadblocks and retreated behind psychological barricades, she glanced over her shoulder. Brown eyes met hers, the color so dark the pupils blended with the irises. Leveling her chin, she made herself a promise. “I’m going to kill you, you know that?”

He laughed. “I’d love for you to try, she-cop. Please…try.”

The murmur was eerie, like the creak of frozen tree limbs in winter, the sound of isolation and mass murder. And as fear slithered along her spine, Angela smothered a shiver to keep it from surfacing. The sadist SOB would love that. Oh, yeah. Nothing got him off more than the sight of her afraid. She’d learned that the hard way in the examination room. She quashed the memory. Her experience with him proved the bastard liked her cowed to the point of subservience. He was diabolical, really. Brilliant with a capital B. Lothair was a tactician with brutal focus: accessing her weakness, using it against her, revving her imagination into the danger zone.

God, what was taking the elevator so long? She needed out. Away from the bastard pushing her buttons because…

She could smell him. Feel him staring at her even though she wasn’t looking at him. And as his eyes moved over her—ever watchful, always waiting—her stomach pitched. Muscle tightened over her bones, preparing to let fly. It would feel so good to hit him. Just wind up and send her elbow into his face. To feel the crack as she broke his nose and heard his roar of pain. But she’d already tried that, and trapped in an elevator with a pissed-off guy was the last place any sane woman wanted to be.

“You thinking of running when the doors open, she-cop?” Uncoiling like a poisonous snake, his voice slithered through the silence, making her scream inside her own mind. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. “Come on. Make it interesting. Run.”

Angela swallowed her rage along with an unwise retort. She couldn’t fight fire with fire. Words wouldn’t get her anything but more bruises. The best strategy was silence. Her nonreaction would drive him nuts. Maybe even piss him off enough to make a mistake and hand her the information she needed to break free.

“What? Nothing to say? You done fighting?” He leaned in, getting too close, winding her tight, provoking without touching. “Such a pity. I like a little fight in my female.”

Fight
. Right. What he
liked
was a live punching bag, one that cried and begged for mercy. No way would she give him the satisfaction. Or an easy victory.

Flexing her hands, Angela worked the blood back into them. As her fingertips tingled, she got ready. The quiet creak and sway of the Otis told her they were almost there. Yeah, she might be praying for rescue, but that didn’t mean she should sit back and wait for it. She had skills, carried a mental toolbox full of fighting techniques and tactical knowledge. She needed to use it—stay focused, pay attention, find a way out.

Which was a great plan…in theory. The only problem? The beatings and medical procedures had sapped her strength, and now, nausea ate her from the inside out. Wave after wave washed in, eroding her confidence, devouring the place where know-how lived. And as bile threatened the back of her throat, she tasted the vile protein shake again. Angela huffed. Protein shake, her ass. She hadn’t landed in Spa-land, and the green drink they’d forced down her throat hadn’t been jammed full of antioxidants. Drugs. The aftertaste washed over her tongue as the medicine sloshed in the pit of her stomach.

The elevator slid open with a soft ping.

Lothair pointed, motioning her through the entrance into…

Where exactly? The descent proved she was underground, in some sort of facility. But the structure was far from new. Paint peeled, leaving bald patches on the walls in some places and latex curls hanging from cinder block in others. And the concrete floor? Worn as though the passageway had been well traveled, but not maintained.

Angela stepped out of the Otis and into the corridor. The paper slippers slid on her feet, catching on the uneven floor as fluorescents buzzed, making her head ache, but at least the air was fresher down here. A continuous click-click-whirl sound rattled through the corridor. Angela glanced up at…

Thank God. A steel grille. The place had a ventilation system. Maybe she could—

A big hand clamped down on one of her biceps.

She jerked, wrenching her arm out of Lothair’s grip. He smirked, planted his palm between her shoulder blades, and pushed. As she cursed and stumbled forward, calling him every name she could think of, he kept up the shove routine, herding her ahead of him until they came to steel bars. Straight out of a prison, the barrier was old, but effective, blocking the corridor in both directions.

Lothair shoved her sideways, away from the electronic keypad. Her shoulder collided with the wall. Angela barely noticed. She was too busy to bother with the pain. Her focus was pinpoint sharp, glued to the digital screen and…

Bingo.

The idiot.

He hadn’t blocked her view. And as Lothair’s fingers got busy punching in the access code, she paid attention, squirreling away each number and…

Gotcha.

Man, the bonehead was clueless. She had the access code. Now all she needed was to make sure she could find her way out when the time came. A problem for most people, but not her. She controlled the swing vote, had an ace up her sleeve, so to speak: a photographic memory that provided perfect recall.

Thank God the Razorbacks didn’t know that. A blindfold would’ve been the kiss of death for her.

The steel bars retracted with a clang, echoing through the deserted corridor. Well, “deserted.” It was all relative, really. She was here along with Mr. Asshole, after all.

Lothair shoved her again. “Move it.”

“Screw off,” she rasped, her throat raw from that awful drink.

“There you are,” he said, sounding pleased. “The spirited female I know and love…back at last.”

He had no idea. Payback wasn’t fun, and after what she’d suffered the last few hours, Lothair was first on her hit list. ’Cause, yeah, given half a chance? She would pump him full of lead. Blow his head off without hesitation.

Too bad her gun had been lost in the firefight. At the precinct. Where her partner had been blown through a plate-glass window.

Angela blinked back tears. Oh, no…Mac.

She’d thought of her partner countless times since the explosion and her capture. Had prayed and pleaded…
Please, God, let him be all right
. Whether or not
he
heard her she didn’t know. All she could do was hope.

Hope. Pray. And beg.

Holding in a sob, she walked past cinder-block walls and under bare lightbulbs. Lothair hummed behind her—like he knew what she felt and loved the show. She ignored him, her mind fully occupied with Mac.

Please, don’t let him be dead
.

She could handle a lot: the torture and pain, the humiliation and imprisonment. But a world without Mac? No way she could go there and survive what she knew was coming. He was the big brother she’d never had, the only family she acknowledged. The only one who cared enough to come looking for her.

Rounding a corner, the empty corridor gave way, branching in two different directions. Angela wanted to go right. She saw tools down there: lying on the concrete floor, leaning against dingy walls, stacked on top of half-open boxes. Two men, looking empty-eyed and exhausted, glanced up, then looked away as though afraid to acknowledge her. Desperation hung in the air around them. Hers? Theirs? She didn’t know. Maybe it was a combination of the two, but as her mind sharpened, her body responded, hitting her with a shot of adrenaline.

The nausea evened out. Her heart picked up the slack, thumping hard as she scanned the dilapidated hallway, looking for the fastest route, the likeliest weapon with the deadliest potential. Lothair was big, too strong for her to outmuscle. But, maybe, just maybe, she could surprise him. Deploy the blitz attack so many murderers used to down their victims. One sharp blow to the head. One hard slash to the throat, and she’d be free, sprinting back toward that keypad with the access code riding shotgun.

Lothair veered left.

Angela lunged right, kicking out of her slippers, forcing her legs to work, her gaze on the box cutter no more than ten feet away.

A growl sounded behind her. Heavy footfalls followed, pounding out a terrifying rhythm.

Panic grabbed hold, making her run flat out. Something white flashed in her periphery. Clear plastic. And inside? Loose powder. She grabbed a handful as she sprinted past. Three feet from the tool, Lothair grabbed her hospital gown from behind. Angela twisted, flung her bound hands wide, and opened her palms. The fine dust flew, hitting Lothair in the face.

With a roar, he reeled and, heavy boots sliding, lost his grip on her. She slid into a stack of boxes. Cardboard toppled, but she didn’t retreat. All she saw was the weapon she needed to stay alive. Time slowed. Sound came from far away, like voices through water as she reached out. The cutter’s metal handle touched her fingertips, then slid between her palms. Her teeth bared, she spun, raising the tool like a knife. She slashed, striking out with an upward arc. The blade struck, slicing through skin to meet bone. Lothair howled as she cut his cheek wide open.

Blood arced in a violent splash, spraying across the wall and the front of her gown. Angela didn’t care. Victory was seconds away.

She raised the cutter again. All her focus on her captor’s throat, she plunged forward. He countered, blocking the strike with his forearm. Pushed back by the thrust, Angela pivoted, ducking beneath his arm. She aimed for his ribs.

Air exploded from his lungs as she slashed him again. “Fuck!”

Black eyes flashed fury. Angela didn’t slow. She deployed skill instead, kicking out with her foot. Bull’s-eye. She nailed him in the balls. He squawked, cupping himself as his knees hit the floor. She thrust hers forward, hammering him again. His chin snapped up, and his head whiplashed. A sick crack echoed as the back of his skull slammed into the cement wall.

Breathing hard, she watched him crumple, the makeshift knife raised in defense. One…two…three seconds passed. He didn’t move. And she didn’t wait.

Galvanized into motion, she leapt over his body. The instant her bare feet hit the floor on the other side, she let loose, legs pumping, heart hammering, hope lighting a fire deep inside her. A window. She had a narrow slice of opportunity before the other Razorbacks realized Lothair hadn’t returned.

She needed to run hard. Think fast. Make every second count.

Her life depended on it.

Chapter Three

Rikar slowed his roll, pausing in front of a reinforced steel door to punch in his access code. As his fingers did the walking, his inner beast stirred as though the bastard knew what awaited him on the other side. An hour with a Razorback. Nothing but a Razorback.

Oh, thank you, God.

A quick hand flex. A little neck action—rolling his chin against his chest, stretching out the tense muscles bracketing his spine—and he was ready to go. To cause pain. Inflict suffering. At one with his frosty side.

A rarity among his kind, a frost dragon whose blood ran cold, he was fortunate that his magic never abandoned him. The power was always Johnny-on-the-spot. Night or day—in and out of dragon form—it simmered in his veins, wanting out of its cage, begging to be used.