Fury of Seduction (Dragonfury Series #3) (22 page)

Not that he gave a damn at the moment.

Old-school gold lighter in hand, Nian flipped the top shut. A second later, he flipped it back open with the pad of his thumb. Click-click-snap. Click-click-snap. Worn by time, the warm metal settled like home against his palm. Habit made him repeat the flicking motion time and again. The sound brought soft comfort, reminding him of what he had done. Or rather, set in motion. A pleasant memory, but...whatever. The hows and whys of his sire’s death didn’t matter.

And neither did the club.

The dark interior of the upscale establishment didn’t interest him tonight. He hadn’t made the trip downstairs—slipped away, escaping the notice of the other members of the Archguard—for the decor. He’d come for the two Nightfury warriors sitting at the back of the dimly lit room. Decked out in expensive suits, the two looked like a couple of kingpins. Nian’s lips twitched. The analogy wasn’t far from the truth.

Gage and Haider, two formidable warriors from an equally formidable pack. Most called the pair “the Metallics,” and for good reason. Liquid metal breathers, each exuded a lethal amount of hard-core and kick-ass. Gage was the more dangerous of the two, though. A bronze dragon with serious self-destruction issues and even less patience, the warrior would sooner kill a male than look at him. His strategy went something like...strike first and ask questions second. And only if his prey lived to see a new night.

A serious problem. Especially since Nian wanted to chat.

Which was where Haider came in. A silver dragon—a diplomat of sorts whose talent lay in the art of negotiation—the male was the more sensible of the two and would hear him out. At least Nian hoped. Nothing was certain. Haider might take one look at him and unleash Gage. His bloodline, after all, wasn’t anything to boast about considering his family history...and the wrong his sire had done to Bastian.

He thumbed his lighter. Click-click-snap. Click-click-snap. Nervous tension fluttered through him. Proceeding with extreme caution seemed like a good idea. The Metallics exuded confidence like nuclear fallout did radiation. Catastrophic in so many ways.

Like a wraith appearing out of thin air, a waiter appeared at his side, crisply pressed tuxedo shirt gleaming under fancy wall sconces. With a slight bow, the Numbai held a round tray toward him. On it sat a humidor. “A Cuban from our collection, my lord?”

Nian shook his head. Despite the lighter he always carried, he never smoked. Fire, after all, wasn’t good for a gold dragon. Glancing at the Numbai, he murmured, “A bourbon...neat.”

The waiter nodded. “May I offer you a private booth, sire?”

“I’ll take it at the bar.”

“Very good, my lord.”

As the servant turned toward the long mahogany bar at the back of the club, Nian returned his attention to the Nightfuries. The end stool sat just feet away from them. It was now or never. He might not get another opportunity. Not with the rest of the Archguard watching him so closely. The youngest member of the high council, he’d ascended
to power three months ago when his sire had died in a duel. Now he headed one of the five dynastic families that ruled Dragonkind. A real player in a political landscape with the potential to influence the future success or failure of his race.

Nian took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and his heart with courage. He could do this. He held the power in his hands, enough perhaps to—

“Thinking about making new friends, are we?”

Nian stiffened as the Norwegian accent washed over him from behind. Hamersveld. Had to be. No other male slithered in or out quite that quietly. Or possessed such bad timing. A quick glance to his left confirmed what he already knew. Big. Blond. Annoying. The warrior-cum-Viking had the irritant-from-hell market cornered.

He met Hamersveld’s gaze, then shifted focus and...

Wonder of wonders. The bastard wasn’t alone. Nothing new there. The male rarely went anywhere without Fen...his
wren
. A subspecies of Dragonkind, wrens were small, light, fast in flight, and wholly vicious; raptor-like with short dual-clawed forepaws. Able to take human form, loyal to the point of fatalistic, the miniature dragons didn’t live in packs but bonded to a single male, swearing servitude until death separated him from his master.

But the true curiosity? Wrens were nearly extinct. Which begged the question: How the hell had Hamersveld gotten hold of one?

Not that Nian cared. The bastard could do what he wanted. As long as he left the club without mucking up his plan with the Nightfuries.

Feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel, Nian said, “Taken to following me around, have you?”

“You flatter yourself, whelp,” the older male murmured, amused condescension in his tone and more. It was the
more
that concerned Nian. Hamersveld’s cunning was legendary. Yes, the male might be antisocial, but he liked to play games. And if he could screw someone up in the process? So much the better. “I’m not the one looking for new playmates.”

“The world is relieved.”

“Question is...” Hamersveld paused for effect, no doubt searching for an angle. Nian’s fingers curled, the urge to hit the male almost too much to resist. Almost, but not quite. Showing his hand before he was ready wasn’t part of the plan. He stuffed the call to violence down deep as the Viking asshole leaned toward him. The scent of perfumed female flesh and seawater mixed, salting the air as the male said, “What do you need with more friends, Golden Boy? The Archguard elite not enough for you?”

The nickname wound him up another notch.

“Always good to know your enemy.” Glancing over his shoulder, Nian made light of his interest in the Nightfuries by murmuring, “Don’t you think?”

Shark-black eyes rimmed by pale blue met his. “Is it now?”

“Must be. I’ve been doing it with you for years, Sveld.”

“You always were a smart whelp,” the male said, amusement in his tone. “You ever wanna get your ass kicked, you know where to find me.”

He sure did. In the gutter. Along with all the other rats.

His eyes narrowed, he watched Hamersveld walk away, the wren trailing behind him. He clenched his teeth. Brimstone and hellfire, the pair was headed in the wrong direction. He wanted the warrior gone, far away, occupied
with a female, not planted inside the club with a bird’s-eye view. But as Hamersveld settled inside a private booth, the futility of his strategy hit Nian chest level. So much for reaching out to the Nightfuries tonight. The Norwegian bastard might be antisocial, but he had a big mouth. If Hamersveld saw him talking to Gage and Haider, the head of the high council would hear about it before sunrise.

Which would put him...where? Under a cloud of suspicion. Mistrusted by the most powerful males of his kind.

Disappointment swelled inside him. He must find a way. Get word to Haider. Somehow. Someway. And soon. The festival would conclude in less than three days, and the Metallics would leave...jump the pond to make the trip home. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Not without feeling them out first. He needed an ally to knock Rodin—leader of the Archguard—off his perch. The fact Nian planned to take his place was neither here nor there. His ambitions were his own concern.

And none of the Nightfuries’.

Calculating all the possibilities, Nian strode between tables on his way to the bar and his bourbon. Polished hardwood floors gleamed beneath the rasp of his designer shoes as melodic jazz piped through hidden speakers, drifting on wisps of cigar smoke. Fingering his lighter, Nian glanced to his right. Sprawled on the booth seat, tie loose, shirt collar open, big hand curled around a tumbler full of amber liquid, Gage narrowed his focus on him. Nian kept his expression neutral, satisfaction kicking his heartbeat into high gear. Good. Both warriors had noticed him. Were probably wondering what he was doing, leaving the comfort of the Archguard’s company to invade the club they’d claimed as their own for the duration of the festival.
Very soon he hoped to tell them. Maybe even tonight. But only if Hamersveld buggered off and—

A scream ripped through the club, shredding the forlorn sound of a saxophone.

Zeroing in on the terror-filled cry, Nian pivoted toward the emergency exit. Too late. The Metallics were already on their feet. With a snarl, Gage hammered the handle locking the steel door in place. A band of bright light flooded the club, cutting a wide swath across the floor. He blinked, squinting against the glare as the Nightfury males roared over the threshold into the stairwell beyond.

Nian followed at a more sedate pace. No sense getting in the males’ way. Not when a female was involved. He knew how much they hated to see the fairer sex hurt. The two would no doubt knock his teeth down his throat if he interfered. Not exactly the best way to forge international relations with the warrior pack he needed in his corner.

Fatigue tugging on her like a two-year-old, Tania rubbed her eyes. God, her head hurt. Maybe even more than her hands. Which was saying something considering the shredded condition of her nails. Even with Mac’s patch-up job and the Polysporin, she still ached, the beat of her heart an echoing throb in her fingertips. The heels of her palms didn’t feel much better.

Bruised. She was undeniably bruised, and not just on the outside. Her paradigm had shifted in a big way, making confusion her new best friend. Now she struggled to cope...to cobble together all she’d seen and not call herself crazy.

Which, honestly? Qualified as
crazy
.

She should be questioning her sanity. Or at the very least wondering when she’d been slipped the mind-altering drugs. Either option seemed a safe bet, an excellent explanation for why she sat playing poker with a man who could turn into a dragon. Tania frowned at her cards. Unbelievable. A frickin’-frackin’ dragon! A creature that appeared in fairy tales (usually as the bad guy) to amp up the tension and frighten little kids at bedtime.

Tania wasn’t immune. She
was
scared. Was still somewhere south of freaked out while riding a northbound psycho train called “trust him.” Slipping the jack of spades in beside the ace of diamonds, she took stock of her hand and shook her head.

Right.
Trust Mac.

As if she wanted to do that after all the crap he’d pulled tonight.

Too bad
want
didn’t have a thing to do with it. Not with
need
leading the charge. He’d promised to keep her safe, and, despite everything, she believed him. No second-guessing. No doubting it. Just full-on faith. Which was full-on bizarre. She didn’t trust easily. Evidence of that peppered her personal life: no boyfriend, many acquaintances, but few good friends.

But there was something about Mac. He was solid. Safe. Appealing in a way that drew her. Now she felt connected somehow, aware of him on a level she hadn’t known existed, never mind experienced before.

Wedged into the corner of the deep-seated sofa, Tania peeked over the top of her cluster of diamonds and spades. She watched him for a moment. Aquamarine eyes on his own hand, he rearranged his cards, his big hands somehow graceful despite their size. What a puzzle he presented. Lethal in a fight yet always gentle with her. Gorgeous without knowing it. Confident without being arrogant. No denying it. He was a conundrum. One she itched to solve so badly curiosity took hold, nudging her in directions she didn’t want to go.

Dangerous. He was dangerous. And she was out of her league.

Dragging her gaze away from his hands, Tania shivered. He could hurt her if she let him get too close. If she
trusted too far, too fast. If she gave him the upper hand and allowed him to call the shots. She needed to stay even to figure it out...and get back to the real world. One that made sense and where she was in control.

Tonight, though, that seemed like a stretch. Beyond her reach, never mind her capacity to achieve.

Another shiver skated down her spine. She tugged the blanket higher around her shoulders. Soft fleece brushed her nape, keeping her warm, but as far as armor went it wasn’t much help. She felt exposed...way too raw, unable to deny her dependence on the man sitting on the floor opposite her. With a sigh, Tania rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Ridiculous. Her. The situation. All of it. And she needed a distraction. Right now. Before she broke down and did something stupid, like leave the nest she’d made on the couch and hop over the coffee table to settle in Mac’s arms.

God help her, but she needed a hug in the worst way.

Pressure built, rising like a storm inside her. As it squeezed around her chest, Tania swallowed the burn of tears and glanced toward the fireplace. Just beyond Mac, embers flickered on a bed of ash, casting a comforting glow, making shadows dance across the floor-to-ceiling wainscoting. The fire’s hypnotic pull tugged at her, smoothing out the tension. She watched flames lick between the logs, her eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Mac cleared his throat.

Tania blinked and glanced his way. When he gave her a pointed look, she got back in the game, forcing herself to concentrate. It didn’t go well. She was too tired, and everything about poker was too complicated. She could barely remember her own name, never mind what constituted a good hand.