Fury of Seduction (Dragonfury Series #3) (5 page)

“Cross my heart.”

Exhaling long and smooth, she pushed the folded white square toward her sister. Her fingers trembled as
she relinquished her secret and drew away, leaving the letter for her sister to grab. Tania plucked the paper off the tabletop and, after a quick check on the guard’s location, unfolded the paper.

“Oh my God, J.J.” True to her word, Tania kept her voice down, but when she looked up tears filled her eyes. “This is from the parole board.”

“I know,” she said, blinking to combat the rise of her own tears. Goddamn it.
Don’t cry...do not cry.
But even as she fought the growing tide, hope swelled inside her, making her chest so tight she struggled to breathe. Hanging on by a fingernail, she beat back the surging tide of emotion. “The hearing’s in a month. Tania, if all goes well, I could be—”

“Released.” Her gaze locked on the letter, Tania rasped, “Out on parole. Thank God...oh thank you, God.”

J.J. nodded, feeling as shell-shocked as her sister looked. The ache started up again. Raising her hand, she rubbed the spot over her heart, struggling to stay calm, willing Tania to do the same. But, man, the possibility of parole was unexpected, so mind-boggling that even now, a whole two days after receiving the news, J.J. couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t accept that a mistake hadn’t been made...that the contents of the letter weren’t meant for someone else.

Someone better. More deserving. Less guilty and regret-filled.

The paper trembled, crinkling as her sister’s hands shook. Ah, crap. Not good. If Tania lost it, she would too, and a blubber-fest in front of witnesses was the last thing she needed. Especially surrounded by inmates who wouldn’t hesitate to make her life hell—maybe even try to muck up her chance of parole by setting her up with the guards—if they knew about the letter.

Jealousy, after all, was an awful thing, and “accidents” happened all the time. Drugs got planted and people beaten up—or worse...stabbed—for a lot less than receiving a chance at freedom.

So, yeah. Tania needed to keep it together. Otherwise J.J. would be in for a world of hurt when she got back to her cell.

Mac grunted as he unwrapped the uppercut beneath Forge’s chin. The male’s head snapped back. Pain throbbed up his arm. His muscle screamed, burning with fatigue. He growled in pleasure. Oh man...hitting his mentor was
so
the shit. The real frickin’ deal, exactly what he needed to kill the frustration. A ball-breaking fight without an ounce of regret.

No worries. No need to hold back or pull his punches.

No one would die here today.

End up bruised, bloodied, and headed to the in-house clinic in the underground lair? Fucking A. But Mac didn’t give a damn. Forge handled himself beautifully: fists raised, purple gaze shimmering, giving as good as he got. And, oh baby, the backlash—each punishing blow the guy landed—felt like heaven, so damned good Mac didn’t know what to do first...hit Forge or thank God.

He settled for both and nailed the male again. Bone cracked against bone. Forge cursed and stumbled sideways. Showing no mercy, Mac unleashed another body
shot, hammering the guy’s rib cage. An unforgiving crack echoed, ricocheting off the gymnasium’s high ceiling. Each curse and groan played like a heavenly sound track—a lullaby that soothed Mac’s pride—as the fight moved from brutal and intense to halfhearted.

Mac circled left. Forge limped right, struggling to stay on his feet. About time too. Built like a tank, the guy could take a lot of punishment, but it was getting ridiculous now. With his anger fading, Mac didn’t want to fight anymore. Too bad he couldn’t stop. Pride wouldn’t let him. The sting of failure was still too fresh. He needed to win at something, instead of failing at everything. So, yeah...no way was he backing down until Forge cried uncle.

Which posed a major problem.

Pride, it seemed, wasn’t a one-way street. Proof positive lay in the fact he and his mentor were doing the two-step down the middle of it, ’cause...yeah, Forge didn’t want to lose, either. But worse than that? The male hadn’t yet realized he couldn’t win. Not against Mac in human form. Sure, Forge might be lethal in dragon form, but with fists and feet, Mac reigned supreme. A martial arts expert, he’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and taught to inflict maximum damage. Which meant sooner or later he’d be forced to back off or hurt his buddy.

His brows drawn tight, Mac took a step back, giving his friend some breathing room. Wiping a trickle of blood from beneath his nose, he asked, “Had enough yet?”

“Bloody hell,” Forge rasped and, pressing his elbow to his side, hugged his rib cage. With a groan, he bowed his head, hit one knee, then crumpled into a heap on the floor. “What the hell was that?”

“Kung fu.”

“Bugger me...where did you learn it?” Giving up all pretense, Forge turned belly-up. Splayed out in the middle of the basketball court, he stared up at the ceiling. “Bruce fucking Lee?”

“Got interested while I was on an op with my SEAL unit,” he said, the adrenaline rush fading. Agony took its place. Mac winced, feeling each blow Forge had landed. Exhaling hard, he collapsed next to his friend on the hardwood. “Been studying it ever since.”

Forge swiped at the cut above his eye. His fingers came away covered in blood. With a grunt, he wiped a red smear on his T-shirt. “You’re going tae teach me...every last move. And tae shoot too.”

“You like guns?” Mac flexed his fingers. Pain screamed up his forearm as he checked for busted knuckles.

“Never held one, but I want tae learn.”

“Done.”

It was the least he could do, considering he’d just beaten the snot out of the guy. And as perverse as it sounded, he was looking forward to another round. Teaching Forge the basics would give him the opportunity to smack him around some more. ’Cause, man, now that he’d burned off the excess energy, his muscles unlocked, unfurling into relaxation.

Pure heaven.

Now all he needed was a swim. Too bad Black Diamond didn’t have a pool. At least not yet.

Daimler—the Nightfuries’ go-to guy—had something in the works with some hoity-toity landscape firm. Mac couldn’t wait to get his hands on the plans. The sooner, the better, but he was exercising patience...and trying not to think about the company Daimler hired. But it was hard.
Especially since he knew who worked there. Tania Solares, sex kitten extraordinaire and best friend to Bastian’s mate. So, yeah, he understood the connection and why she’d been given the contract, but...shit. No wonder he had trouble sleeping. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or her.
She
polluted every thought that ran through his head.

Which didn’t work for him at all.

He’d only met her once—barely talked to her—but from the moment he’d seen Tania across the SPD squad room...

Bam! Reason ceased to exist while desire took control.

With a sigh, Mac rolled to his feet. Time for a distraction. The last thing he needed was another go-around with the woman who invaded his dreams.

Stretching out his bruised shoulder, Mac glanced at Forge. “You coming?”

“Do I have tae?”

“Ah, poor baby.”

“Go fuck yerself.”

Effective if a little less than poetic. “Come on, man. You want Daimler down here kicking our asses because we ruined the meal?”

Like all the males in the lair, the thought of upsetting Daimler put Forge in gear. The Numbai was awesome to the next power. No way anyone wanted to piss him off. Whoever did might end up neglected. As Forge pushed to his feet, he grumbled, “You know I’ll get you back. Just wait until dragon combat training tonight.”

Mac put his middle finger to good use and flipped his friend the bird. “Pansy.”

“Fledgling.” Purple eyes glimmering, Forge smiled around his split lip. “You know you’re gonna—”

“What the hell are you two yahoos doing?” The deep voice rumbled across the gym, drifting beneath the buzz of industrial-grade fluorescents.

“Shite...company.” Forge threw him a warning look.

True enough. Had he listened, they’d already be upstairs, making Daimler happy with their unbruised, unbloodied presence.

“Playing pin the tail on the donkey,” Mac said, sarcasm out in full force as he turned toward the gym entrance.

Shitkickers planted between the doorjambs, Rikar’s pale gaze moved from him to Forge, then back again. “Which one of you is the ass?”

“Him,” he and Forge said at the same time, pointing at each other.

Rikar’s lips twitched. “Who won?”

“Me.”

“Unfair advantage.” Wincing, Forge rubbed the side of his knee. “Fucking guy knows kung fu.”

His XO’s amusement widened into a grin. “Handy.”

“Only if you’re not on the receiving end,” Forge muttered.

Mac shook his head but felt his heart expand. His chest went tight around a flood of gratefulness. Frickin’ guys. He knew what they were doing. With each word, they shored him up, making it clear that, despite everything, they valued him. Trusted him. Knew that sooner or later, he’d get in the game and master the magic—become one with his dragon half, so to speak—and become a full-fledged member of the Nightfury pack.

All he needed to do was believe.

Mac stifled a snort. Right.
Believe.
Simple, yet oh so complicated. Faith had never been his forte. He was a doer,
not a believer. And sitting on his duff praying everything worked out day in, day out? He hated every second of it.

Conjuring a T-shirt to go with his faded Levi’s, Mac strode across the gym. No sense avoiding the inevitable. He could argue with Forge—tell the guy to screw off and leave him alone—but not his XO. Rikar wouldn’t give him a free pass.

Nor should he.

The guy had saved his life, finding him before his dragon DNA kicked in and the
change
took hold. Not that Mac recalled much of it. Most of what occurred that day was nothing but a big blank. But he remembered Rikar with total clarity. Could still hear the male’s voice inside his head. Feel him as he connected through mind-speak, talked him through the pain, keeping his energy levels stable through seven hours of pure hell.

And that connection? A huge deal in Dragonkind circles.

The shared experience formed an unbreakable bond...a father–son vibe that spanned decades and demographics, shoved differences aside and tied males together. So, yeah, his respect for Rikar ran more than marrow-deep. He wanted to make the guy proud. To prove to himself and the others that Rikar’s faith in him wasn’t misguided.

“Everybody waiting?” Mac asked as he came even with the doorframe.

“Yeah. Daimler’s having six fits. The food’s getting cold.” Pale eyes roaming, Rikar scanned his face, the concern in his gaze palpable.

Mac ignored it, refusing to acknowledge his own worry or that his XO shared it. Talking about that kind of crap
never helped. Doing something about it was the only way through.

After a second, Rikar bowed out, respecting his silence, and glanced at the bruise on his cheekbone. “Feel better now?”

“Immeasurably.” Mac flexed his fist, enjoying the residual pain as the nicks pulled at his skin. “I should kick his ass every day.”

“You won’t get any argument from me.”

“Clever, lads,” Forge said, an eye roll in his voice. “And tae think, you wankers are now my brothers-in-arms.”

Amusement sparkled in Rikar’s ice-blue eyes. Mac grinned back. Thank God for Forge and his wicked sense of humor. Okay, so the Scottish lingo took some getting used to, but it was worth it. No one lightened the mood better than his mentor. Or would allow himself to get kung fu’ed for a good cause.

He hadn’t felt this relaxed in days.

Mac slapped the Scot’s shoulder to show his appreciation. When Forge nodded, Mac left the party of three and stepped into the corridor, where quiet took on a new meaning. Under the buzz of the heavy-duty industrial lights, the silence hadn’t been so complete. But outside it? Noise curled inward, playing keep-away, staying contained. Even the polished concrete floor was in on the game, absorbing each of his footfalls, eating the sound as he strode up a slight incline toward the elevators. The strip of halogens embedded in the floor acted like twin runways, throwing V-like splashes of illumination up the stone walls to touch twelve-foot ceilings.

Old
came to mind.

Honed from solid granite, the underground lair reeked of history. A century’s worth? A millennium’s? As far as Mac knew, the Nightfuries didn’t have a clue. No one talked about it...or cared. Safety mattered more than passing months unfolding into years. As long as the lair stayed secure—off both human and Razorback radar—no one gave a rat’s ass about the hows and whys of Black Diamond.

Walking beneath the foyer’s vaulted ceiling, Mac stopped in front of the elevators. He reached toward the control panel. A second before his finger made contact, he stopped, hand hovering an inch away, curiosity poking at him. His brow collided as he stared at the up button.

Baby steps.

Forge had been talking about the “little things” all week. About the sequence of learning. About respecting the magic enough not to rush it. Mac blew out a breath. Maybe it was time he pulled his head out of his ass and started to listen. To accept his mentor’s coaching instead of fighting to do it his own way.