Fury of Seduction (Dragonfury Series #3) (2 page)

The “we” in the sentence pissed Mac off, even though it shouldn’t. Every Dragonkind male was assigned a mentor after going through the
change
—a full-fledged warrior to teach him the ropes and get him through dragon combat training. Forge was his, and, honestly, Mac was thankful for the lethal SOB most of the time. But after screwing
with his flow a moment ago, the male was officially on his shit list. “Go away. I need to get a handle on this before the others get up for the night.”

“Everyone’s already awake and in the kitchen.”

Mac gritted his teeth. He was out of time, and with the evening meal on the table, out of luck too. In another hour, the Nightfuries would ramp up for a night filled with their favorite activity...hunting and killing Razorbacks. Where would that leave him? Climbing the walls as he got left behind. Again.

“B send you to get me?” Mac asked, trying to stem the flow of disappointment.

“Bastian wants the entire pack together,” Forge said, pushing away from the doorjamb. “Something about a shared meal.”

Stretching out his shoulders, Mac nodded. Probably not a bad idea. The Nightfury pack had suffered a shake-up in recent days as everyone adjusted to the fact he and Forge were now in the fold. Accepting new members into a tight military unit was never easy. Mac knew it from experience. His time in the human world—first as part of SEAL Team Six and then as a detective for the Seattle Police Department—had taught him a few things. First among them? Trust was imperative to solidify a group. ’Cause, yeah: if you didn’t trust a guy, no way you wanted him protecting your six in a firefight.

The fact Bastian not only understood the principle but was taking steps to rectify the problem wasn’t a surprise. The Nightfury commander was tight in the head, solid in the heart, and wicked smart with a shitload of vicious up front and center. The pack’s cohesion and the health of each member was priority one for him. Especially
considering the volatile mix of personalities and short tempers that called Black Diamond home.

“So...” Mac raised a brow. “We gonna have a love-in or something?”

“I wouldnae go that far.” Forge flashed straight white teeth, the grin devilish. “Frosty’s still pissed at me.”

“With good reason,” Mac murmured, fighting a smile. Rikar (aka Frosty and the Nightfury first-in-command) wanted his pound of flesh, and Forge topped his list of
I’m-gonna-rip-your-head-off
. Thank Jesus. Mac had enough to worry about at the moment. Getting his face rearranged by Rikar for leaving the guy’s mate unprotected during a showdown with the rogues was something he didn’t need. “Ange’ll bring him around.”

“Shite, I hope not.” A twinkling in his eyes, Forge grimaced, feigning alarm. “I’m looking forward tae the fight.”

Mac shook his head, enjoying his new friend’s cocky attitude. He shared it most of the time. Too bad the strain of the day had sucked the swagger right out of him.

Returning his gaze to the gym mats, Mac said, “Go eat, man. I’ll be up in a bit.”

“Mac—”

“Give me another hour. I’ve almost got it.”

Movement flashed in his periphery, and Mac cursed under his breath. Fucking Forge. The male had no intention of leaving him alone. Planned to drag him out of the underground lair by his balls and haul him topside for the meal. Mac knew it like he was standing there, bare feet planted, heart pumping, and fists clenched. He could smell Forge’s concern as the soft thud of footfalls echoed across the gym, ping-ponging off cinder block walls, coming closer by the second.

His head down, Mac tracked the sound, his peripheral vision sharp. Black combat boots came into view. Forge stopped at the edge of the exercise mats. Mac tensed, waiting for the male to cross into his airspace and get in his face. Fuck him, but he hoped Forge made that mistake. He needed a fight. Yearned for a ball-busting, knuckle-grinding brawl. Maybe then he’d feel whole again. Less like a failure and more like himself.

Mentor or not, it didn’t matter. A target was a target. And if Forge decided to accommodate him and slap a bull’s-eye in the center of his forehead, all the better.

The only thing Tania Solares hated more than ugly shoes was being late. The first problem, after all, a girl could fix. Improve. Improvise. Whatever. The second, however, meant she was screwed. Which, come to think of it, pretty much summed up her day. And as far as mistakes went? Not her favorite in the perpetual string of crap that had been thrown her way over the last few weeks.

Forget about running on empty into emotional and mental overload. She was in quicksand territory, waist-deep and sinking fast. No life preserver to grab onto or rescue crew in sight.

Blowing out a long breath, Tania raked the hair out of her eyes and downshifted into the S curve. Her ’64 Mini Cooper purred and swung around the bend, catapulting her into the next turn. Oh yeah, she loved this stretch of highway. It was fun to drive. Made her feel powerful, like a Formula One driver racing for the finish line.

Not today, though. The usual feel-good vibe was 100 percent absent, leaving her feeling empty inside. Nothing but one big ache as she thought of her sister...the entire
reason behind the solitary road trip. Tania did it twice a month, opening up her baby’s performance engine around curves and down straightaways on the drive from Seattle to Gig Harbor.

Which was just plain awful.

She really needed to make the trip more often. Should visit her younger sister every weekend, not twice a month. Thank God J.J. understood the demands of a busy career. Always wanted to hear about her job and the cool projects she worked on.

A landscape designer at a prestigious firm, Tania had plenty of stories to tell: project management, design problems and solutions, clients with more cash than brains sometimes. The subject didn’t matter. J.J. soaked up every tidbit. But that didn’t make it right. The demands of her job shouldn’t come first. Not when her sister needed her. She was all J.J. had—her sister’s only lifeline to the outside world, so...no, the long stretches between visits weren’t okay.

But God help her. She couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t swallow her fear or push back the feeling she wasn’t doing anything right. No matter how many pep talks Tania gave herself—or how many lists she made—something always fell through the cracks. Too many balls in the air. Too many demands on her time. Too many opportunities to screw up.

And joy of joys? Today qualified as a big, big,
big
one.

She was late. So very late. Now her sister would be waiting...wondering...worrying she wasn’t coming.

Her throat went tight. Classic. Another ball dropped, more guilt to throw on the ever-growing pile. Another thing to apologize for...’cause, yup: it was her fault. She should never have picked up the phone on her way out the door. That had been her first mistake. And the second? Being
too nice, getting suckered into answering a bunch of survey questions about her shopping habits. Tania grumbled and, shifting gears on a winding incline, shook her head.

Curse her gung ho “Sure, I’ll help...no problem” nature. She really needed to learn to say no. And mean it.

And while she was at it,
refusing
to take no for an answer might be a useful skill to master. The perfect example? The flipping Seattle Police Department. They kept blowing her off. No matter how many times she went to the precinct—being a superpest was fast becoming her specialty—and asked them to
do something
, no one ever listened. And the detectives in charge of the case?

Total jerks.

Tania swallowed past the lump in her throat. Ah, nuts, not again. She needed to keep it together. Crying wouldn’t solve anything. Lord knew the waterworks hadn’t done anything but mess her up all week, but...

She blinked, berating herself as her vision went blurry, tears defying her, pushing to the surface while she tried to hold them back. Tania wiped beneath her eyes. Well, snap...so much for her mascara. Not that she cared about the way she looked at the moment. A case of raccoon eyes, after all, was the least of her worries.

Myst was still missing.

Gone, kidnapped, dead, Tania didn’t know. Her best friend could be in the hands of a serial killer or worse—although, come to think of it...a psycho killer was the absolute worst she could, or wanted, to imagine—and what were those bonehead cops doing?

Nothing. Not a damned thing.

Certainly not returning her calls. Big surprise there. She figured they’d call her back just to get rid of her...
particularly since she overloaded their in-boxes with messages every day. But neither Keen nor MacCord had responded. Worse than that, though? Tania suspected the detectives had gone missing too. And she should know. She’d been forced into stalker mode, trying to get a line on them.

So far, though, she’d come up with exactly nothing. A big fat zero on the information front. Which pushed all the wrong buttons on her internal PlayStation and Tania into a pile of trouble. Case in point? Her decision to team up with a reporter, a man-eater with no moral fiber and too much ambition. Now she was the star interviewee in an ongoing exposé about police incompetence in the cover-up of missing Seattle women.

She cringed, her hand tightening around the gearshift. Not her proudest moment. But with Myst’s life at stake, getting down and dirty to light a fire under the cops’ butts seemed like the best option.

Spotting her turnoff ahead, Tania swiped at another tear and braked, slowing down to wheel her Mini into the driveway. The short lane dumped her into a huge parking lot. Maneuvering like a pro in the tight space, she turned into the first aisle and scanned the row of vehicles, searching for a spot. Saturdays were always busy at the Washington State Correction Center for Women, a popular time for family and friends to visit those locked behind bars and barbed wire. Her sight line even with back bumpers and all-terrain tires, she trolled for a minute, looking for—

Red taillights flashed up ahead.

An early bird. Thank God. She didn’t have time to muck around. Not with an hour left of visiting time. By now, J.J. would be climbing the walls. Which, yeah, was a
pretty good analogy considering the size of the double-occupancy prison cells.

Awful in every way. But if you did the crime, you did the time.

Her sister was no exception.

The five years her sister had been incarcerated, though, hadn’t made visiting J.J. any easier. Tania missed her little sister more with each passing day. The absence left a hole in the center of her life, the place where family lived, and ever since losing their mom to cancer, she—

Tania shook her head. Nope. No way she was going there. The loss was still too painful, the memories more than she could bear on a good day. And today didn’t qualify as one of those.

Braking to a stop in the middle of the lane, Tania flipped on her turn signal and waited for the early bird to pull out. The Chevy’s V-8 rumbled, cracking through the quiet as the driver drove away. Tania put her foot down and zipped into the empty space, enjoying the maneuverability of her Mini. Red with white racing stripes, her girl was a classic. A throwback to a simpler time and place, one without active park assist, GPS chips, and built-in cell phones.

Fine by her. She didn’t need all the bells and whistles, just a performance engine and a whole lot of open road.

Shifting her baby into park, Tania cranked the emergency brake and reached for the oversize handbag sitting on the passenger seat. After tossing her keys inside, she plopped it in her lap and, with quick hands, found a hair elastic in one of the side pockets. Raking her thick strands back in a hurry, she ran through her usual checklist. Ponytail? Check. Wallet with ID and keys? Double check. No personal items and...

Oops. Her iPad had to go. No sense bringing it inside and giving Officer Griggs (aka the weasel) any more ammunition. The oily prison guard always worked Saturdays—oh joy, lucky her—and never missed an opportunity to go through her stuff with a fine-tooth comb.

And getting frisked by the weasel? Oh so not on her list of things to do...ever.

With a grimace, she tucked her favorite gadget into the workbag sitting on the floor in the backseat, between the stack of dog-eared architectural/landscape plans and client files. All right. Good to go. No contraband. Nothing too personal in her purse. She was ready to face Griggs and his barrage of crude innuendos.

Taking a fortifying breath, Tania popped the door open and slid out. Treetops swayed against the darkening sky, skeletal limbs rising above the SUV parked in front of her. As she watched the shadowed redwoods dance in the autumn breeze, she palmed the top of the car door and, with a flick, slammed the—

“Ouch!” she yelped as the sharp door edge clipped her. Pain streaked up her thigh. Tania dropped her purse. Holding the side of her knee, she hopped around on one foot. “Oh shit...oh shit, shit, shit.”

Man, that stung. She gave the sore spot another rub. “Frickin’-frack, that’s gonna leave a mark.”

Gritting her teeth, she snagged her handbag off the wet pavement. Time to go. Her sister was waiting, but as she hurried across the parking lot, dread welled in the pit of her stomach. Visiting J.J. always hit her the same way...like a sucker punch. She loved her sister but didn’t like coming here. Hated seeing the toll prison took on her sibling. Hated the steel doors, barbed wire fences, and
stark, businesslike hallways. But most of all, Tania hated knowing there was nothing she could do to help.