Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

walked along the artsy-fartsy gauntlet that doubled as Black Diamond’s main corridor. His combat boots brushed over hardwood floors, barely making a sound, while white walls gleamed under halogens, spotlighting paintings with names like Picasso and Jackson Pollock, van Gogh and Renoir scrawled across the bottom corners of the canvases.
    Large and small. Colorful. Monochromatic. Etchings or charcoal line drawings.
    Hell, the place had it all. Was serious art gallery material—the Louvre on steroids.
    Not that Mac knew much about art. But from what he saw in the corridor, a boatload of cash had been dropped to dress up the walls. Not that he cared at the moment. He was too busy counting doors. The ones that marched down the hallway, interrupting the colorful art show with honey-colored wood.
    Nine. Ten. Eleven…jackpot. Rikar’s bedroom door.
    Mac faced off with it for a second. The thing looked innocent enough. Just a collection of antique planks put together to form a barrier between here and there. Well, at least until you considered what had been going on behind the thing for the last two days. Mac clenched his teeth. Frickin’ guy. He didn’t know what to do first. Congratulate Rikar for keeping Angela in bed for forty-eight hours straight. Or knock the SOB’s teeth down his throat for sleeping with his baby sister.
    It was a toss-up, really.
    He wanted to do both. Play Cupid and the protective big brother all at the same time.
    Blowing out a breath, he rolled his shoulders, stretching out tense muscle. He needed to get himself under control before he knocked on the door. Hammering his XO wouldn’t win him any brownie points with Angela. She wanted Rikar—might even need the guy for more than just the physical pleasure he gave her.
    Exhibit A? No one had forced her into Rikar’s bedroom. No one was forcing her to stay there, either. So treading carefully was a good plan. Especially if he wanted to keep his balls where they belonged.
    Raising his hand, Mac rapped on the wood with his knuckle. Supersonic dragon hearing up and running, he heard sheets rustle, a sleepy murmur, then quiet footsteps approach the door. Within seconds, the knob turned and the door swung wide. Arctic air blew into his face, the kind that rivaled an Alaskan winter. He blinked, adjusting to the climate change, distracted as hell before—
    Jesus fucking Christ.
    His grip on the case’s handle tightened as his gaze met Rikar’s. Mac swallowed a growl. The male looked way too satisfied: pale eyes shimmering, body relaxed, so well fed he oozed nothing but mmm, mmm good. A vibe that bordered on obscene.
    Lucky bastard. Freaking jerk.
    Mac’s free hand curled into a fist. “How is she?”
    “Sleeping, but good.” Blocking the view into the room with his body, Rikar raised a brow. “You wanna hit me?”
    “Fucking right I do.”
    “I would kick your ass if you didn’t,” he said, his eyes full of understanding. “I get your need to protect her. I feel it, too, but…she’s my mate, Mac. The one I’ve been waiting for. I need her.”
    Need wasn’t good enough. Not for his baby sister. “Do you love her?”
    “Yes.”
    A quick affirmative. Good for Rikar. Less great for him. Looked like he wouldn’t be knocking any of his XO’s teeth down his throat. At least not today.
    “All right, then,” he said, exhaling a pent-up breath. His muscles uncoiled, following the natural flow, and the tension drained, washing down his spine and out through the bottoms of his shitkickers. “But you hurt her…so much as one hair on her head? I’ll open up your skull and rip out your brain. We clear?”
    “I hear ya.” Rikar’s lips twitched as he stepped toward him. Slapping his hand to Mac’s shoulder, the male squeezed, then nodded at the rifle case he carried. “Is that it?”
    “Yeah.”
    Rikar frowned. “You sure about this?”
    “She’s a better shot than I am.” Which was saying something. Mac was an excellent marksman, his reputation in the SEAL teams garnering him some serious high-five action back in the day. But Angela’s skill with a long-range rifle outdid even him. She could hit a target—just KO the frickin’ thing—from nine hundred yards out. Incredible by any standards, but in sniper circles and among Seattle SWAT, she was revered for her steady hand and lethal accuracy. “Set her up a thousand yards out, and she’ll shred the target every time.”
    “What about a moving one?”
    “How much time we