Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

needed him to love her as much as she did him. Craved the words. Needed the ceremony. The whole kit and caboodle.
    Calling herself an idiot, Angela trotted up a set of flagstone steps. As her boots met the patio, a gust of wind came up, rattling the windowpanes of the French doors. The dining room lay on the other side of the glass—her office for the last week. She’d started out in the computer lab, but Sloan liked his privacy, and Angela understood. The high-tech com-center was the guy’s baby, and even though he tried to hide it Sloan didn’t want anyone else in there.
    So she’d packed up the boxes—all the missing persons reports—and moved upstairs. Which, of course, delighted Mac. It put him a hop, skip, and a jump away from the kitchen and his new best friend…Daimler, the culinary wizard.
    With a snort, she closed the distance to the house. A soft click. A hard yank. The door swung wide and she stepped inside, out from beneath the setting sun. Night wasn’t far off. An hour, maybe two, and the Nightfuries would be itching to set the trap and line up a bunch of Razorbacks to kill.
    Angela couldn’t wait. She needed to feel powerful again. To sight down the barrel of her M25 and put a hole in the rat-bastard’s forehead.
    Her gaze on the neat stacks of folders piled on the glossy tabletop, she kicked the door closed behind her and approached the table. Two new files sat in the center of her work space, yellow Post-it notes with Sloan’s messy scrawl front and center on the cover of each one. Crap. More missing women. Angela swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.
    There were so many. Young girls. Teenagers. But it was the ones in their late teens to midtwenties she concentrated on.
    According to Rikar, a female didn’t come into her energy until then, so no use wasting time on those the Razorbacks wouldn’t go after. Or try to enslave. Angela grimaced. Nasty rogue bastards. They’d imprisoned two she knew about and tried to do the same to her. How many more had they kidnapped in the last week and a half?
    Lifting the M25, she set the rifle down on the end of the tabletop—gently…Daimler would kick her ass if she scratched the glossy surface—and reached for the twin folders. Just as her hand closed around them, movement flashed in her periphery.
    She glanced toward the archway into the kitchen. Daimler came roaring into the dining room, a plate piled high with cookies, eyes sparkling, a big grin on his face. Mac was right on his heels, trying to reach over the Numbai’s shoulder. The butler dodged the attempt, holding the plate out of reach.
    “Hey, man…come on,” her partner said, the whine in his voice unmistakable. “Gimme some of those.”
    “These are for my lady,” Daimler said, thwarting another of Mac’s sneak attack attempts. Angela bit down on a smile as she watched the pair, trying to wrap her brain around the my lady . Jeez, talk about prim and proper. The Numbai needed to move into the twenty-first century. “You may have some after she has taken her fill.”
    Mac looked at her over the butler’s head, and she got hit with big puppy-dog eyes, the please-please-please unmistakable. She huffed, amusement spreading like a disease. Torture by way of cookie. How fun.
    “Thanks, Daimler,” she said, denying him her treat.
    Mac grumbled, giving her a dirty look.
    She grinned at her partner. “You help me with the MP reports, and I’ll give you some of my cookies.”
    “Extortionist.”
    “You know it.”
    “My lady!” Daimler’s high squeak brought her head around. Oh, crap. He’d noticed the M25. Pursing his lips, he gave her a stern look. “No guns on the dining room table.”
    “Sorry.” Ditching the folders on the table, Angela scrambled for her rifle. She heard Mac chuckle as she scooped it off the tabletop. She glared at her partner, then turned apologetic eyes on Daimler. “Won’t happen again.”
    His brows raised, the Numbai gave her a pointed look.
    She crossed her heart. “Promise.”
    The butler stared a second longer, then nodded, and set the plate down next to her stack of reports. His eyes back to twinkling, he tipped his head in Mac’s direction. “Don’t let him eat them all, my lady. They’re your favorite, after all.”
    Yes, they were. Peanut butter chocolate chip, heavy on the chocolate. And oh, boy, did they smell good—like Saturday afternoons and snacks at the skating rink.
    With a murmured “okay,” Angela set her gun in