Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

burns on the pads of his paws, he scanned the area. Not a soul in sight. Perfect. He didn’t need any witnesses, human or otherwise. Not if he wanted to get MacCord out in one piece.
    Cloaked by magic, invisible to the naked eye, he swept the scene again, waiting for his comrades to land. Industrial. Quiet. Nothing but steel-clad warehouses and chain-link fencing. The shipyard’s security screamed “stay out,” the setup complete with bright lights, barbed wire, and bad attitude. Well, all right. A whole lot of pissed off he could handle. The sound of ocean waves crashing into the breakwater, sending spray twenty feet in the air as docks bobbed and wood creaked? Rikar rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension. Yeah, not his favorite thing.
    Christ, he hoped Sloan’s intel was good. The last thing they needed was a wild goose chase. Not with dawn twenty minutes away. But…shit. A boat? The male lived on a fucking boat ? Rikar grimaced. What kind of dragon did that?
    The soft snick of claws sounded behind him.
    Glancing over his shoulder, Rikar nodded as Bastian tucked his midnight-blue wings and shifted, moving from dragon to human form. As the leather trench coat settled across B’s back, covering him from shoulder to knee, he stomped his foot into one of his shitkickers. The thud-thud echoed, bouncing off boats, skimming the choppy surface of the water as Venom landed on the closest warehouse.
    Perched like the angel of death, the big male leaned over the steel edge. Ruby eyes flashing, horned head swiveling left to right, his green scales glinted as he mind-spoke, “Go to it, boys . I’m the lookout . ”
    “There aren’t any Razorbacks in the area, Ven . ”
    “A pity.” Folding his wings against his sides, Venom kept his eyes on the sky. “Would’ve been fun to kick some more tail tonight . ”
    Rikar snorted.
    B shook his head, then glanced at him. “So, what are we looking at here?”
    “My guess?” Following his commander’s lead, Rikar transformed and conjured his clothes. “A water dragon.”
    “Thought they were a myth.”
    “I’ve never met one either, but it makes sense, B.” Giving the area another visual sweep, his eyes narrowed on the fourth finger dock. The Chris-Craft didn’t fit…was out of place in a shipyard full of tugboats. “If what Sloan dug up is right, the male likes water…was with the SEAL teams for seven years.”
    “Sloan’s never wrong,” B said, an unhappy look on his puss. “And there isn’t a dragon alive…prechange or not…that likes water.”
    No kidding. Just standing next to the ocean gave Rikar the creeps.
    Which, naturally, pissed him off.
    Fear wasn’t in his bag of tricks. He rarely felt it, but right now…knowing he was not only headed toward it, but about to climb on board a freaking motor yacht? Rikar grimaced. The memory was so not going in his photo album under the “happiest moment” of his life.
    Rikar put his feet in gear anyway and jogged toward the Chris-Craft. Had he been into boats, he would’ve said she was beautiful, all curved lines and sleek body. But he wasn’t, so he scowled at the bitch instead, silently cursing the male who’d brought him to the shipyard.
    The urge to turn around and walk away thrummed through him. The problem? He couldn’t leave the male vulnerable, prey to something he didn’t understand. Supposition? Maybe, but Rikar didn’t think so. MacCord had been raised outside the safety of a pack, without any knowledge of his Dragonkind sire. But had his father known about him, the male would never have left his son alone in the human world.
    It simply wasn’t done. Ever.
    Add that to the fact Angela cared about him, and yeah, Rikar was on the hook. No way could he leave MacCord to suffer and expect his female to trust him.
    Ammunition. He needed ammunition—proof of his worth—when he got Angela back. Something to hold up and say, “See? Look at what an upstanding male I am.” If he walked away from the male cop now, she’d shoot him down without giving him a chance. Not something he wanted to think about, never mind experience firsthand.
    Reaching dock number four, he ignored the ocean sway and leapt over the gangplank. His feet landed with a thud on the dock. An instant later he slid to a stop alongside the Chris-Craft. “MacCord!”
    His voice carried across the water, ricocheting off boat hulls. Nothing came back. No answer from the male, just the groan of ropes and the soft creak of