Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

gunfire, ripping a path up the beach as, paws still in midair, Lothair’s spiked tail whipped full circle. The sharp tip caught Angela, flipped her over, sent her into a whiplashing spin. She screamed in pain. Rikar roared as the smell of her blood filled the air.
    Oh, God…no. “Angela!”
    His shout echoed, giving voice to his fear as he watched her tumble across the frozen sand like a rag doll. Claws digging into ice, he hauled ass, stretching his limbs, running like a cheetah to reach her. “Venom…cover me!”
    “Go !” The deep growl belonged to Wick. The male streaked overhead, moving like a black-and-gold lightning strike. “Grab her and get out.”
    Rikar didn’t hesitate.
    Neither did Wick.
    Blue-orange flame shot from the warrior’s mouth. The ball of poison gas exploded against the night sky. Scrambling in full retreat, Lothair unfurled his wings and went airborne, leaving his hostage behind on the ground. With a clear line of sight, Rikar slid sideways onto the shoreline. The second his talons left ice, he tucked his head and rolled, shifting to human form midrotation.
    Bad move? Absolutely.
    He was more vulnerable without his scales, but…shit. He needed his hands to help his female. To find her wounds and stanch the blood flow. And as he sprinted toward her—shitkickers sinking in snow and sand, heart hammering his breastbone—he prayed she was still whole and breathing. He would never forgive himself if she died.
    Reaching her side, he dropped to his knees. She lay belly down, red hair matted with sweat, face hidden behind her out-flung arm. He checked her vitals, her spinal column, working fast, one eye on the sky as dragons roared overhead. Go Venom and Wick. The boys had his back, pushing Lothair away, giving him the time he needed to check Angela.
    Nothing broken. Time for the gentle flip-over.
    She whimpered when he rolled her. Oh, thank fuck. She was still alive, but…
    Christ help him.
    Blood ran from a gash on her temple, and that was nothing compared to her leg. The bastard’s sharp tail had clipped her skin, slicing her thigh wide open. And oh, God…the blood. It was everywhere, all over her and on his hands, staining the blanket of snow beneath her.
    A quick shrug-and-tug and his leather jacket landed beside her. His T-shirt came off next. With quick hands, he twisted the cotton into a makeshift bandage and wound it over then under, binding the cut. He needed to stop the bleeding and get her to Black Diamond…and Myst. A nurse practitioner, Bastian’s female specialized in medical emergencies. She would know how to help Angela.
    “Hold on, angel.” He kept working, wrapping the cotton around her leg. “Come on, Angela…hold on for me.”
    She stirred at the sound of his voice. As her eyelashes flickered, her hazel gaze lit him up, tugging at his heartstrings. But her voice? Shit, she undid him as she whispered, “You…”
    “Yes, angel…it’s me.” Unable to help himself, he cupped her cheek, held eye contact even though he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t have time to waste. “Angela, baby, I need to move you. It’s gonna hurt, but hang tight for me. I’ll get you help.”
    “R.” Pale skin aglow in moonlight, she shivered violently, making him afraid for her. “You’re…my R. I r-remember you.”
    Hers .
    Jesus fucking Christ. He was a pansy. A freak for craving her ownership, for wanting to be claimed by a female he’d done nothing but hurt. And as he wrapped her in his leather jacket, protecting her from ice and snow, and cradled her close, Rikar cursed himself. His nature. The plague of his kind.
    His obsession with her would end badly. He knew it, but somehow didn’t care.
    He wanted her. And she needed to live. If she didn’t, he would never have a chance to convince her of his worth…to make her crave him as much as he did her.
    A long shot? Without a doubt. But as Rikar shifted, unfurled his wings, and leapt skyward with her curled like a kitten in his paws, he reminded himself he never took the easy route.
    Yeah, he’d always been a long odds kind of male.

Chapter Nine
     
    Both arms bent, hands tucked behind his head, Forge lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Not that there was much to see. No cracks or pockmarks, just grainy gray concrete surrounded by a whole lot of cold, hard, and mean. He snorted. Aye, without a doubt. The Nightfuries got full marks for thoroughness. The place was rock solid. A prison’s prison.
    Not