Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

responding to the courage she showed.
    He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump.
    She glanced at the collar around his neck, the beep-beep-flash loud in the silence. Touching her fingers to her own throat, Myst met his gaze and said, “I’m sorry about that. Bastian doesn’t trust you.”
    His voice made an appearance…thank Jesus. “Smart male.”
    “The smartest.”
    “Enough tae know you’re here, female…without protection?” The second the words left his mouth, Forge wanted to kick himself.
    He shouldn’t be growling at her. Not if he wanted her on his side, but the conscience he said he’d ignore reared its ugly head. He planned to use her, so aye, it was only fair he give her a fair chance…forewarn her in some way. And if snarling at her a little evened the playing field, he’d live with that.
    Which didn’t make a lick of sense. Stupid collar was obviously giving him brain damage.
    “Nice try, Forge,” she said, rolling her eyes.
    His brows collided. Nice try?
    “Really…it was.” Pursing her lips, she tilted her head as though judging his performance. One hand on the stroller’s handle, she kept the canopy between him and his son. Good plan if she wanted to drive him flipping nuts. He couldn’t see a thing with the canvas in the way. “You get an A for effort on the tough-guy act, but I’m not convinced. You want to know why?”
    A little baffled by her, but mostly charmed, he dialed back the snarl factor. “Sure.”
    “You would no sooner hurt me than cut off your own arm.”
    Forge opened his mouth, then closed it again. Freaking female. She was whipcord smart. Way too perceptive. Which didn’t bode well for his game plan.
    “So, let’s make a deal, okay?” Moving around the side of the stroller, she pushed at the canvas, folding the canopy back. His throat went tight. Little hands. He could see his son’s wee fists waving from between the folds of a blue blanket. “You cut the crap, and I’ll stay a little longer. Maybe even introduce you to someone who’d like to meet you.”
    His gaze flashed back to Myst’s.
    She raised a brow.
    He scowled at her. “That’s blackmail.”
    “Yes, it is.” Expression serious, she waited, let the silence build, wielding her advantage and his desperation like a weapon. “So…what’s it gonna be? Will you behave or not?”
    “I’ll behave,” he said, feeling like a chastened four-year-old after a full-blown temper tantrum. Not that it mattered. She’d brought his son, so…fuck it. To hell with his pride. “May I see him…please?”
    Myst leaned down and gathered up the blue bundle. As she settled his lad in the crook of one arm, she murmured to him. The bairn cooed back. Forge exhaled, already fighting tears. Seconds ticked by, lasting forever as Myst adjusted the blanket and approached his prison cell. The barrier snapped, crackling in warning, and she flinched, stopping a few feet away.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t come any closer. The current will hurt him and—”
    “I know,” he said, the wait nearly killing him.
    With a soft smile, Myst tilted her arms, and he got his first glimpse of a wee face. His heart went loose inside his chest, and as the damn thing flopped around, he lost the battle. Tears gathered, blurring his vision. God, he was beautiful, so perfect it made him ache from the inside out.
    Wiping beneath one of his eyes, Forge studied his lad. Eyes wide open, he chewed on his fist, baby drool glistening on chubby fingers, dark Mohawk of hair shining in the low light. Unable to stop them, Forge’s fingers curled. He wanted to hold him, feel the slight weight of him in his arms, and listen to each happy sound he made.
    “Thank you,” he rasped, his throat so tight the words came hard. “Thank you for bringing him.”
    “He’s your son. You have a right to know him. Caroline would’ve wanted that.” Tears in her own eyes, she stroked the bairn’s cheek with her fingertip. “I named him Gregor.”
    He grimaced. “A human name?”
    “Oh, for goodness sake.” Making a sound of exasperation, Myst glared at him. “You guys and your stupid names.”
    “Stupid,” he murmured, watching her closely. “Gregor is just as—”
    “Say it, and I swear to God I’ll find a gun and shoot you.” With a grumble in her tone, she said, “His middle name is Mayhem, okay? So don’t get your panties in a wad.”
    A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Mayhem’s good, strong…a