Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

after what she’d endured, so yeah…
    “Not a good idea.”
    “You want her to heal fast?” Sloan held his gaze, dark eyes dead serious. It was a challenge, pure and simple. “Ditch the leathers and get in. She’ll relax deeper into the healing sleep with full body contact. And fuck, man. You’re wiped. You need to sleep too.”
    Rikar’s gaze strayed to Angela. He traced the outside curve of her ear with his fingertip, temptation circling like a son of a bitch. It would feel so good to slide in beside her…to pretend she belonged to him as he held her. If only for a little while. But that was just plain selfish. What he needed shouldn’t matter. His dragon half, though, wanted what it wanted . And as the beast stirred, male need and territorial instinct mixed into a volatile cocktail. Rikar shifted on the mattress, aching to have her in his arms.
    Wrong. It was so fucking wrong.
    He rolled his shoulders, suddenly feeling like his skin was three sizes too small. “I don’t think—”
    “Then don’t,” Sloan said, pushing away from the wall. “Think of the benefits for her instead.” His buddy’s shitkickers thudded softly, joining the beep of the heart rate monitor as he rounded the end of the bed. Grabbing the blankets, Sloan flipped them back, pouring more gasoline on Rikar’s fire. “You settle in with her…share your energy? And she’ll have less of a scar. Maybe nothing at all. All those bruises and cuts, buddy? Gone. And that’s just for starters.”
    A little desperate now, Rikar shook his head. “She won’t like waking up with me.”
    “She won’t get the rest she needs if she doesn’t.” Holding his ground, Sloan rammed his point home with a verbal hammer. “She needs you with her.”
    “Fuck…” Rikar ran his hand over his skull-trim. Rubbing his nape, he stared at the smooth expanse of mattress Sloan had exposed beside his female. Exhaling hard, he stood and shrugged out of his leather jacket. “You’re an asshole.”
    His buddy huffed, catching the leather load Rikar tossed at him. “Takes one to know one.”
    Didn’t it always , Rikar thought as he ditched the rest of his clothes and slid in next to Angela.

     
    Mac came awake with a suddenness that startled him. The stiffness hit him next and, as his cramped muscles screamed for release, he cracked an eye open. The brick wall wavered into focus. Next? All the upended furniture jammed beneath tall, arching windows. Three of them, black glass rippling in waves, like the surface of a lake.
    Hmm, yeah. Water.
    He could do with a little splash action right now. A steady front crawl across the marina would straighten him out. Well, either that or a chiropractor. Goddamn, what had he been doing all day…an excellent imitation of a pretzel?
    With a groan, he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders. First one, and then the other. His bones clicked in their sockets, protesting where sore muscles left off, aching like a son of a bitch. And God, his head hurt too. Pain thumped his temples, then slid around to hammer the back of his skull. Mac clenched his teeth on another moan. Sound wasn’t a good idea right now. Not with his body one big throb of pain.
    What had he been thinking? The feeling—and the morning-after regret that came with it—was all too familiar…tequila. Most likely an entire bottleful of Patrón. Although, why the hell he’d been hitting the good stuff was anyone’s guess. Drinking to excess and blackouts weren’t his usual MO. At least not anymore.
    Mac shook his head, instantly regretting it as the hammering got worse, but something was way, way off. None of what he felt made sense. He hadn’t been drinking. Mac frowned. Had he?
    As the accusation circled, he tried to remember. Tidbits came at him, flipping into place inside his head. He labeled each one like evidence at a crime scene, retracing his steps. Last thing he remembered he’d been—
    Jesus fucking Christ.
    Angela.
    Mac’s head came up. Something rattled with his movement, and his focus snapped toward the windows. A blurry outline took shape. Mother of God. A dragon. Blue-gray scales glimmering in the low light, the thing stared back at him: unblinking, unmoving, its stare holding his. He went stone-still, not wanting to spook it. The horned head froze too, like it was waiting for his next move or—
    Wait a second.
    He blinked. The beast blinked back, aquamarine eyes fixed on him. He turned his head a little to the left. Yup, the