Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

he would, but…
    She didn’t want to. Comfort wanted her to stay close to him. Compulsion demanded it. Both made good arguments. After all, what could it hurt? Nothing came back at her. A big goose egg from the counter-argument department. Her brain was fried. All the intellectual reasons had flown. Her inner turncoat was alive and well, dressing up bad ideas to look like good ones.
    Not good. Especially considering she wanted her life back, to feel like her normal strong, tough, and unafraid self. A tall order? Probably, considering the damage to her internal compass. The dial was bent, spinning out of control, sending her in stupid directions…each one leading right back to Rikar.
    God, had she said mental patient ?
    Angela blew out a long breath. No doubt about it. She was officially a guest in Insanityville. But even as she realized her peril, something inside her whispered, asking for more time. Argued that staying curled against Rikar was a temporary side trip, just an off-ramp on her emotional highway. She was in the driver’s seat, after all, and with one turn of the wheel could drive back onto the road, put the pedal down, and leave him behind. Nothing but a memory on the faded tarmac of her mind.
    The thought made her want to do something she almost never did…cry.
    Which was beyond dumb.
    He was part dragon, her enemy if there ever was one. The need to stay with him was dangerous. Ridiculous. Totally unhinged. She knew it. Felt the truth of it in her bones, but like it or not, her need for him tied her up, tethering her so well she couldn’t pull out of his orbit.
    Rikar’s arm flexed under her cheek as he grumbled in his sleep. Angela went stone-still, praying he stayed asleep. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. Needed more time to figure things out and decide where to go from here.
    Luck, however, wasn’t on her side. The clock was headed into twenty-five minute territory. It was now or never. Time to get up, get out, and get gone.
    Swallowing the lump in her throat, Angela tightened her grip on the gun. Metal pressed into her palm as she turned a little, dislodging her shoulder from beneath Rikar’s arm. The IV tugged, tape pulling across the back of her free hand, but she kept going, untangling them inch by slow inch. As her body left his, cool air rushed beneath her plain white tee, along the backs of both legs, under her boxer shorts, attacking all the places she’d pressed against him.
    Tragic. The loss of contact was something to mourn, but not right now. This moment was meant for escape. For the stillness of being alone in a private place. She needed her head screwed on straight. And tucked against Rikar? Yeah, not an environment where any solid thinking would get done.
    With a shimmy, she slid toward the side of the bed. The IV’s tube knocked against the metal pole, the ping sounding loud in silence, and she expected pain. A truckload of ow-ow-ows after all the scrapes she sustained on her trip down the mountainside. When she got nothing but a twinge, she frowned at the bandage wrapped around her thigh. She remembered getting hit, the striking agony as something sharp sliced her, but…
    Her leg felt okay now. Better than all right, actually. Like she’d healed up tight while she slept.
    Continuing the shuffle-and-slide, she slipped her legs over the mattress edge and stared at her feet. Nothing. No cuts. No bruises. Just a yellow patch of skin on the top of her right foot where a tree branch had thumped her. Okay, that was disconcerting. So weird that—
    “Not really. I put you on the accelerated healing plan.”
    The voice slid through the dark, gloving her spine. Sensation exploded into a tingle, and with a gasp, Angela spun around on the mattress. The overhead lights came on, flaring bright, making her blink. He shifted. She jumped like a jackrabbit. A second before she fell off the bed, she caught her balance and raised the gun. Sleepy blue eyes met hers, dipped to the Glock, then rose to meet hers again. His mouth kicked up at the corners, and she wanted to shoot him. Right between the eyes.
    “Don’t laugh at me.” The warning in her tone—the strength of her voice, the steadiness of her hand—surprised her. Made her feel more like a cop, less like a victim. Good thing, too. The wounded Angela couldn’t deal with Rikar, but the homicide detective? No contest. She’d eat him for breakfast. “Or I swear to God—”
    “It isn’t loaded, angel,” he murmured, his