Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

velour seat. “We need to get our stories straight, man. He’s gonna be pissed we lost the she-cop and—”
    “The truth, D,” he said. “We don’t hide this kind of shit from Ivar.”
    At least not if they wanted to stay alive. Ivar had a nasty streak, sure. But he was a reasonable male. Lothair frowned. Most of the time anyway. The science experiment, though, worried him a little. It had gone from the usual strange to downright hinky in recent days.
    “Ten-four.”
    More with the trucker crap. Lothair sighed. “Just drive through. My eyes are stinging.”
    With a nod, D put his foot down and drove them into the shadowy recess of the old fire hall. As the garage door closed with a grinding clank behind the ass-end of the car, darkness fell, bringing relief from the breaking dawn, and so much more. The sunlight was a bitch, sure, but escaping the supernova wasn’t what made him relax. Dipping his chin, he rolled his head left, then right, stretching out the knots, and thanked his lucky stars.
    Home. After weeks of sleeping in that rat hole, he was finally home.
    And who did he have to thank? A pack full of Nightfury assholes. Ironic, wasn’t it? The males who tried to kill him every night had just done him a huge favor, liberating him from the old lair. No way Ivar would send him back now. He’d rage about his plan hitting the skids—that the new cellblock wasn’t ready for habitation yet—but his commander wasn’t stupid. Going back in for any reason now was too risky. It wouldn’t take long for Tweedledee and Tweedledum to infiltrate and tear the place apart looking for clues.
    Maybe the males had broken through the energy shield already. Derrˋmo, he hoped so. The faster they worked, the better for him. Lothair snorted. Who would’ve thought the idiots would ever come in handy?
    His mouth curved as he popped the latch and shoved the car door wide. Rusty hinges squawked, echoing through the dark. Jacking himself through the opening, his boots touched down on the smooth concrete. Poured just weeks ago, the floors qualified as a definite upgrade. No more pockmarks. No more oil stains. Just new on new. The condition of 28 Walton was light-years from the shitty accommodations when he and Ivar had bought the place. Each day brought changes, and with each small improvement, the lair became more livable. And that was without counting the network of underground tunnels that now sat beneath the old structure.
    After years spent in subpar conditions—caves, run-down factories, basements, and old wine cellars…you name it, he’d been there—the facility was a revelation. Modern, high tech, the Razorback’s new home was über comfortable. Something to be proud of, and for once, he was thankful. So attached to the fire hall now, he would fight to defend rather than abandon his home at the first sign of trouble.
    Lothair shook his head. The sentiment was stupid, but no matter how hard he tried to quash it, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Acceptance. The sense of belonging. Both were powerful things, forces that shaped a male. He’d never been truly welcome anywhere: not with his family or by his former pack, not by anyone other than Ivar.
    Slamming the car door behind him, Lothair glanced over his shoulder. He met D’s gaze over the roof of the car. “Deal with the females. I’ll handle Ivar.”
    The male nodded, relief shining in his dark eyes.
    “Get them something to eat after you lock ’em down.” Heading for the stairs at the far end of the ten-car garage, he skirted Ivar’s ride. Kitted out vintage style, the 1963 ’Vette owned sweet curves, a set of wicked rims, and an engine that purred like a female in heat. He should know. He’d picked a coed up in it last week. Let the engine rumble as he banged her in the front seat: pulling her into his lap, spreading her thighs, thrusting deep as she begged for more and he fed.
    Not his favorite memory. The willing ones were never as much fun.
    He paused at the base of the steps, the smell of new cement making his nose twitch. “Make sure they get enough, D. We lose those two, and the Ivar’ll go postal on our asses.”
    Pace even, footfalls silent, Lothair took the stairs two at a time. Taking a tight turn, he continued up, double-timing another set of concrete treads. Thirty seconds later, he stood on the third-story landing. He scanned the shadows, the bank of cracked windows yet to be replaced, hardly noticing the devastation that years of