Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

over. “There’s a salt bath inside, my man. Let’s get you inside the clinic and into it.”
    Planting his paw, Mac pushed up, muscles trembling, groaning low as he transformed. Rikar winced. The cop looked even worse in human form. Poor bastard. The first night out and he’d caught real action.
    Not the least bit fair. Or wise.
    Fledglings were fragile in the beginning. Exhausted from the change. Overwhelmed by their new bodies and baffled by how to use them. So, yeah. A new Dragonkind male was always protected, kept away from the world and other dragons that weren’t family until he learned how to handle himself.
    But oh, no. Not Mac. The male had dove right in. No hesitation. No fear. No freaking common sense. Which, Rikar suspected, would be their new boy’s MO from now on. Not a bad way to go, but…man. He was going to be hell to protect until he was up to speed and combat ready.
    Rikar slung the cop’s arm around his shoulder. Mac cursed. He murmured “sorry,” but didn’t stop. B had called in their ETA on the fly. Sloan expected them, so…
    No time like the present.
    Muscling Mac across the LZ, Rikar pinged his buddy. “Sloan. You ready?”
    “All set.” Plastic crinkled, the sound coming through mind-speak as the male said, “Triage is good to go. How’s our boy?”
    “Shitty,” Mac growled through clenched teeth.
    “Run the salt bath,” Bastian said, bringing up the rear. “And get Myst. He needs stitches.”
    “Ah…about that,” Sloan said, tone hesitant.
    Which cranked Rikar’s shit in the wrong direction. Oh, Christ. What the hell was that about? His buddy rarely, if ever, hesitated.
    “Where’s my female?” B asked.
    “I’ll let Daimler explain.”
    Mac’s arm slung around his shoulder, Rikar threw his best friend an alarmed look.
    B returned it, then muttered, “Shit on a stick. Freaking female.”
    Shitkickers pounding granite, B hauled ass ahead of them. Rikar picked up the pace. Yup, no doubt about it. Myst was up to a whole lot of nothing good . Which meant Angela was in the thick of it. Shit, she’d probably instigated the entire mess.
    Fantastic. Freaking female was right. Just wait until he got his hands on her. He’d either wring her pretty neck or kiss the hell out of her.
    His body jumped at the idea. His mind seconded the motion, making him ache from the inside out. And no wonder. After feeding Angela and all the fighting, he needed an energy-infuse like an addict needed a fix. Hunger gnawed at him, turning his gut into a bottomless pit. Rikar swallowed to combat the burn and clamped down on his need. Hungry or not, his female was nowhere near ready to feed him. If he touched her now, she’d run scared…hate him before he ever got the chance to prove his worth.
    No way could he let that happen.
    He wanted her to want him, not fear him. So only one way to go. Keep his hands to himself and his dragon side under control. He’d gone hungry before, weeks if necessary, and he could do it again. He was a warrior; self-mastery was his middle name. So yeah, even if it killed him, he would respect Angela’s timeframe.
    But as he muscled Mac into Black Diamond, doubt slithered deep, and he prayed he could keep his word. Not to mention his distance.

Chapter Eighteen
     
    Sitting cross-legged on a cushion, Angela studied the guy behind the invisible barrier. Even with the steel collar clamped around his throat, Forge reminded her of someone. It was the little things. The way he gestured with his hands. The tilt of his head when he smiled. The way his eyes narrowed when he paused to think about something and…
    Weird, but even his features seemed familiar. Had she met him somewhere before? Passed him on the street or something?
    Her gaze narrowed on his face. She would’ve remembered a guy like Forge. He was too big to miss, and as she listened to him talk, her eyes trained on his face, Angela gave it another shot. Nada. No spark of recognition.
    With a frown, she closed the door on her memory vault, forcing herself to pay attention. As she refocused—picking up his body cues, measuring the pauses in his speech pattern—Myst hammered him with questions, trying to bust through the impenetrable force that was Forge. Her lips twitched. He was a tough nut to crack. Hedging each question. Skirting the real issues. Feeding Myst tidbits of information without telling her anything. And all with that smooth-as-silk voice, rolling Rs interspaced by smooth As and long