Fury of Ice (18 page)

Surprise lit across Bastian’s face. “Good to know, Wick.”

“Jeez, man,” the blond guy said, staring at his buddy. “More than three words strung together…what’s up with you?”

Black hair glinting blue in the dimness, Wick flipped his friend the bird.

“Oookkay…back to normal on the no-talking front.” The blond grinned. “I’m relieved.”

Silence met the pronouncement. A pause followed, like everyone was readjusting, and as the quiet pounded through the loft, the vibe shifted. Mac went on high alert and got ready. For anything, because whoever had linked
peace
with
quiet
had been out of their minds.

“Looky-looky, Wick.” Decked out in leather, the blond guy slowed his roll beside the kitchen island, red eyes narrowed on him. “Blockhead’s up.”

The name-calling flipped a switch in Mac’s brain. Oh yeah…Dickhead (aka Venom). The one he didn’t like. Mac growled as Dickhead planted his hands on the countertop, jackknifed into a turn, and ass-planted himself on the island top. Shitkickers dangling in midair, the guy grinned at him, baring his teeth in blatant challenge. Mac snarled back, wishing for a fist instead of claws so he could pop the SOB again.

“Venom,” Bastian said, planting a hand on Mac’s chest. He pushed against his scales, sending a clear message that said,
Stay where you are, buddy, or else
. “Back off. We don’t need that shit right now.”

“What…like I need to worry?” He swung his legs, boots flashing black in the gloom. Funny thing, though? Now that the dots had cleared, Mac saw everything with perfect clarity: the individual threads of the bastard’s bootlaces, each stitch sewn into the leather, the smirk on Venom’s face as he looked him over. “Hell, I could eat the pissant fledgling for lunch in human form and not need a toothpick.”

Bastian growled, the sound one of warning.

Mac bared his fancy new fangs, his mind supplying more links in his memory chain. Each one rattled his cage, filling his brain like water pouring into a jar. Something about a woman. The bastard had tried to touch the one that belonged to him.

Rage flexed its muscles and, as Venom laughed, Mac lost control and hissed. Something nasty shot from his throat. As he choked on the bad taste, Dickhead cursed, ducking as slimy liquid sprayed the wall behind him. Brick exploded. Small chunks went airborne, flying up and out with a sizzling pop. Mac blinked. Holy shit. Despite the disgusting aftertaste, that was cool. The slime was eating through the masonry and burning holes in the wooden floorboards.

“Awesome. Did you see that, B?” Venom sat up and glanced over his shoulder. “Wick, come look at this shit.”

A look of delight on his face, Wick jogged over as the crackle-n-pop of whatever had come out of Mac’s throat got louder. A little horrified, but mostly intrigued, Mac craned his neck to get a better view of his handiwork.

Sliding to a stop, Wick inspected the damage. “Cool. Water-acid.”

“Wicked lethal.”

Leaning in, Wick smelled the slime. “I think it’s flammable, too.”

“Gonna have to test that theory.” Hopping off the counter, Venom nudged a chunk of brick with the toe of his boot. “Take the new boy out for a spin—”

“Or two,” Wick said, finishing his buddy’s sentence. With one last whiff, Wick glanced at Mac with golden eyes full of speculation. “That’s gonna be fun. Big damage.”

“Huge.” Venom retracted his foot before the slime—water-acid…whatever—ate through the sole of his boot.

Mac’s brows collided as instincts hopped on his it’ll-be-a-cold-day-in-hell bandwagon. No way he wanted to go anywhere with those two. Venom couldn’t wait to kill him. And Wick? Jesus, the guy’s eyes told the story. Flat. Cold. Hard. He possessed all the warmth of a frickin’ psychopath.

He glanced at Bastian. “What the fuck?”

“You’ll get used to them,” he said, thumping Mac’s chest with a closed fist. “For now…ignore them. We’ve got a lot of work to do before sunset.”

Mac frowned, alarm bells clanging inside his head.

Bastian grinned. “You need to learn a few things.”

“Like what?”

“How to shift form…from dragon to human and back again.”

“I can do that?” His breath caught. The first glimmer of excitement ghosted down his spine. Shifting forms sounded cool. At least then he’d feel normal…more like himself, less like a monster.

“We all can,” Venom said, ass connecting with the countertop again. “Just wait until the flying lessons begin. Big fun, then.”

“Huge,” Wick murmured, eyes fixed on Mac as he headed across the loft. Pivoting into an about-face, he planted his shoulders flat on the wall between two high windows.

Torn between wanting to know more and mistrust, Mac’s gaze ping-ponged, moving from Venom to Wick, then back again. Were they serious? He rolled his shoulders, glanced at the wings attached to his new body. He flapped them without unfolding the suckers. Not enough room in the loft for—

Wow. Okay…now
that
was cool.

The webbing stretched, giving him a sense of his wingspan, and…bam. It hit him. The things worked. Totally nuts, but weirder than that was the realization he might actually be able to fly.

His heart rebounded inside his chest. All right, then. Guess they weren’t kidding, but that didn’t mean he would give the SOBs the “fun” they so obviously anticipated.

Holding Venom’s gaze, he tossed the challenge back in his face. “Game on, dickhead.”

“We’ll see, fledgling,” Venom said, ruby-red eyes gleaming.

Yes, they would.

Mac eyed Bastian. “Show me.”

Let the games—er…lessons—begin.

Chapter Thirteen

Curled on her side in the center of the bed, Angela watched the second hand tick. Fifteen minutes. A whole nine hundred seconds spent awake and unmoving, feeling the steady rise and fall of Rikar’s chest against her back. And as the wall clock completed its quarter turn, and she listened to him breathe, Angela decided she was an idiot. In total mental patient territory for clinging to Rikar in the dark. A guy she barely knew. Didn’t trust. All while staring at the opposite wall, watching the stupid clock face glow above glossy white cabinets.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time’s a-wasting. And still, she couldn’t make herself move.

It was sad, really. How much she needed him in the moment…in the quiet stillness that made her think too hard and feel too much. And as she nestled in, taking everything he unknowingly gave her while he slept, she didn’t recognize herself. Wondered when she’d disappeared and a stranger had taken her place.

Needy.

She’d never been that before. Never once thought she needed anyone, but as the second hand continued its ticking and Rikar his breathing, Angela recognized lost when she saw it. The MIA? Her. She was the POW this go-around and, for the first time in a long while, she missed her dad. Mourned his death. Felt like a little girl again, more frightened than ever.
Lost
. Yeah, she really was…adrift in a place she didn’t want to be or know how to navigate.

Fighting tears, she closed her eyes. She’d been so clueless. All those victims. All the one-on-ones with them: taking their statements, telling them not to worry, that everything would be all right. What a load of crap. Total BS disguised by an empathetic wrapper. Nothing was
all right
and wouldn’t be for a while. The hurt simply ran too deep.

She turned her face into Rikar’s arm. Sprawled on his back, one hand relaxed in the center of his bare chest, Rikar didn’t react to her movement. Man, he probably didn’t even know she was in bed with him. She lay in the V, the sweet spot where his arm met his body, her back up against his side, her cheek against his biceps, hugging one of his arms to her chest, fingers curled around the Glock 19. The finger grooves on the grip felt good in her hand. Felt familiar and right, and as she opened her eyes and checked the clock’s progress, she said a silent thank-you.

She was alive. Hurt, sure…damaged inside and out, but still breathing. No small thanks to Rikar, the man-dragon sleeping like the dead against her.

Angela sighed. The whole
nonhuman
thing gave her the shivers. She should get up. Get out. Beat feet before he woke up and started asking questions. No doubt 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 deep voice full of gravel.

With a hand bob, she tested the Glock’s weight. “Thought it felt a little light.”

Turning onto his side, he propped his head on his hand. “Couldn’t chance you shooting me in my sleep, now could I?”

“Smart of you,” she said, eyeing him, resenting him for being so relaxed when she felt like jumping out of her skin.

Not that she would show it.

But man, she had a feeling Rikar wasn’t fooled. Didn’t care that she wanted to be left alone. All he saw was the gaping wound inside her. How did she know? She could see it in his eyes. The concern. The respect. The careful way he moved…slowly, like he didn’t want to startle her.

Crap. And well, just…crap.

Trust Rikar to throw a monkey wrench into the whole operation. His worry screwed her up. Made her second-guess her plan, the escape route…the whole flipping thing. He shouldn’t be part of the equation. He should be nothing but an obstacle that needed removing. But as she stared at him, and he met her gaze, lying wasn’t an option. For some awful reason, his presence chilled her out, soothing her until she almost forgot to be afraid.

Which scared her beyond reason. She couldn’t go there with him. Couldn’t imagine ever trusting someone that way after all she’d been through.

Scrambling to shore up the crack in her defenses, she drilled him a look. Tightening her grip on the Glock, she said, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t brain you with it.”