Fury of Ice (19 page)

“You could try.” Like snowflakes in the sun, his eyes sparkled a second before he got serious and sat up. She flinched. He kept his distance. Bending one leg, he propped his forearm on his raised knee. “I’m not laughing at you, love. I’m just…relieved you’re okay, that’s all.”

God, not even close.
Okay
wasn’t in the cards. But holy hell, she couldn’t deny that she appreciated the sentiment.

And there she went again…taking a trip into Insanityville.

“I…” She cleared her throat, struggling to unknot the tangled mess inside her. The pressure pushed down, made her chest tight and her heart hurt. But now that he was awake, she refused to leave without having her say. Or giving what she owed. Holding onto her tears, she whispered, “Thank you.”

His blond brows popped skyward.

“You didn’t have to come after me, and I—”

“Yes, I did…I so fucking did.”

“I don’t understand.” Hugging the Glock to her chest, she shook her head. “Why?”

“I couldn’t…Christ, no way I could leave you there.” His voice hitched, and he looked away, as though he didn’t want her to see his pain. But she did anyway: heard it in his tone, tasted his agony as he said, “I imagined so many things, awful things and…God, Angela. I’m so sorry…so fucking sorry. That I couldn’t find you…that I didn’t get there fast enough…that he hurt you and…fuck.” His hands curled into fists and, all of a sudden, the temperature in the room dropped. Each breath turned into a frosty cloud and goosebumps rose on her arms as he growled, “The second I find that bastard? He’s dead. I’ll rip his fucking head off.”

Tears blurred her vision. Angela blinked them away, tried to ignore his anguish, but God help her, she couldn’t. She hated that he suffered…for her.

“Rikar, look at me.”

Staring at the quilt, he shook his head.

“Please?”

His brows drawn tight, he lifted his chin, and she saw all of it: his guilt and pain, the need to turn back time. But that wasn’t possible. Not for her. Not for him. The past couldn’t be changed, and it surprised her to realize she didn’t want to fight with him. Or make him pay for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Look…what happened to m-me?” As her voice wobbled, Angela suppressed a shiver as the ugly memory surfaced. She didn’t want to think about it—not now, not ever—but that was one wish that would never come true. Emotional baggage never went away. It just got lighter over time, and only if you unpacked it, folded it up nice and neat, then put it away. Angela knew it. Had convinced victim after victim to get help, seek counseling—whatever they needed to feel whole again. “It’s not your fault. I want you to let it go and—”

“I can’t. Not until—”

“—if you’re going after him, I want in,” she said, cutting him off, surprising herself.

As Rikar blinked, her words echoed, banging around the recovery room. She frowned. Okay. Change of plans. She hadn’t meant to go all in and decide to stay, but as the idea sank deep, the cop in her nodded. Made sense. Felt right. She couldn’t go after Lothair by herself. She needed a partner—a man-dragon to help her find and kill the rat-bastard.

Justice. On her terms. Lothair laid out on a slab.

“I want in.” The words cemented her resolve, leveling her chin.

Rikar’s gaze narrowed on her.

“He hurt me.” She tapped the gun muzzle against her chest, right over her heart. “Me! Not you.”

“Bullshit.” His eyes the color of ice chips, a muscle jumped along his jaw. “What happens to you, happens to me. We’re connected now, angel. I feel you with every breath I take.”

“Then help me,” she whispered, knowing what she asked wasn’t fair. Strong men didn’t give up control or react well to manipulation. She didn’t care. He was her best chance. The only one she had to make the bastard pay. Holding his gaze, she pulled an ace out of her sleeve and begged, “Please, Rikar…I can’t do it by myself. I deserve justice. Please help me get him.”

He growled, and Angela held her breath.
Please, Rikar
. The silent plea whispered through her mind. His hand flexed in the quilt, white-knuckling the patchwork fabric like it would keep him from exploding. And as she watched him she wondered…

Could he read her mind?

It seemed like a strange idea. But weirder than changing into a dragon? Not by much. Add that to the realization he’d messed with her that night at McGovern’s, and…yeah. The whole mind-meld thing seemed less like fiction and more like fact.

Her eyes narrowed on him.

He leaned back, the movement so small she wouldn’t have caught it had she not been watching closely. Jackpot. No doubt about it. His reaction to her went soul-deep, beyond the physical. She felt the connection, the drawing pull, a neediness just like her own. The knowledge made her heart ache for him. No good would come from wanting her…from the push-pull of craving what could never be.

She didn’t belong in his world. He didn’t belong in hers. But maybe for a little while they could work together toward a common goal. She wanted Lothair dead and knew, without a shadow of doubt, Rikar would lay the bastard out to please her. So instead of backing away like she should have, Angela opened her mind wide, determined to persuade him that she was right.

Sensation slid over his temples as Rikar stared at Angela. The tingle turned into a throb, tightening muscle over his bones as silence echoed between them. She used the quiet like a Brillo pad, rubbing him raw, pushing her agenda as she met his gaze: no shyness, no bullshit, one thing on her mind. She wanted access to his world, in on the action…with his blessing.

Tempting. It was oh so tempting to give in and help her.

Which was no doubt her plan. Diabolical to the next freaking level.

She was playing both ends against the middle, making him choose between keeping her safe and giving her what she wanted. Right. Wrong. Two polar opposites that didn’t mean shit while seated across from a beautiful female determined to get her way. And as the fine line between
should
and
shouldn’t
became blurred, Rikar shook his head.

Clever, clever female. Angela was undeniably brilliant. Zeroing in like a pit bull. Sniffing out his weakness for her. Using it against him…without conscience or mercy. So, yeah, he was pretty much screwed; stuck trying to make himself say “no.”

Planting his palms, he went chin-to-chest, then rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. The muscles bracketing his spine stretched, stinging as he shifted to the center of the bed, putting more distance between them. He needed a minute to pull himself together. To forget for a moment how much he wanted to please her and instead formulate an argument. One that started and ended with
no fucking way
. Or
over my dead body
. Whatever. Either would work, just as long as she got the point and left the hunting up to him.

“Rikar?”

The hitch in her voice—the soft, yet undeniable plea—lit him up. He clenched his teeth as the bonded male in him came to attention. Uh-oh. Big trouble now. The territorial bastard that lived inside him was on board. With what and which plan—his?…Angela’s?—Rikar couldn’t tell, but whatever the agenda, having his baser instincts banging around couldn’t be a good thing. At least not for him.

On her knees now, she leaned toward him, concern in her tone. “Are you all right?”

“Ah, just…give me a second, okay?”

She murmured something he didn’t quite catch. Assent? Impatience? He didn’t know, but the tingle hit him again, firing up neural pathways with a shitload of give-her-what-she-wants. Rubbing his hands over his skull-trim, he pressed down on the nape of his neck, fighting the need to reach out and touch her. God, what he wouldn’t give to wrap his arms around her…hold her close while he told her everything would be all right. That she didn’t need to be involved. That he would get the fucker and bring him home like a trophy.

Alive. Dead. A combination of the two. Any way she wanted.

But first? He had to grow a pair, draw a line in the sand, and bookend it with a big-ass
NO
. In Technicolor. Maybe present a slide show, too. With lots of noise and big, black letters.

Pansy-ass pathetic. Yup. That was his new title. Now all he needed was a plaque, one that read
World’s Biggest SAP
, to stick on his bedroom door.

With a sigh, Rikar dropped his hands and raised his head. And nearly jumped out of his skin. Shit, she was close. Less than an arm’s length away and…

God. She was so beautiful. All pleading hazel eyes and messed-up auburn hair.

His chest constricted, making him ache from the inside out. And only one thought prevailed…the softness of her skin. He knew how fine it was—how smooth it felt against his own—and he wanted to reach out and pull her in. Let his hands do the walking as he set his mouth to hers and tasted her for the first time.

Then again.

And again.

His gaze dipped to her lips. She shuffled back a little, as though she knew what he was thinking, and the IV clanged against the metal stand. The sound set him straight. Christ, he was deranged. She was barely healed, hardly out of danger, the IV still embedded in the back of her hand, and he was hard for her. Disgust curled his hands into fists. He took a deep breath to calm down and got a lungful of her.

Her scent more than anything brought him clarity. She wasn’t ready for him. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. She smelled like vulnerability, like teardrops and evergreens and fresh snow. The combo pulled on his heartstrings. The last two were all Angela, her natural scent one he recognized, had dreamed of, loved more than anything he’d encountered before. The first? Sadness and hurt that skipped into hopelessness. The mix told him to back off, that she needed a champion, not a lover.

At least not today.

So yeah…it had to be no. And the line had to be drawn hard.

His world wasn’t an easy one. And homicide detective or not, she didn’t understand the ground rules. No matter what she said—how many skills she possessed or abundant the brains between her pretty ears—it was too dangerous. The Razorbacks weren’t human criminals. They were Dragonkind. A Glock and a shitload of female determination didn’t make the cut. And that was before he threw in the bonded male problem. His instincts were on overdrive, desperate to keep her safe. No way could he let her anywhere near the hunt or the bastard when he took him down.

But as the tingle came at him again, it morphed into words—
Rikar, please, help me get him
. As he flinched, his gaze flipped back to hers and…no fucking fair. Sheened by tears, hazel eyes begged him to give her what she needed, to toss his “no” out the nearest window, and temptation dragged him in the wrong direction.

What was the matter with him? His brain had gone AWOL, totally out of bounds. And, man, was he really hearing that? Or was the guilt getting to him, making him imagine the whisper.

He shook his head, dislodging her voice from between his temples. It came right back.
Please, Rikar
. Tilting her head, she settled onto her knees in front of him. The IV tube pinged off steel again. His breath came faster as she tipped her chin, urging him to—

His brows collided. Wait a second.

What the hell was she doing? Suspicion took a nasty turn and…

Holy fuck. She knew. Had figured out exactly how to play him. His lips twitched. Beautiful female. She was too smart by half.

“Angela…stop it,” he murmured, tone full of warning, trying not to laugh.

Her eyes widened the tiniest bit. “What?”

“Figured a few things out, have you?”

She shrugged.

He shifted, conjuring a pair of army shorts as he shoved the sheet aside and sat Indian-style directly in front of her. The pose was comfortable, more suitable for sparring. The verbal kind or otherwise. ’Cause, yeah, he and his female were about to get down and dirty. Go toe-to-toe and will-to-will. He could tell by the determined look on her face. And even as he told himself to man up and stay strong, she got to him. Made him so damn proud he could hardly stand himself.

Simple. Straightforward. Her strategy was stone-cold brilliant. And as she leaned toward him, giving him loads of eye contact, she pushed all his buttons: the ones that made him want to give her all she wanted.

Fighting a smile, Rikar shook his head. “Angel…you’re playing with fire here.”

“Why? Because I’m using your secret weapon against you?”

“Secret weapon?”

“The mind thing.” Pursing her lips, she fought to keep them from curving. She lost. He took it as a good sign as he grinned back. Even after her horrific experience, she could laugh with him. And at herself. Which just launched his respect for her into the stratosphere. “Turnabout is fair play, you know. And right now, I’m guessing you’re tapped into what I’m thinking.”

“Didn’t mean to, but…yeah, you’re bang-on.” Watching her closely, he set his elbows on his widespread knees. “That doesn’t freak you out?”

“A little, but…” She trailed off, adjusted her grip on the Glock, an adorable pucker between her brows. “I’m more interested in the endgame.”