Fury of Ice

  FURY of ICE

  FURY of ICE

  COREENE CALLAHAN

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Coreene Callahan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612182957

  ISBN-10: 161218295X

  To my beautiful girls.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to the amazingly talented people at Amazon Publishing for all their hard work and support, especially my wonderful editor, Eleni Caminis, whose insights never cease to amaze me. And also to Jessica Poore and Nikki Sprinkle. Working with each of you is pure delight.

  To Alain: thank you. You are the absolute best!

  To Kallie Lane—friend, fellow writer, and critique partner extraordinaire. Thank you for all the breakfast brainstorming sessions, late-night phone calls, and encouragement. I would be lost with you.

  As always, a huge thanks to Christine Witthohn, literary agent, friend, and teammate. You rock, sister!

  Mom and Dad, I love you. Thank you for everything, but mostly for just being you.

  And last but not least, a heartfelt thank you to my readers for falling in love with the Nightfury Dragon Warriors as much as I have and sharing your enthusiasm with me. I love hearing from you and enjoy fielding your questions, even when I can’t answer them for fear of giving too much away!

  I raise a glass to all of you!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Excerpt from Fury of Seduction

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The globes swayed, bobbing like jellyfish against the cavern’s ceiling as Rikar flew beneath them. White scales gleamed in the low light, throwing starbursts of iridescent color across stalagmites and uneven stone walls. He didn’t notice the rainbow. Didn’t hear his claws scrape granite or the water rolling off his wing tips go splat on the landing zone’s floor. His focus was absolute. Only one thing mattered.

  He was going to kill the male. Open him up like a can of sardines. All while making him sing like a canary.

  Lucky for him, he didn’t have far to go.

  The rogue was chained seven stories beneath Black Diamond, the home Rikar shared with the other Nightfury dragons. That the enemy was within easy reach should’ve pleased him. But nothing could bliss him out tonight. The battle—the retrieve and retreat routine—had FUBAR written all over it. Yeah, a total catastrophe from beginning to end. The only good thing about it? Bastian had his female back, had pulled her from enemy claws in the nick of time.

  He should be happy about that. Throwing high fives with his fellow warriors and yakking it up, reliving the action over tequila shots and lime wedges. But, that was a definite no-can-do. Not tonight. Not when another female was missing.

  Right. Missing.

  Wishful fucking thinking.

  Rikar’s stomach fisted up hard. The Razorbacks had taken her. He knew it like he was standing there, four paws planted on stone, horns on his head tingling, anguish pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart. Now she was in the hands of his enemy, at the mercy of Ivar, leader of the rogues.

  With a growl, he tucked his wings and stepped over the beat-to-shit Honda in the middle of the LZ, trying not to think about what the bastards were doing to her. But God help him, he couldn’t turn his brain off. Couldn’t breathe without his imagination firing up, planting terrible images in his mind’s eye.

  Christ, he needed to get her back. Had to locate the Razorback lair and pull her free before…

  Rikar swallowed the burn at the back of his throat. What a total mind-fuck. The need. The obsession. The pain.

  He’d only met the female once. Had spent a couple of hours getting his ass kicked by her in a friendly game of pool. Okay, so he was lying. He’d done a little more than that. But he refused to think about the feeding or how good she tasted. Rikar shook his head, and water flew as he tried to forget. His behavior. Her acceptance. The fact his frosty side wanted more, another go-round with a female that drew pure power from the Meridian. From the energy source that fed Dragonkind.

  Which made him…what? A sicko? A male without honor or conscience? Yeah, without a doubt. The female he didn’t want to remember, but couldn’t forget, was missing. Was probably in hell right now, suffering at the hands of a Razorback, and what was he doing? Dreaming of her in ways he shouldn’t be.

  Angela Keen. She of the gorgeous energy and hazel eyes. God, he wanted her back. He wanted her safe. He wanted the clock to spin in the opposite direction and undo the last three hours. Maybe then he could’ve prevented his enemies from taking her at all.

  Angela.

  Her name whispered through his mind. A shiver rolled through him, rattling the spikes along his spine as he pictured her face. With a violent swipe, he tried to erase it like their resident computer genius deleted info from computer hard drives. But memory was a tricky thing: hard to control, impossible to ignore. And as the power of recall got busy planting images inside his head, Rikar accepted the truth. He wished he’d stayed with her that night, taken all she offered and given more in return.

  Which was just plain wrong. In every way that mattered.

  Wind rushed in from the tunnel mouth, kicking up dust and the smell of damp earth. A second later, green scales flashed in his periphery. Rikar shifted, moving from dragon to human, getting out of Venom’s way as the big male set down. Poised on his back paws, his buddy wing-flapped, sending water flying and air rushing, making the light globes bump into their neighbors seventy-five feet above their heads.

  Rikar conjured his clothes. Leather settled against his skin, feeling like home as he stomped his foot into his boot and headed for the entrance into the lair. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “You coming?”

  “Hell, yeah.” Scales undulating over thick muscle, Venom indulged in another total body shake. Man, with a move like that, the male looked more like a dog than a dragon. “No way I’m missing the show.”

  Show. Right. More like a beat down with death as the endgame.

  Under normal circumstances, it would’ve bothered him that Venom knew what he was thinking. Not tonight. Rikar didn’t give a shit. Transparency was the least of his problems. A female was involved. So, yeah. The Razorback would hurt until he gave up the goods. End of story.

  Upon approach, the cave wall rippled. As the magical doorway glimmered in the low light, Rikar breathed deep, preparing for the electrostatic jolt, then ste
pped through what had been solid rock moments before. The hair on the nape of his neck rose, reacting to the spell that surrounded Black Diamond and hid their lair from outsiders…human and Dragonkind alike. His boots connected with smooth concrete on the other side of the portal. Thank Christ. The inside of the lair smelled a whole lot better than the cave, like pine floor cleaner, fresh air and…

  Home.

  He closed his eyes, taking a moment to center himself. A second was all he needed. As the aftershocks of the magical doorway faded, he strode up the slight incline of the double-wide corridor, following the round lights embedded in the concrete floor. The only source of illumination, the runway took him past the medical clinic. He glanced through the sliding glass doors as he passed, looking for his commander. Empty. Not a soul in sight: nothing but an examination table, state-of-the-art equipment, and a shitload of silence.

  Rikar shook his head. It made sense. No matter the scrapes and bruises, B was no doubt with his female: holding her, soothing her, making love to her. All life-affirming activities, ones his best friend no doubt craved after what had gone down in the Port of Seattle.

  A strange sensation settled in the center of Rikar’s chest. His heart hurt as it sank deep and poked around, stirring up all kinds of debris.

  Rikar frowned. What the hell was that? Jealousy?

  Nah, couldn’t be. He was happy for his friend…really. A male of worth like Bastian deserved the best. And Myst? Man, she was exactly what his commander needed. Still, the awful feeling pressed in, twisting him up tight. He upped his pace, refusing to acknowledge it, not wanting to believe he envied his best friend.

  Bypassing twin elevators and the gym, he heard Venom move in behind him. The sound of their footfalls became one, echoing together, two males moving in unison toward one purpose. Answers. Rikar wanted them. And like the upstanding male that he was, Venom would back him up.

  Good thing too. The next hour would get messy…in more ways than one.

  Chapter Two

  A steady hum hung in the stale air, the sound’s a soft accompaniment to the elevator’s rapid descent. Smooth and uninterrupted, a ride in the Otis would’ve been perfection any other time. But not now. Not tonight. Never again. Angela Keen would forever equate the small, steel box with a cage…

  And boatloads of pain.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to forget the last few hours. Nothing good lay in those memories. Minutes or hours ago, it didn’t matter. The past needed to stay where she’d put it, locked in a box at the back of her brain.

  Along with her fear.

  But panic had her by the throat, making it hard to breathe. She forced air into her lungs, rebelling against captivity…against fate. And God. Anyone who would listen as she twisted her hands, searching for a weakness in the flex-cuffs. It was a no-go. There wasn’t any give. No defects in the plastic. No fault in the way they’d been used.

  And she should know. How many times had she cuffed perps just like this on the job? A hundred times? Two hundred…a thousand?

  Man, what a joke. A helpless homicide detective.

  All that training—the martial arts classes, shooting qualifications, and survival courses—and for what? To find herself out-muscled and trapped. Nothing but a POW in a war she hadn’t known existed until just hours ago.

  Dragonkind. Holy hell, who would’ve guessed?

  Not her. Not the rest of the planet either. As far as she knew, the human race was oblivious that monsters with claws and scales lived among them.

  She swallowed, fighting the pitch and roll of her stomach, wishing she’d been spared the knowledge. But the truth had a bad attitude. Getting in her face. Hitting her with another dose of reality as the guy holding her prisoner nudged her from behind. She shuffled sideways—paper slippers sliding on her feet, hospital johnny brushing her knees—desperate for more distance between her and the guard at her back.

  The rat-bastard.

  Yeah, the name had a nice ring to it. Then again, maybe “black-eyed son of a bitch” was a better fit. Asshole Razorback sounded good too. Well, whatever she called Lothair, it wasn’t “friendly.” The guy carried mean like a baseball bat and knew how to wield it.

  “Ready to see your new home, female?” the rat-bastard asked, shifting closer, making her lean away, his boots scraping the steel floor while her heart pounded. “You’ll like cellblock A. It’s cozy. And you’ll have company.”

  Angela’s stomach twisted into a knot. Thus far she’d avoided talking to Lothair. She couldn’t stand his proximity, never mind the sound of his voice, but…

  She couldn’t let that intel go. If other women were imprisoned in the Razorback complex, she needed to know.

  “How many?” As the question left her mouth, she winced. God, she sounded raw. Like the victims of violent crimes she talked to every day. But then, she guessed that description fit her to a T now. And just the thought made her want to sit down and cry. “How many are here?”

  “Two so far. With more to come.” He hummed behind her, his pleasure so obvious Angela wanted to turn and take his head off. Too bad she didn’t have a weapon. “High-energy females just like you…good breeders. Good feeding, better tasting than the whores downtown. Hmm, yeah. I can’t wait for another taste of you, sweetheart.”

  Angela clenched her teeth, refusing to react to the endearment. Lothair was smart, ruthless with a slap-happy helping of brutal. He wanted her to remember the feeding, to relive the press of his mouth against her throat, hard hands on her body, the awful suck and draw and…

  Uh-uh. No way.

  She refused to go there. Didn’t want to relive a second of the violation or dwell on the fact Lothair had taken something vital from her. What? She didn’t know exactly, but the awful experience wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept reminding her until her eyes burned with the threat of tears. She blew out a shaky breath and pushed the panic away: compartmentalizing the pain, moving the memory to a different mental zip code while she brought another front and center. One she couldn’t quite touch but knew was there…buried in her mind, surrounded by some sort of impenetrable wall.

  R. She remembered a name that started with R. And something else too. Pale blue eyes: beautiful, concerned, shimmering in the darkness. She clung to the visual and how it made her feel—safe, sane, strong enough to cope with whatever came next.

  Which needed to be a swift kick in the pants.

  Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help. Resourcefulness and a quick mind, however? Yeah, those were vital. She was tough, skilled, and able to set the parameters of what she allowed to hurt her. And as she set up mental roadblocks and retreated behind psychological barricades, she glanced over her shoulder. Brown eyes met hers, the color so dark the pupils blended with the irises. Leveling her chin, she made herself a promise. “I’m going to kill you, you know that?”

  He laughed. “I’d love for you to try, she-cop. Please…try.”

  The murmur was eerie, like the creak of frozen tree limbs in winter, the sound of isolation and mass murder. And as fear slithered along her spine, Angela smothered a shiver to keep it from surfacing. The sadist SOB would love that. Oh, yeah. Nothing got him off more than the sight of her afraid. She’d learned that the hard way in the examination room. She quashed the memory. Her experience with him proved the bastard liked her cowed to the point of subservience. He was diabolical, really. Brilliant with a capital B. Lothair was a tactician with brutal focus: accessing her weakness, using it against her, revving her imagination into the danger zone.

  God, what was taking the elevator so long? She needed out. Away from the bastard pushing her buttons because…

  She could smell him. Feel him staring at her even though she wasn’t looking at him. And as his eyes moved over her—ever watchful, always waiting—her stomach pitched. Muscle tightened over her bones, preparing to let fly. It would feel so good to hit him. Just wind up and send her elbow into his face. To feel the crack as she broke his nose and heard his roar o
f pain. But she’d already tried that, and trapped in an elevator with a pissed-off guy was the last place any sane woman wanted to be.

  “You thinking of running when the doors open, she-cop?” Uncoiling like a poisonous snake, his voice slithered through the silence, making her scream inside her own mind. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. “Come on. Make it interesting. Run.”

  Angela swallowed her rage along with an unwise retort. She couldn’t fight fire with fire. Words wouldn’t get her anything but more bruises. The best strategy was silence. Her nonreaction would drive him nuts. Maybe even piss him off enough to make a mistake and hand her the information she needed to break free.

  “What? Nothing to say? You done fighting?” He leaned in, getting too close, winding her tight, provoking without touching. “Such a pity. I like a little fight in my female.”

  Fight. Right. What he liked was a live punching bag, one that cried and begged for mercy. No way would she give him the satisfaction. Or an easy victory.

  Flexing her hands, Angela worked the blood back into them. As her fingertips tingled, she got ready. The quiet creak and sway of the Otis told her they were almost there. Yeah, she might be praying for rescue, but that didn’t mean she should sit back and wait for it. She had skills, carried a mental toolbox full of fighting techniques and tactical knowledge. She needed to use it—stay focused, pay attention, find a way out.

  Which was a great plan…in theory. The only problem? The beatings and medical procedures had sapped her strength, and now, nausea ate her from the inside out. Wave after wave washed in, eroding her confidence, devouring the place where know-how lived. And as bile threatened the back of her throat, she tasted the vile protein shake again. Angela huffed. Protein shake, her ass. She hadn’t landed in Spa-land, and the green drink they’d forced down her throat hadn’t been jammed full of antioxidants. Drugs. The aftertaste washed over her tongue as the medicine sloshed in the pit of her stomach.