Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

1

BLACK DIAMOND LAIR—THE HUB

S ometimes the only thing that helped was hitting something hard.

Leaning into the age-old truth, Sloan slammed his fists into the punching bag. Left jab. Right cross. Uppercut. Sweat rolling down his spine, he pivoted into a high kick.

His foot struck black leather.

The heavy bag swung.

Thick chains jerked.

The clank rippled across the gym, bouncing off cinder-block walls only to boomerang back toward him. Rage swam in the sound. In each strike. Carving into him like a blade, making him bleed a little more with every heartbeat. His knuckles hurt. His muscles ached. His mind screamed. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Refused to deny the need, ignoring the clock as one hour rounded into two, and he pummelled his imaginary opponent.

He didn’t need a face…or a name. The target didn’t matter. Pain called the play, folding the memory into a loop inside his head. Relentless in pursuit. Ruthless in intensity. Inescapable, the same way it always was this time of year.

Baring his teeth, he hammered the bag again. Leather groaned then cratered. Stitches popped. The seam split wide-open. Saw dust and stuffing flew in all directions. As the mess spilled onto the narrowed-planked floor, he hit pause on the brutal onslaught to scowl at the fist-sized hole.

“Shit.”

Ruined.

He’d ruined the only heavy bag in the gym. Something his brothers-in-arms used often. All in an effort to assuage his temper. He wanted to ask himself why he bothered, but knew it didn’t matter. Year after year, he suffered just the same. Finding an outlet never helped. Nothing he tried ever did. No matter how hard he worked out—or slammed his fists into shit—the rage boiling beneath his surface remained. Always there. Never assuaged. Which meant…

He needed to stop.

Right now.

Before his dragon half took control. Before the heavy weave of his earth magic boiled over. Before he unleashed a seismic tremor so devastating it cracked granite and shook his packmates awake from where he stood seven stories underground.

None of the warriors he lived with would be happy with the shake-up. All of them would get in his face about it. Demand to know what was bothering him. Sit him down. Force him to explain and relive what he wanted to let go, but knew he never would.

With a muffled curse, Sloan spun on his heel. Swiping the file folder he’d abandoned earlier on an exercise bench, he strode out of the weight room and into the gymnasium. The rubber soles of his boxing shoes squeaked across hardwood. The scent of floor wax and sweat hit him. Kicking a basketball out of his way, he snarled and started for the exit.

Full of fury, magic frothed out in front of him.

Harnessing the power, he murmured his wishes. Hinges hissed. Reinforced steel panels whipped open. A satisfying clang reverberated as metal handles slammed into granite walls. Dust puffed up. The doors whipped back in his direction. Pace steady, strides even, he avoided the backlash and stalked into the hallway. Wide double doors slammed behind him. The echoing violence of his exit quieted. His footfalls picked up the slack, thumping along the corridor as he pivoted toward his computer lab.

Same view, different day. Wide hallway with twelve-foot ceilings. Round lights embedded in polished concrete floors throwing V-shaped splashes up scarred, white-washed walls carved from solid granite.

Right now, the lights were dimmed down.

Later, when his brothers-in-arms rolled out bed to start the day, soft illumination would power into a bright glow, absorbing the energy his packmates threw off like supernovas. Par for the course with so many magically gifted males inside Black Diamond.

With the addition of Azrad, Kilmar and Terranon, the Nightfury pack had gone from elite heavy-weights to a Dragonkind powerhouse. As individuals, all three warriors packed a serious punch. Combined, the trio became poster boys for brutality, delivering the kind of ferocity smart males avoided if they wanted to stay alive.

Blood sport.

Exactly want he needed right now.

Sparring with Azrad would improve his mood. Kilmar would no doubt be a good choice too. And Terranon? He didn’t know the warrior well, but the Aussie seemed like a male who gave worse than he got, making him an ideal target in Sloan’s current state of mind. Going twenty rounds would help him forget what sat inside his computer lab.

Sloan growled under his breath.

Goddamn Daimler.

The Numbai needed to stop before Sloan lost his mind. Every time the Nightfury go-to guy pulled this kind of shit, the scabbed-over wound inside him reopened, sending him careening down memory lane. A place Sloan never enjoyed visiting. But Daimler—in typical Numbai fashion — refused to relent. He kept hoping Sloan would change his mind and get rid of his chair.

The purple monstrosity.

The eyesore.

The thing fucking up the aesthetic in the Hub according to Daimler and everyone else who called Black Diamond home.

Fighting to find his center, Sloan drew a deep breath and kept walking. Toward sanity. Toward certainty. Toward his super computer and the one place guaranteed to quiet the chaotic clang inside his head.

Magic slithering through his veins, he stopped on the Hub’s threshold. Prickles ghosted down his spine. Cool air stirred. His night vision sparked, lighting up dark corners, giving him the lay of the land.

Nothing and nobody. All quiet, for a freaking change.

Surrounded by the buzz of electricity, cocooned in stillness, Sloan reached for calm. He closed his eyes, then took another deep breath. The silence hit him like a body shot. He absorbed the blow. Gladly. With relish. Aware the solitude wouldn’t last long.

It never did inside the lair, but after too many nights of non-stop action, he needed respite from the chatter. From all the good-natured threats his brothers tossed around like live hand grenades every time the pack of lunatics invaded the Hub, kicked back and stayed awhile.

With a sigh, Sloan flicked his wrist. The file folder he carried sailed toward the com-center. Red cardstock hit the target, spilling documents across the desktop as he moved deeper into the room. His keyboard shimmied sideways. Motion sensors activated. The wall-mounted monitors flipped on as his system powered up.

Computer code scrolled across multiple screens.

Gaze moving over the information, he shoved the gaming chair Daimler deemed good enough for him to sit his ass in out of the way. Rubber wheels hissed across smooth concrete. Black leather with red racing strips slammed into the conference table. The stupid thing skittered sideways, then spun into the corner as he palmed the back of his own chair. The one he refused to give up. The one he couldn’t give up.

Beat-to-shit from loads of wear and tear, the wide bucket seat spun in his direction. Worn white in spots, purple leather flashed in the lowlight. Rusty metal hinges squawked.

Sloan shook his head.

He hadn’t meant for it to become a thing . Why everyone kept giving him shit about it was a question he wanted to ignore. Usually ignored . Excelled at ignoring . An excellent strategy given his packmates threw shade better than a pack of professional hecklers, so…

Yeah.

Absolutely.

Ignoring the idiotic opinions tossed his way on a regular basis worked better than the alternative—allowing his packmates to get under his skin.

He’d perfected the skill of not-giving-a-shit-what-anyone-thought over the years. Or so, he’d believed…until his ability to deflect began to unravel three weeks ago. The day he met Theodora, and she preceded to rock his world.

Without effort, his mate cut through his defenses. Bonding with his dragon half. Forcing him out of self-imposed isolation. Becoming the light in his darkness the instant he touched her, and she accepted him as her male.

Sloan’s mouth curved.

Goddess, his female. She was so much more than he expected. And after witnessing his packmates claim their chosen females, he’d expected a lot. Theodora made a mockery of his expectations. Outspoken and wise. Brilliant and beautiful. Loving and patient. She was exceptional in every way, turning him inside out without even trying. A blessing. A dream come true. A gift Sloan knew he didn’t deserve, but accepted without hesitation.

Selfish, maybe, but he didn’t care.

Theodora grounded him in ways he found impossible to quantify. Which meant he shouldn’t be in the Hub. Not right now. A smart male knew where to go when he needed calm and understanding—straight into the arms of his mate. No delay. And yet, not wanting to burden her, he shied away, protecting her from the truth, shielding her from the fallout.

Frowning at his computer, Sloan shook his head. It was madness. Pure ego fueled by fear. A hard turn away from vulnerability toward control. Or at least, the illusion of it.

Theodora wanted him to let go, to trust her enough to turn and face his past. She longed to help him find peace, which made his exit from the bed chamber he shared with her idiotic. It was worse than self-serving. It was complete cowardice. He frowned. Not that it mattered. Labeling what drove him into the gym while everyone else slept wouldn’t fix the problem. Nothing would except, maybe…

Sloan sighed.

What in the hell was he doing?

He needed to shift course, return to the greenhouse and the bed he shared with his female. Should, even now, be holding her while she dreamed, instead of staring at computer screens, struggling to stay even on his own.

Old habits, however, died hard.

And some battles a male must fight on his own.

He was too restless to sleep. Most days, while in the throes of excess energy, he burned off the tension by making love to Theodora. But after he’d kept her up all morning, his mate needed sleep more than she needed pleasure. Violet, their three-year old daughter, would be up soon, so?—

Better to suffer alone than exhaust his female.

Typing a correction into a line of code, Sloan watched the screen, then huffed in annoyance. Change never came easy. He preferred smooth, embraced steady, avoiding emotional instability as much as possible. With Theodora, however, the need to pivot became imperative. He must adjust to his new normal, let her all the way in, no matter how uncomfortable the shift.

He owed his mate everything. All of him, every piece, no holds barred or secrets kept. Problem was…