Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Chapter 2

2

28 WALTON STREET—LATE AFTERNOON, THE RAZORBACK LAIR

F ive stories below ground, tucked away from deadly UV rays, Hamersveld exited his bedroom and turned into the main corridor. A highway of sorts, one that funneled his packmates toward the heart of the Razorback home—the kitchen where he and his packmates ate together each afternoon.

Boots thumping over limestone tiles, he kept his pace steady, using the walk to modulate his mood, but…

No joy in the journey. An abysmal attempt at self-regulation.

Lack of sleep didn’t help. Neither did his nature. The constant need to kill someone never took a break, keeping violent tendencies close to his surface. An asset during the night while out hunting. Not so great in recent weeks with the Nightfury pack lying low and no targets in the sky.

Enter Denzeil.

The crafty little prick was an excellent place to paint a bull’s-eye. The safest way for him to vent…and had been for weeks with good reason. The male had earned his attention by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But as Hamersveld strode up the hall, it became apparent disappointment hovered on the horizon. He sent out an exploratory ping anyway, hoping he was wrong. Magic rippled out in concentric circles, washing over everything it touched and?—

He scowled.

His dragon half had called it.

Denzeil wasn’t inside the lair. The coward had flown the coop before dawn, desperate to avoid being trapped inside the city lair with Hamersveld. Not a bad move. Smart given he was grounded by daylight, unable to move until night pushed the sun out of the sky.

An annoying twist of circumstance he accepted.

All Dragonkind warriors did.

Prolonged exposure to UV rays was dangerous. Sunlight equaled blindness, followed by an agonizing death for his kind. Which made traveling by night a necessity, so…yeah. Denzeil might be an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid, denying him what he needed most right now—a ball-busting fight in which he broke more of the whelp’s bones.

A shame.

Frustrating too as he turned a corner. The space opened up. Cloud white walls arched into fifteen-foot ceilings. Recessed lighting led the way, drawing him past unoccupied bedrooms closed in by solid wooden doors, then past the entrance into Ivar’s laboratory. Magic rumbling in his veins, he scanned the space without entering. No heat signature. No lethal vibe. His best friend, commander of the Razorback pack, wasn’t playing mad scientist today.

Eyes narrowed, he deepened the search and?—

Not inside the lair, either.

His friend must be across the street, inside the little A-frame, availing himself of Sasha Cooper’s charms…along with the softness of her bed.

“Good for him,” he muttered as an ache opened behind his breastbone.

Looked like jealousy.

Smelled like jealousy.

It wasn’t.

Envy played a part, sure. So did grief. Neither kept him from being happy for his friend. Ivar deserved a female to call his own. Someone who helped him take the edge off. Someone who encouraged him to relax. And if his friend found contentment in the arms of a blonde dynamo obsessed with the environment and saving bats, all the better.

The pang in his gut wasn’t about that—or anyone else. It came from a deep inside him, welling up each time he acknowledged what he’d lost. Ivar’s love affair shone a spotlight on the truth, making regret rise and pain spiral. He’d been suffering for weeks, fighting despair, denying the heartbreak, struggling to get back to baseline.

Nothing worked except fighting. Expressing the anguish physically expelled the excess energy. He needed the break along with the distraction. Denzeil’s transgression served that role, providing an outlet, allowing him to direct his wrath at a guilty party.

He growled.

The yellow-bellied prick. If the male had any balls at all, he would’ve stood strong. Taken his licks. Instead, the Razorback IT expert skirted responsibility for his actions by hiding behind Ivar, citing pack protocol. Regulations that stated Hamersveld as Ivar’s number two couldn’t beat the snot of the warriors under his command.

Pansy-ass rule.

One he’d spent the last two months ignoring.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he turned left. The smell of roast beef and garlic bread hit him. His stomach growled as he stalked beneath the high arch into the kitchen. Three sets of eyes swung in his direction.

His gaze narrowed on the trio. “Where’d he go?”

The bravest of the three, Rampart raised a dark brow. “Who?”

“Don’t fuck around, Ram.” He curled his hands into fists. His knuckles cracked. The sharp snap-snap-snap echoed like warning shots as he eyeballed his friend. “Unless you want me to switch focus.”

His packmate’s mouth curved. “Could use the exercise.”

The casual comment took the wind out of his sails. Hamersveld frowned. Was the male yanking his chain? Actually teasing him, a lone dragon with a reputation so bad Dragonkind warriors all over the world refused to approach, never mind tangle with him.

Not that he blamed them.

His past wasn’t pretty. Uncaring who he hurt, he’d left death and destruction in his wake for decades. Pain, after all, bred more of the same. Years spent without friends. No pack to call his own. Zero kinship or the chance for camaraderie.

Simple things.

Necessary things.

Things now that he had them, Hamersveld didn’t want to live without. An unexpected revelation. He’d moved through the world alone for centuries, existing without really living, until he met Ivar and joined the Razorback pack. So, the fact Rampart felt comfortable enough to razz him in his current mood counted as progress. Surprising, but also welcome. The male’s comfort level told him clearer than anything else he was accepted and appreciated, trusted despite his brutal nature.

“Nightfall. You and me, Sveld,” Rampart said, anticipation in his eyes. “Two, maybe three rounds of dragon combat training.”

“You’re on. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Rampart smiled.

He scowled and strode farther into the kitchen. “But that doesn’t answer my original question—where did Denzeil go? The lair in the Cascades?”

Unfazed by his hard tone, Rampart shrugged.

He bared sharp canines in warning.

Reacting to the show of aggression, Syndor sidestepped, taking cover behind the long length of kitchen island. “As far away from you as possible, I imagine.”

“Good plan, given the looks of you.” Ass-planted on one of the low-back stools, oversized mug in hand, Midion sipped his coffee. Black gaze locked on him, he hummed as brew strong enough to blow a lesser male’s hair back, hit his taste buds. “You need to calm the fuck down, Sveld. Have a drink. Get laid. Something. Anything as long as it improves your mood.”

Get laid.

Hristos, if only it were that simple. Too bad an easy fix wasn’t a possibility for him. Only one thing would elevate what ailed him, and he’d sent her away.

“Beating the shit out of D isn’t the answer, brother. Neither is hunting Nightfuries…or releasing some pressure by fighting with me,” Rampart murmured, talking sense, making him want to hammer the male so hard his teeth hit the floor. “You need to find her. To soothe your dragon half by wrapping yourself up in her. Nothing else is going to work.”

The words hit him center mass. A pain-filled sound escaped him.

On high alert, Midion took another sip. “Any idea where she went?”

Breathing through the anguish, Hamersveld shook his head.

“What about an alias?” Syndor asked. “You got a name we can chase?”

Against his will, the name streamed into his head.

Natalie Kristiansen.

Love of his life. The lifeblood running through his veins. His first, last and only from now on. His everything. The entire reason he shied away from hunting her down. He’d given her his word. Risked his life and position inside the Razorback pack to ensure she stayed safe. No matter how much it hurt…or how much he missed her…he refused to break his promise. Natalie deserved to live a good life far from the dangers of Dragonkind.

Natalie.

Kristiansen.

Gorgeous name. As beautiful as the female who now possessed it.

Her first name was human given, written on her original birth certificate. The surname, however…

He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Her last name was special. One that had belonged to his mother, and he’d gifted Natalie when he set up her new identity. So yeah, he knew the name she’d adopted before he forced her to flee Seattle.

Leaning against the kitchen island, Rampart frowned. “Sveld?—”

“I can’t.”

“What you can’t do is go on like this.” Understanding in his pale blue eyes, Rampart met his gaze. “You refuse to feed. You hardly sleep. You’re fixated on her. In need. In pain. So short tempered the warriors Ivar’s given you to combat train walk on eggshells whenever you’re around.”

“With good reason,” Syndor muttered. “No one’s stupid enough to mess with a?—”

“Surly water dragon,” Midion said, finishing his packmate’s sentence. “Scale-splitting nasty. Fun to watch in action, though.”

Ignoring the byplay, Rampart stared at him, refusing to back down. “Ivar doesn’t want to have this conversation with you. He loves you. Doesn’t know how to talk about it without hurting you, so?—”

“Ram,” he growled.

“It falls to me,” Rampart said, sailing past the interruption. “I’m your friend. Your brother-in-arms. We’re new to it, but I care about you. I hate the path you’re on, man. You’re going to end up dead if you don’t figure out how to rein it in.”

With a sigh, Hamersveld bowed his head, knowing Rampart was right. He wasn’t handling the loss of Natalie well. He ached for her, so much some nights he wished for death, desperate to stop the pain. And yet, he struggled to talk about it. To invite the males he trusted into his head—into his heart—for fear of being perceived as weak. Now, though, the door was open. Which left him with a choice—accept the help he needed and be honest. Or continue to be reckless and die alone in open skies when the Nightfuries attacked.

He sat with the idea for a moment, then put his feet in gear. His footfalls echoed, bouncing off dark cabinetry. His heart thumped, hammering the inside of his chest as unease cascaded through him. Quieting the urge to turn away, he joined his packmates at the island. Shoving two stools out of his way, he folded forward and leaned in. His forearms touched down on polished granite. A chill skated over his skin. Courage surfaced, warming him, dragging a decision up from the depths of his soul.

Chest so tight it hurt to breathe, he whispered, “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Rampart frowned. “I know, but?—”

“If I hunt her down and bring her back, I take her life. Natalie dies here,” he said, needing to make the warriors he fought beside every night understand. “I’d rather live my life knowing she’s out there somewhere—happy, healthy and whole—instead of dead.”

“Who says she’s happy?” Rampart asked, challenging his assumption. “Maybe she misses you…needs you…is suffering without you as much as you are without her.”

Syndor grunted in agreement.

“Fucking A,” Midion muttered, swirling the dredges of coffee at the bottom of his mug. “Strong bond, powerful reaction. The way you’re reacting means she accepted you. Probably had just as strong a reaction to you as you did to her.”

Throwing him a sidelong look, Syndor asked, “Is Midion wrong?”

“No,” he murmured, feeling the truth of it in his gut.

“She might be in pain, brother.” Blue eyes boring into his, Rampart turned to face him. Mirroring his position, he leaned in, planting his elbows on the counter. “Can you live with that? Can you honestly say she’s better off without you? That having Natalie in your life isn’t worth the risk?”

Worth the risk?

Hamersveld’s brows collided. Could he could live with the idea Natalie suffered without him? The question came. The pain went as his heart, mind and soul answered with a resounding NO.

His reaction, along with the instinct behind it, was selfish. Unhinged. Unconscionable, given the consequences. The second he claimed her in the way of his kind, she became a target. Being with him might well shorten her life. Then again, it might not.

He’d seen the mating mark on the Nightfury warriors in battle. Bastian and his band of bastards had cracked the code. His enemy possessed the answer to the ancient riddle of energy-fuse. The bond allowed a Dragonkind male to mate a female without hurting her, gifting him the ability to feed her the healing energy she needed to not only thrive during pregnancy, but also survive birthing a Dragonkind infant.

Vital information.

Essential to a warrior who loved his chosen female.

A possibility for him and Natalie if he uncovered the Nightfury pack’s secret. Staring at the countertop, the beginnings of a plan surfaced. He needed to discover Bastian’s weakness and force a confrontation. Capturing a member of Bastian’s pack would force the Nightfury commander’s hand. In exchange for the safe return of his warrior, Bastian would divulge the ins and outs of energy-fuse, providing what he needed to keep Natalie safe.

A good plan.

Not a great one considering Nightfuries continued to be scarce in the sky, but workable as long as Ivar agreed, he remained patient and?—

Powerful energy sizzled across his senses.

His sonar went haywire.

Agony slashed at him.

With a curse, Hamersveld jerked upright. His dragon half snarled. The signal expanded, throbbing inside his skull, throwing him off balance. He stumbled sideways. The air heated. Magic blasted outward. Stools skittered on wooden legs. Battling the surge, he planted his feet, fighting to get his bearings as his brothers-in-arms surrounded him.

“What—”

“The—”

“Fuck, Sveld?”

The question didn’t register. Voices ceased to matter as his sonar pinged again. He latched on. The fuzzy blip solidified inside his skull. His breath caught. His heart turned over. Thank the goddess. Natalie. She’d broken through the five-hundred-mile marker. Was close and getting closer. Each ping brought her further north, firmly inside his hunting circle, feeding him her location, allowing him to hook into the bio-energy she trailed like a long-tailed comet.

The signal screamed across his mental screen.

His dragon half roared in triumph.

Overwhelmed by the brutal onslaught, Hamersveld groaned and doubled over. Hands planted on his knees, he stared at the tops of his boots. “Hristos.”

“What?” Midion said, half-bite, mostly bark. “What is it?”

Hitting his haunches beside him, Rampart leaned down to look him. “Talk, Sveld.”

“Natalie,” he rasped, struggling to breathe.

“What about her?” Setting up shop on his other side, Syndor palmed his shoulder.

“She…” he trailed off as the jagged signal smoothed out. The painful throb downgraded, unlocking his lungs. He drew a breath, then another as gratitude struck, pushing tears into his eyes. “She’s close. On her way home.”

“The five-hundred-mile marker?”

He nodded. “She just blew through it.”

“An hour ’til nightfall,” Midion said. “Think you can hold out ’til then or?—”

“Do we need to lock you down?” Rampart asked, dread in his tone.

Clinging to the beauty of Natalie’s signal, he shook his head, then fell forward. His knees hit the floor. His packmates cursed. Hands grabbed at him, holding him steady. He didn’t care. Barely noticed the help. Breathing like a wounded animal, he rolled onto his back, going belly up in front of his brothers.

“Sveld?”

“Inform Ivar,” he said, voice soft, order firm. “Wake the pack. The second night falls, we fly out as a unit.”

The Razorbacks surrounded him grunted in agreement.

He barely heard them. Didn’t care about their concern, or his prone position. He paid the vulnerability no mind. Only one thing mattered—the glorious burn of his female inside his head. So instead of moving, he stayed where he lay, palms up, legs spread, back pressed to the floor. Eyes closed, he listened to his packmates shuffle around him and clung to Natalie’s signal. Hunting her energy. Tracking her movement. Following his female’s progress as she broke her word, drove up I-5 and returned to him.