Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Deleted Scene Fury of Surrender

DELETED SCENE: FURY OF SURRENDER

THE DRAGONFURY SERIES, BOOK 6

T he dream never left Forge alone. The raw imagery pounded on him night after night. Hour upon hour: voracious, relentless, without mercy. Little recourse but to endure the pain, breathe through the volley of fragmented sights and the echo of torturous sounds. Each scream picked him apart, eroded his will, making him remember things best forgotten.

Things best left buried.

Six feet under would be good.

A pity he couldn’t claim that luxury. Or owned a shovel sharp enough to do the job.

Flipping back the covers, Forge swung his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress creaked. His dragon senses flexed, following the bleak sound as it bounced around his room. Sunlight bled from behind thick curtains, defying the blackout blinds, giving him the hour. Midday, almost feeding time. And yet, he didn’t move. He scowled at the light instead. Watched it push across the floor, pale fingers creeping over hardwood to touch the edge of the braided rug beneath his bare feet. Multi-colored, soft and thick, the carpet reminded him of home. Of cool Highland moors and the steep, icy faces of Cairngorm. Of familiar streets and the abiding haven of his childhood, the city of Aberdeen.

Forge clenched his teeth. More memories he needed to forget. Too bad some things died harder than others, his inability to leave the past where it belonged chief among them.

Some of it he remembered. Most of it he didn’t.

Not that it mattered.

He’d tried to piece it together time and again. Over and over. Nothing ever changed. His mind closed ranks, reinforced mental barricades, refusing to give up the goods. He only ever got bits and pieces. Shadow memories—the blurry, indistinct details of a night long past—haunted him. Now he couldn’t tell fact from fiction. How much was real? What had his subconscious invented in an effort to protect him from the truth? Excellent questions. No solid answers. Naught but dim memories shadowing his mind, pointing fingers, laying blame, making him fear the role he’d played that night.

While his family lay dying.

Torn apart.

Murdered at the claws of his enemy.

Bowing his head, Forge gripped the mattress edge with both hands. The movement locked his elbows. His arm muscles protested the tension. He didn’t care. Honed by hardship, he barely felt the discomfort. Pain never bothered him anymore. The piercing, jagged sensation focused him instead. Guilt, however? Shite, that bastard remained front and center, tying a knot behind his breastbone, making it difficult to breathe. He stared at the space between his feet and frowned.

Bloody hell. His mind needed to decide. Open wide or shut down tight. Remember everything or forget completely.

It couldn’t do both, and after years of living with questions, he was tired of running from the truth. He wanted answers, some kind of closure, one way or other. Before the mental tug of war tore him apart. Before the agony of living in the hell of not knowing took its toll, and he lost all sense of himself for good.

The glow around window casing intensified.

With a ragged exhale, Forge released his death grip on the sheet and pushed to his feet. Rolling his shoulders, he turned toward the pocket doors on the other side of his room. Both stood wide open, pushed back into the wall, allowing him to see the rocking chair sitting next to a toy bin piled high with stuffed animals. Gaze locked on the wolf with lopsided ears, he stepped around the end of the bed. Time to get a move-on. His son would wake soon and?—

“Da!” The call filtered through the doorway. “Da, da, da, da, da.”

His mouth curved as the first urgent cry morphed into happy babbling. Feet still moving toward the nursery, Forge glanced over his shoulder at the digital clock sitting on his bedside table. Three-fifty-four PM. Same time, every day. It never failed. Gregor-Mayhem always woke as afternoon lengthened into early evening. Uncanny, a touch freaky, but no real surprise. Dragonkind infants were stronger than human babies—more alert, more aware, faster on the cognitive development and physical fronts too. Toss in the fact a warrior could set his watch by one and…aye. A perfect time piece wrapped in a precious wee package.

“Da!”

“Hold onto yer tail faethers, laddie. I’m coming.”

An unhappy squawk answered him.

Dipping his head beneath the door lintel, Forge strode into the room. The space screamed HUMAN. Human décor. Human superstitions. Human traditions everywhere he looked. Pale blue walls for a boy. A painted-on stencil with kites and bikes and skateboards in place of a chair rail. Winnie the Pooh mobile hanging above the mahogany crib. A shame, to be sure. Miniature dragon skulls bobbing above the crib would’ve been better than a dumb bear with honey bee issues to entertain his son, but well…

A smart male knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Case in point? His son’s given name along with the nursery. Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was responsible for both. The prissy human set-up didn’t bother Forge much. Rooms could be changed—repainted, redesigned, reorganized. No sweat. Hardly any work at all. The human name crammed in front of his son’s Dragonkind one, however? Forge grimaced. Almost four months gone, and he still wasn’t used to it. Didn’t like saying it either. Given half a chance, the “Gregor” part wouldn’t exist. He dropped it every chance he got and used Mayhem , but only when he was alone. And never with the other Nightfury warriors in earshot.

For good reason—Myst.

The lass loved Mayhem—his full name too, having gifted his son with her Grandda’s moniker…the war hero. Forge shook his head while he crossed to the crib. Shite. Of all the rotten luck. Trust a female to tie it up with a neat little bow.

Smart of her. Difficult for him.

Dropping the name came with a formidable problem—hurt feelings on Myst’s part. Something he would never cause. He admired her too much to disrespect her in any way. Only a callous fool would hurt the woman responsible for saving his son’s life, only to adopt him as her own, so…

The name stayed.

Which meant he must keep his aversion for it under wraps. And adopting the nickname his brothers-in-arms—the other dragon-warriors with whom he shared Black Diamond—used to lessen the gut-punch of a Dragonkind infant with a human name.

“Good morrow, GM. How’s my laddie today?” Forge peered over the side of the crib. His gaze landed on the Mohawk first. Rising in the center of his son’s small head, the strip of dark hair screamed bad-ass. Already. A sign of things to come. A warrior in waiting. Forge’s mouth curved; his heart warming as serious purple eyes met his. Wee feet kicking, blankets in disarray, Mayhem frowned at him. Forge raised a brow. “Hungry, are we?”

Mayhem shoved his fist into his mouth. A suck-suck-sucking sound followed, telling Forge plainer than words what his son wanted. Myst…right now.

“Ma, ma…ma, ma, ma,” his son said around his knuckles.

“Yer mam’ll be here in a minute.”

With a flick, he tossed the baby blanket to one side and picked up his son. His slight weight settled like a gift in his arms. Oh, how he loved this part of the day. The quiet time when he got Mayhem alone. All to himself. No sharing with the female horde who’d invaded the Nightfury lair in recent months. He kissed the top of his head, reveling in the warm bundle as Mayhem snuggled into his chest, laid his cheek against his shoulder and…God. Was there anything better? The closeness and cuddle made him feel needed. Valued. Like an able sire, instead of a fuck up with holes in his memory and heavy guilt in his heart.

His chest went tight, squeezing around his heart.

Forge ignored the awful jab and turned toward the changing table. “Let’s get you a bottle while we wait, shall we?”

“Ba-ba.”

“Aye,” he murmured against the top of his son’s head.

Soft hair brushed his jaw, catching on day old stubble, bringing a soothing wave of steady comfort. The tight knot in the center of his chest loosened. One thread unraveled into more, leaving a messy tangle, but…hell. He didn’t care. The reprieve was welcome, a necessary thing to banish the ache in an ocean of nothing but hurt.

Stopping in front of the dresser doubling as a change station, he leaned to one side and tugged the fridge door open. Small, compact, a college sized appliance, perfect for the nursery and the ready-made the baby bottles Myst kept inside it. Grabbing one off the top shelf, he gave it a good shake, then murmured. The beast inside him answered, awakening his dragon half in a rising rush. Magic gathered, then crested, building into an inferno inside him. Pleasure prickled along his skin. Heat bled from his palm. The milky formula warmed inside the glass.

Wee head tucked beneath his chin, Mayhem squirmed in his arms. “Ba-ba.”

The perfect temperature now, he shifted his son to the crook of his arm and gave it up. An intense look on his face, Mayhem grabbed the bottle with both hands and stuffed the nipple in his mouth. With a chuckle, Forge laid him on the thick changing pad and reached for a clean diaper. Pajama snaps popped, joining the feeding sounds as he undressed his son and got busy with the clean up. A new diaper went on quick, the clean pair of PJs even faster. Not a moment too soon either. A warm prickle ghosted along his spine. The sizzle rolled toward him, riding the late afternoon air, making the fine hair on his nape stand on end, sounding the alarm.

Almost here. She was just steps away.

Light footfalls sounded outside the door.

A creak drifted through the quiet.

The handle turned. The door swung inward. A slim silhouette stepped in from the hallway and?—

“Good eventide, lass.”

“Hey, Forge.” Blonde hair tumbling over one shoulder, bare feet whispering over wide-planked floorboards, Myst moved deeper into the room. Eyes the color of violets met his, then drifted to Mayhem. “Is he ready?”

“All set.”

Gliding to a stop beside him, she leaned in, and with a gentle touch, caressed Mayhem’s bare foot. Tiny toes curled, then wiggled as though delighted. Myst smiled, pure joy in her expression. “Hello, beautiful boy.”

“Ma…ma, ma, ma.” Mayhem grinned around the nipple, greeting Bastian’s mate, then went back to sucking.

Mama .

Forge’s throat tightened. How incredible. He hadn’t dared hope. Had never expected such a welcome turn of events. Not once in the eight months Caroline Van Own carried his child had he dreamed a female might take on the role of mother to his son. He’d made a terrible miscalculation with Caroline. One he couldn’t undo or take back. A mistake that could never be forgiven. The moment he realized his error—impregnating her without first ensuring his dragon half had bonded with her—he’d known what it meant.

Certain death for Caroline.

Another female taken in her prime.

Another motherless son in a long line of many.

One hundred percent his fault. A terrible truth to face. A hard thing to admit. The inherent difficulty, however, didn’t make it any less true.

Or him any less culpable.

He bathed in shame every day. Flogged himself for doing the unforgivable and taking a human life. For ending Caroline’s before it truly began. Not that he’d killed her on purpose. Arrogance played a part in his mistake. Hope and faith as well. The belief he could force the connection—one his kind called energy-fuse —to create a lasting bond that would keep her healthy during pregnancy and save her life in the end.

He knew better now.

The universe didn’t work that way. Or make exceptions for good intentions. He’d put the cart before the horse. Energy-fuse couldn’t be forced. Elusive. Powerful. A magical bond between mates, the connection most males coveted but never managed to find. Dragonkind DNA—the unique energy signature in each warrior’s blood—was too finicky for such falsehoods. It recognized truth, ignored denial, matching and marrying the Meridian’s energy streams in individuals. One Dragonkind male, one human female who matched his energy frequency down to the decimal and…wham! Harmony times a trillion. Exacting. Uncompromising. Eternal. A match made in magic and the powerful electrostatic bands that ringed the planet, nurturing all living things. Dragonkind included.

No male could fight or fake it.

The knowledge was his cross to bear along with Caroline’s death. And yet, even as he mourned her, Forge reveled in Mayhem, rejoicing in the small things: each growth spurt, every new lesson learned and word said. The way his son’s Mohawk gleamed in the low light and his dark lashes flickered as he drank from the bottle. The fact Myst now mothered his infant son.

It didn’t matter that Myst belonged to another male. Or that she wasn’t Mayhem’s biological mother. Not for a second. A mother for his son. A woman who loved his child with the whole of her heart was all that mattered. Now. Tomorrow. In the future. Forge couldn’t have asked for better for his son.

“God,” she whispered, stroking Mayhem’s tiny foot again. “He’s getting so big.”

“Infants do that.”

She sighed. “Too fast for my liking.”

“You’ll have yer own soon enough,” he said, glancing at her stomach. Hidden beneath a cotton tee, her belly rounded, growing bigger by the day. Four months along, carrying Bastian’s unborn child, and pleased as punch about it. Impending motherhood looked good on Myst. Went together better than sugar in shortbread cookies. He glanced at her sideways. “Another tiny babe to coddle. A playmate for GM.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“So you keep telling me.”

She laughed and laid a hand on her belly. “He started moving yesterday.”

“Kicking?”

“Like a pro soccer player. Surprised the heck out of me. Freaked Bastian out a little.”

“Aye,” he said, remembering the first time Mayhem moved inside Caroline’s womb. He’d been so proud, full of anticipation and joy. Before he’d learned he and Caroline weren’t meant for one another. Sorrow rose in a grief-filled wave. Forge clenched his teeth to stem the tide of emotion. Stupid. Such hubris. Blatant willfulness driven by intense loneliness. Now he paid the price for his arrogance—Caroline cold in her grave and a conscience that couldn’t be wiped clean. “The babe will only grow stronger, Myst. Be sure tae take yer vitamins.”

She snorted. “Like I have a choice? Daimler would hold me down and force feed me them if I didn’t.”

He believed it. The Numbai—the Nightfuries’ go-to guy—never took no for an answer. Especially when it came to those he considered his responsibility. “Bastian would help.”

“No kidding. I have five months to go, and he’s already driving me crazy. I swear to God if Bastian doesn’t stop hovering, I’ll be forced to take a baseball bat to his head.”

Forge chuckled. “A mate’s prerogative, lass. He wants you safe.”

“I’ll give him safe,” she grumbled, pure mutiny on her pretty face. Nudging him out of the way with her hip, she scooped Mayhem off the table, and with a quick pivot, walked toward the rocking chair. Wood rockers sighed against the floorboards as she sat and settled in, his son cradled in the crook of her arm. “Just so you know, they’re waiting for you.”

Forge tensed, his body reacting to the news with a violent flash of heat. Inferno-like pressure burned through his veins. His muscles tightened over his bones. Prickles of unease swept his spine as dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Fucking hell. He’d almost forgotten what awaited him tonight—the agonizing claw of memory regression. The awful twisting sensation of allowing another into the inner recesses of his mind.

A bad taste washed into his mouth. “Is B already set up?”

Myst nodded. “Rikar’s with him.”

“Lovely.” And in no way good. Fucked up was more like it.

Bastian must be desperate if he’d included Frosty on the dance card. With Rikar in on the two-step, the evening promised a holy shite factor Forge knew would cause problems. Not that he didn’t trust the Nightfury first in command. Despite their bumpy beginning, Rikar was solid, big-hearted when it counted, smart with an extra helping of IQ. A warrior worthy of his respect, but—Christ. Having Bastian root around inside his head was bad enough. But two males with box seats and a prime view of his screwed up mental landscape? Bloody hell, that didn’t bode well…

For anyone.

Too bad the desperate-to-remember couldn’t be picky.

Forge smothered a grimace. So much for taking it easy tonight. Looked like he’d be in mind-torquing, brain-freeze territory for a rest of the evening.

Flexing his hands to combat his fear, Forge strode toward the exit. “Later, lass.”

“Hey, Forge?”

Already at the door, one hand on the handle, he glanced over his shoulder. “Aye?”

Worry in her eyes, Myst met his gaze. “Maybe you should take the evening off. Not push so hard. You don’t need to?—”

“I do.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“I cannae go on like this, Myst,” he said, cutting off her objection. “I need help. I need to know what happened that night—what part I played in it—once and for all.”

“Okay, but if you feel the burn, like before—stop.” Balls of her feet planted on the floor, she pushed, setting the rocking chair in motion. The chair seesawed. Mayhem cooed, happy with the motion and the contents of his bottle. Myst drilled him with her best I’m-a-nurse-don’t-argue-with-me look. “I mean it, Forge. No messing around. Tell Bastian to stop if it becomes too intense. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.”

Forge nodded, agreeing just to agree…and escape. He needed to escape . Right now. Before he changed his mind. Before he decided not knowing was better than what he suspected: that he’d failed his family when they’d needed him most. Running—leaving the lair and disappearing—would solve all kinds of problems. The Archguard would stop hunting the Nightfury pack in an effort to assassinate him. Painful memories would remain sealed, the truth lost for all time. And he would stay sane, but?—

Forge shook his head and, yanking the door open, stepped into the corridor. He couldn’t do it. His conscience refused to let him. He owed his Nightfury brothers-in-arms too much. Each one had accepted him. Drawn him in. Given him purpose and a new best friend in Mac, a water dragon who commanded magic as powerful as his own. Provided him and Mayhem a home, while worming their way into his heart. Now the warriors he fought alongside every night were family, and a male never turned away from those he loved, so…

No way would he turn tail and run. Not from the truth.

The information he possessed was too important to ignore. Or leave buried somewhere inside his head. No matter the cost of his mental stability, he must stay the course and remember . Recall all the ugly details to protect his new pack and provide what they needed to take down the Archguard. Rodin and his thugs required killing, and the Dragonkind hierarchy a thorough cleansing. So aye, no matter how painful, dangerous or damaging, he would try. Over and over. Again and again. Even if the mind regression techniques proved too much and obliterated him in the end.

Read more about Forge and his fight to survive in FURY OF SURRENDER.