Fury of Surrender by Coreene Callahan

2017

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Author:	Coreene Callahan
Genre:	Paranormal Romance
File Name:	fury-of-surrender-by-coreene-callahan.epub
Original Title:	Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)
Creator:	Coreene Callahan
Language:	en
Identifier:	ISBN:9781612185057
Publisher:	Montlake Romance
Date:	1499702400
File Size:	557284.352

In the sixth installment of Coreene Callahan’s bestselling Dragonfury series, a tormented dragon shifter finds solace in the healing powers of a woman—one who needs her own salvation.

Dragon warrior Forge has been sentenced to death by the Dragonkind elite. Recalling the memories of his family’s murders could drive him to the edge of insanity, but it’s the only way to remove the target on his back. Fiercely determined to protect his pack and his newborn son, Forge agrees to undergo harrowing treatments to help him remember the trauma buried deep inside his heart and mind. When nothing works, a woman of unprecedented power is brought in to help.

Young, bright, and haunted by her own demons, hypnotherapist Hope Cunningham helps patients recover from their darkest memories. But each time she liberates a wayward soul, Hope’s personal pain digs deeper—until one patient ignites an unforgettable passion.
Forge’s healing journey is not without risk. Unwittingly, he has put Hope in the middle of a dangerous war, one that could shatter their eternal bond. Will the curative power of love be enough to save them?

Table of Content

1. Unnamed
2. ALSO BY COREENE CALLAHAN DRAGONFURY SERIES Fury of Fire Fury of Ice Fury of Seduction Fury of Desire Fury of Fate: A Dragonfury Short Story Fury of Obsession Fury of a Highland Dragon: A Dragonfury Novella CIRCLE OF SEVEN SERIES Knight Awakened Knight Avenged WARRIORS OF THE REALM SERIES Warrior’s Revenge
3. Unnamed
4. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 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, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781612185057 ISBN-10: 1612185053 Cover design by Janet Perr
5. To my dad—for showing me the true meaning of courage under fire, and because I love you.
6. 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 Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Acknowledgments About the Author
7. Chapter One The buzz of halogens breathed life into the absence of sound. The silence should’ve bothered him. Sounded internal alarm bells. Put him on high alert. Something. Anything. The smallest response to the eerie fog of quiet descending over Black Diamond would be good. Forge glared at the precise seams of the chair rail instead, searching for flaws as he strode down the extrawide corridor. Perfect fucking corners. Smooth, curving surfaces. Nary a chip in an ocean of glossy white paint covering the wood. Colorful paintings joined the parade, holding court, sending him deeper into the lair, pointing him toward the last place he wanted to go. His gaze jumped from pale walls to the trio of Kandinskys hanging to his left. He scowled at the collection, the sight of even brushstrokes on priceless masterpieces irritating the hell of out him . . . for no good reason. His reaction to the sight qualified as over the top. He saw the flash ’n glamour every day. Lived in the lap of luxury ins
8. Chapter Two Heart pounding like a motherfucker, Mac bared his teeth on a snarl. “Goddamn it, we’re losing him.” Fear for his friend made his throat close and the words fade. He couldn’t help the vocal lockdown or stop his mental slide into panic. Forge was in serious trouble. Flaming out. Unconscious. In agony from the torque and tear of mind regression. Working to stabilize him, struggling to hold him down, Mac gathered his magic. The spell sped through his mind. His water dragon half zeroed in—a kind of X marked the spot—before unleashing the magical torrent in a raging rush. A cool wash splashed through his veins. Rain gathered inside the clinic, coating the pale walls, flowing up instead of down. Mist settled on his skin. The waterworks focused him. He tunneled deeper, trying to connect with Forge through mind-speak, his voice spiraling into his friend’s psychological space. Nothing. No answer. No change in Forge at all. The male plummeted into physical free fall instead, muscles s
9. Chapter Three Her technique was all wrong. Hope Cunningham didn’t care. She hit the heavy bag anyway. Over and over. Again and again. Slam-bang-thump. She went twenty rounds with black leather, punishing it with singular purpose. Proper form be damned. It didn’t matter. Neither did the unfinished pile of case files stacked on the desk in her office. Not tonight. She needed an outlet, a way to stem the flow of recall. Of heartbreak and loss. Of guilt and inadequacy. Of playing the blame game. Five years, and she couldn’t shut it off or push it away. Same time, different year. February, twenty-eight days of god-awful. Not that her least favorite month cared about her preferences. Days away from the anniversary, the memory tortured her. Like a knife blade, recollection cut deep, sliced hard, leaving her nowhere to run. The visual played like a movie inside her head: the rapid staccato of gunfire, the terrified screams, the smell of blood in the air . . . Her twin brother bleeding out on a
10. Chapter Four Arse planted on a stool at the kitchen island, Forge frowned into his teacup. A smooth-tasting chamomile concoction swirled inside, a soothing balm for a ragged soul. At least, it was supposed to be—what the box label advertised. A bloody pack of lies. Tea wasn’t good for the spirit. Forge lifted the mug anyway and, following Myst’s orders, took another sip. The brew stuck, swimming at the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to swallow. Hot liquid burned on the way down. Intense heat expanded behind his breastbone, and he waited. For the relief. For the blaze to melt the chill sitting like a chunk of ice in the center of his chest and the pain to become bearable. No such luck. He was frozen. A solid block of hurt and sensory overload. Worse than the physical anguish, though, was the jumble inside his head. Two hours, and still, his mind refused to settle, dipping, diving, tumbling until his thoughts fractured, exploding in multiple directions. Now he
11. Chapter Five Forge was going to kill him. Mac knew it. He’d resigned himself to the inevitable on the ride home. The entire reason he hadn’t argued when Angela insisted on driving. A good thing too. His mind hadn’t been on the road. It had been at Black Diamond, on his best friend. After getting a look at Hope—and seeing her through Dragonkind eyes—he’d known what kind of shit storm he planned to bring into the lair. Another high-energy female on the hook, about to walk into Nightfury central and upset the balance of the entire pack. But then, hindsight was twenty-twenty. Knowing then what he did now, he might’ve altered the plan. Waited a day for his friend to recover. Brought Forge along for the ride. Had him knock on her front door. Or at the very least, told him what he intended and how Hope figured into the scheme, but well . . . shit. No way he could’ve predicted she’d be high energy. Or guessed how Forge would react to her. With inferno-like heat that bled into the air around hi
12. Chapter Six Sweat trickled over his temple, catching on the edge of his eyebrow. Bent over the workstation in his lab, Ivar swiped at it with the back of his hand and frowned into his electron microscope. Tiny organisms swam inside a glass petri dish. The up-close, in-depth look should’ve illuminated the situation, marrying fact with understanding. His surroundings should’ve done the rest. The equipment inside his state-of-the-art laboratory was the best money could buy. High-tech perfection housed one hundred and fifty feet below ground level. Most of the time, Ivar took pride in his new digs. He adored the lair he shared with his personal guard. Buried deep beneath 28 Walton Street, the underground living quarters lived up to expectation: safe, comfortable, beautiful. And his lab? The space screamed symmetry, functionality, every single utilitarian line dressed up in glossy white walls and stainless steel countertops. His refuge. His sanctuary, a stronghold against humanity and the b
13. Chapter Seven Standing in one of the guest bedrooms, Hope pulled a dresser drawer open and tossed the last pair of socks inside. It landed on top of the pile and bounced off, rolling into her boxing wraps. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the cotton coil, the familiar sight helping her feel more grounded in unfamiliar surroundings. Her gaze jumped to the boxing gloves tucked into the back of the drawer. Old faithfuls, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. She released a pent-up breath. Thank God she’d thought to bring the pair. Something told her she would need them before her time inside Black Diamond came to an end. An uncharitable thought? Hope pursed her lips. Probably, but with her instincts howling, erring on the side of caution seemed the best way to go. Something about the house didn’t ring true. Not that she could put her finger on what exactly, but . . . She glanced around the room. Yeah, without a doubt. The vibe seemed off. Not bad, just odd. Powerful somehow,
14. Chapter Eight No need tae run. What kind of advice was that? Forge bit down on a curse. The worst kind . . . the very worst a male could offer. He flexed his fingers, struggling to forget the feel of the female’s hand in his, the decadent spark of her bio-energy against his palm along with the delicious scent of her. Unable to help himself, he drew another deep breath. Tempting and sweet, her fragrance invaded his lungs. His skin started to heat. Prickles sparked across his fingertips. Oh yeah. Give him more. She smelled amazing, like hot cinnamon and shortbread cookies, his favorite of all treats and . . . bloody hell. Not good. He was in serious trouble. She was practically edible. Forge frowned at the female standing a few feet away. Too close. Far too close. With no effort at all he could reach out and cup her cheek. Learn the texture of her skin. Run his fingers over the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Feel the zap of her energy as he connected to the Meridian, t
15. Chapter Nine Worrying blew . . . big time. So did being hungry every minute of the day. Toss in the fatigue that always accompanied his near-starved state and—yeah. It sucked to be him. Sitting on the sofa in the great room, Mac tried to watch the game. One–nothing Blackhawks. He didn’t give a shit. Unusual to say the least. He enjoyed hockey. Got a kick out of Rikar’s obsession with the game and all the body contact. His mouth curved. Hell, those guys could hit. Sometimes with enough force to break bones. Always fun to watch. A plate balanced on one knee, Mac picked up his fork. Eggs. Bacon. Crispy potato wedges. All of it smothered in maple syrup, the real kind, one hundred percent authentic. Mouthwatering aromas rose on a curl of steam. He frowned at his stack of pancakes. The commentator droned on about a penalty—a stick infraction, some kind of shot to the head. Mac sighed. Enough stalling. Might as well get on with it. No sense beating the issue to death. He might not be able to
16. Chapter Ten Sitting at the table across from Forge, Hope stared at him, searching for flaws. She needed to find a whole bunch. Pages full—right now, but well . . . her strategy wasn’t working. Luck and intellect had abandoned her half an hour ago. No matter how good the argument, she couldn’t deny his appeal. Her gaze drifted over his face. The strong line of his jaw, the sculpted cheekbones, the color of his eyes, and dark day-old stubble—each feature pointed to one god-awful conclusion. He was gorgeous. Pure male beauty. The kind no woman on earth could ignore. Or resist. Bad news for her. Even worse for professional ethics. The longer she looked at him, the less her brain worked. Now she didn’t know what to do—keep talking to him or push the pancakes aside and kiss him senseless. The urge startled her. Worried her a whole bunch too. She’d never been attracted to one of her patients before. Never sat across from anyone meant for her therapist’s chair and wondered what he tasted like
17. Chapter Eleven Shoulder blades pressed to the rear wall of the viewing chamber, Forge stared through the glass separating him from his best friend. The barrier rubbed him the wrong way. He should be in there doing . . . well, something. What, exactly? He frowned. No bloody idea, but God, the waiting. He hated waiting—along with the MRI surrounding Mac, the human thing keeping him from his best friend’s side. Damned machine. Crossing his arms, he scowled at it and told himself to be patient—for the umpteenth time—but . . . shite. It was hard to do. Hard to wait. Hard to watch. Hard to feel so completely helpless. His stomach dipped. Forge smoothed away his unease and forced himself to remain still. Perfectly fucking still. Pacing wouldn’t help. Wearing the floor out never worked. Neither would putting his fist through the wall, considering Mac lay unconscious, stretched out on the patient table, his tattoo glowing red against the walls inside the cylinder. Bright lights blinked above th
18. Chapter Twelve Holding G. M. in her arms, Hope waltzed across the nursery. Thick area rug underfoot, the scent of baby powder in the air, she hummed Vivaldi, moving to the concerto of violins playing inside her head. She counted out the beat, twirling between each step. An easy three count: one, two, three—pivot, slide, spin into a gentle turn. One, two, three—sway with the baby cradled against her, keeping him happy and herself content. Pulled free of a ponytail, her hair swung loose. The soft strands brushed across her shoulders as she sidestepped the end of G. M.’s crib. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile bobbed. Eeyore nodded at her. Ignoring the encouragement, Hope danced by the toy box full of stuffed animals, skirted the changing table, then whirled around the rocking chair. Sucking on his thumb, G. M. sighed in contentment. Joy bubbled up, settling into her bones, invading her heart. God, what a pleasure. It had been ages. Way too long since she’d held a baby. Her gaze on her temporary
19. Chapter Thirteen The dream tightened its hold, driving Forge into thick fog. Swiping at the ashy swirl, he struggled to find his way through the smoke: to level his wings, to feel the rush of air and bring the landscape into focus, but . . . He growled through clenched teeth. Zero visibility. Nothing but gloom and shadows. Pushing forward, Forge narrowed his view and tried again. His vision wavered. Light flickered behind the fog and—goddamn it. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. Indistinct images flashed in his mind’s eye, then faded, lost forever in the mounting chaos. He knew it was coming. Had cataloged every detail of the memory/dream each time it invaded his sleep . . . though it never picked up in the same place. Sometimes it started inside the mountain lair, with him sitting in the kitchen eating his mother’s shortbread cookies. Other times, the dream began as he leapt from the cliffs. Or like now, as he approached the moors, wings spread wide, winter wind in full bluster. He felt
20. Chapter Fourteen Forge needed to stop kissing her. He shouldn’t be holding her. Shouldn’t have his hands anywhere near her gorgeous arse either. And caressing her petal-soft skin? Oh, so not a good idea. He ought to be shot. Drawn and quartered. Hung from the nearest rafter. Or something. Maybe then his brain would kick over and order him to do the right thing. Wanting her wasn’t the issue. Taking her—making Hope his—didn’t qualify as the main problem, but . . . good Christ. He shouldn’t be doing it like this, with her reeling, punch drunk from the healing energy his dragon half continued to feed her. An honorable male would back off. Think. Assess. Sit her down and talk it out. Which made it official. He should pull away, explain the way things worked while he made his position clear and let her decide. Only two options existed for females in his world—accept his dragon half, become his mate, or run like hell. Clear cut. Concise. No room for misinterpretation. And yet, as her tongue t
21. Chapter Fifteen Krkonoše mountain range—Czech Republic Ancient treetops rocked as Zidane flew overhead. On a collision course with warriors hidden amid inhospitable cliffs and low-lying mountain valleys, he banked into a tight turn. Twin streams whistled from his wing tips. His brown, orange-speckled scales rattled. Snow spun in his wake, the mad rush matching the rise of his fury. A yellow glow sparked in his dark eyes. His gaze swept east, the citrine glow staining the washed-out winter landscape in front of him. He needed a target. The mock battle—dragon combat training with the crew he’d chosen as his personal guard—might not be real, but at least it was something. The perfect remedy. A way to focus his rage, the promise of a fight that would leave him bruised and more than a touch bloody. It was either that or explode. Not a great plan considering his firepower in dragon form. An ill-advised explosion was the last thing his father’s physician would prescribe. The flammable poison
22. Chapter Sixteen Cursing his bad luck, Ivar leapt off the third-floor balcony. The violent free fall blew his hair back. Frigid air burned over his cheekbones. Focused on the ground, he bared his teeth and timed his landing. The blackness was absolute. No porch light on behind his aboveground lair. No glow from streetlights bleeding into his backyard. No moon to break through the murky thread of midnight. Just stony silence and the abysmal threat of another fucked-up night. Suppressing a snarl, Ivar called on his magic. His night vision sparked. Frozen grass came into focus, the brown, bladed edges sharp and battle worn in the darkness. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three— He let his fire dragon loose. Pink flame licked over his skin. Heat blasted through the cold. His body lengthened beneath the spread of blood-red scales and the crack of razor-sharp claws. Winter wind snapped at the spikes adorning his tail. Brick facade of 28 Walton Street blurring in his periphery, Ivar spread h
23. Chapter Seventeen Sitting with her back to the wall inside her temporary bedroom, Hope turned the rolled boxing wrap over in her hands. Slap a sticker on her that read “Cooked” and call it a day. She was in big trouble, the kind of screwed that left her wondering when and where she’d lost her mind. She snorted. When and where weren’t the issue. The who, however, remained a serious problem. One unlikely to go away anytime soon. Stay put, he’d said. No way she could’ve done that, not after . . . Hope frowned at her knuckles. Screwed didn’t quite describe what she was at the moment. Or rather, what she was doing. Hiding might be a better characterization. In full retreat was an even better one. The fact she was doing it while wedged between her bed and the night table with her butt planted on the floor summed up her situation nicely. Hope cringed. All right, best add pathetic to the heap of shame and get on with her day. Cursing under her breath, she examined the Velcro holding the boxing
24. Chapter Eighteen Raising her fists, Hope kept her guard high and pivoted around the heavy bag. Footwork perfect, her bare soles skimmed over the hardwood floor. Shift right. Dance left. Keep her opponent in her sights. Rope creaked. The black bag swayed from her last strike. Muscles pulsing with energy, she flexed her hands inside the sparring gloves and, timing her punch, hammered the sucker again. The violent thump echoed across the weight room. The impact jolted up her arm. Satisfaction hummed through her as her biceps squawked in protest. Ignoring the discomfort, she struck again. And again. Jab right, a quick left cross before powering into an uppercut, moving in a rhythm that would make her trainer proud. Over and over. Again and again until her surroundings fell away. Concrete walls nothing but blur in her periphery, she brought her feet into play. Kicking high, she slammed her foot into the target zone. Black leather groaned. The heavy bag rocked sideways. Sweat rolled down her
25. Chapter Nineteen He tasted like fine whiskey and hot sex. A combination she loved. Nothing wrong with a single malt after work. Probably something wrong with having hot sex with Forge. But with his mouth on hers as he backed her across the gym, Hope couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t try to look behind her. She didn’t ask where he was taking her. Or what he intended. None of it mattered. The moment he kissed her, the outside world fell away. All that remained was him—the wild taste of him, the heady feel of him, the delight as he dragged her so far under she couldn’t catch her breath. The idea of rethinking her decision disappeared. It was done. Over. A lost cause. Ethics thrown under the bus along with her ability to say no. She’d gone and done it. No second-guessing necessary. Hope didn’t want to change her mind. She’d already tossed caution to the wind and said yes. Might as well commit. Might as well go with the flow. Might as well enjoy the ride and reap the reward. Tangli
26. Chapter Twenty Stretching out his shoulders, Forge turned left into the corridor and strode toward the clinic. Hardwood floors gave way to smooth concrete floors. The high polish gleamed dark gray as the round lights embedded in the floor threw splashes of light onto granite walls. Chisel marks stood in stark relief against the pale paint, reminding him of home and his painful history. Bowing his head, Forge cupped the back of his skull. He pressed down. His chin touched his chest. Taut muscles squawked. He kept his feet moving, knees bending, bare soles whispering in the quiet, pace steady despite his tension. Goddamn history. The past never left him alone. As unrelenting as a hungry wolf, it circled, making him recall the good times, taunting him with the bad. Not that he could remember all of it. Which made him want to forget all the more. A picture of Hope rose in his mind. Forge shook his head. Guess forgetting wasn’t an option anymore. No sense turning away from the truth. Sooner
27. Chapter Twenty-One Standing in the antechamber connected to his laboratory, Ivar tapped his fingertips against the keyboard space bar. The bank of monitors mounted to the wall woke up, the prompt for his password an island surrounded by an ocean of blue screen. He stared at it a moment, worry sitting like a hair ball in the pit of his stomach. He’d landed less than five minutes ago. The instant the timer on his watch went off, and the first round of Dragonkind Olympics had concluded, he’d dragged Hamersveld out of the hot tub and flown home. The male wasn’t happy. Ivar didn’t care. His XO needed to get his head screwed on straight. Choosing males to breed his HE females when the Meridian realigned might be important, but the development of his antiviral drug took precedence. Females were dying—babies, toddlers, teenagers, mothers or not. The virus he’d released in Granite Falls didn’t discriminate. Which meant, as much fun as the competition was turning out to be . . . Playtime was ove
28. Chapter Twenty-Two Crouched atop a ridge on Bainbridge Island, Forge looked out over Puget Sound. City lights winked in the distance. Waves crested and rolled in the bay, merging with unseen undercurrents before flowing past Seattle and out to sea. The icy swirl threw damp tendrils into the air, coating his scales with water, obscuring his vision with fog, making his unease keep time with frothing whitecaps. Refolding his wings, he adjusted his stance for what seemed like the thousandth time. Raising a paw, he flexed his talons. Black, razor-sharp tips gleamed in the moon-glow. The show of strength didn’t temper his worry. The relentless shift and shuffle didn’t settle him either. Step closer to the edge of the cliff. Climb to the row of boulders above the beach below him. Hop back down. Resettle once more. No matter what he did—or how often he changed position—nothing eased the disquiet. Not surprising in the grand scheme of things. Waiting always set his teeth on edge. So did sitting
29. Chapter Twenty-Three Folding his wings, Ivar fell out of the sky. Dropping through thick clouds, he aimed for the break between rooftops, pointing his paws toward the expansive lawn below. Wind blasted over his scales. The rattle and shake soothed his temper, the chatter from the guards landing behind 28 Walton Street did not. Multiple paws set down, crushing frozen grass under-talon. A spiked tail clipped one of the rusty oil tanks sitting in his appalling excuse for a backyard. The quiet clank annoyed the hell out of him. Bad form, he knew. He swallowed a growl along with his irritation. His soldiers weren’t doing anything wrong. In fact, each male was doing it just right. Getting a gold star. Receiving an A-plus in the procedure department—whatever (who the fuck cared?)—as the pack went about the usual business of arriving home: folding wings, shifting into human form, gathering at the rear entrance . . . waiting for him to set down. Different night, same routine. No one entered the
30. Chapter Twenty-Four Head bowed, dressed in his ceremonial robe, Zidane knelt in the middle of the sacred chamber. Hewn from solid granite, the circular room lay at the heart of the mountain. Hot water flowed through channels carved into the rock wall, streaming into a pool flanked by ancient stone stairs. Steam writhed around him, dancing like ghosts as sweat trickled over his nape, down his back, making the heavy fabric stick to his skin. His fire dragon loved the attention, all the inferno-like heat. His mood, however, continued to deteriorate. Hands fisted at his back, Zidane gritted his teeth. Kristus help him. He hated religious ceremonies. The shit-show always went on forever. And now, after an hour of being locked in the chamber, he couldn’t stave off the discomfort. Or his annoyance. Everywhere he turned, something else irritated him—the stone floor digging into his shins, the cloud of jasmine clogging the air, the burn in his lungs, the ritualized chant making his temples thro
31. Chapter Twenty-Five The chocolate mousse tasted so good, it nearly killed Hope when her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Alone in the kitchen, elbows planted on the massive center island, she peered into the empty dish. All gone. None left. She frowned. Well, mostly. A few streaks of dark chocolate remained, marring white china, taunting her with the promise of another bite. God, that would be good. The absolute best given the guilt banging around inside her head . . . and her heart. Death by chocolate. The proposition sounded fantastic right now. Giving her spoon a lick, Hope glanced around the kitchen. Pale walls gave way to designer cabinets and an ocean of Carrara marble countertops. A host of halogens spotlit the six-burner gas stove and all the details most people missed. But not her. Hope saw every little thing: the quality of the construction, each perfectly mitered corner, the precision of the paint job. Everything in its proper place. Nothing to provoke criticism. The ki
32. Chapter Twenty-Six Bare feet cooling on mosaic tile, Hope pulled the blanket over the tops of her shoulders as Forge backed away. Her focus on his face, she crisscrossed the corners, gathering the wool in her fists, and pressed the soft fleecy side to her skin. The preemptive strike against the chill didn’t help. Without his warmth surrounding her, cold air attacked, shivering up her spine. He took another step away. And then another, leaving her standing alone in the center of the circular room. Unease slithered in, winding her so tight she felt fragile. Almost brittle. Seconds away from breaking. The internal turmoil clued her in, jump-starting her brain. Her mind spun, hopping from one thought to the next. Something was wrong. Terrible, in point of fact. After what she’d witnessed—and how he’d made her feel: close and connected, needed and valued, loved and cherished—his retreat signaled trouble. All right, so the dream sequence (dragon attack . . . whatever!) worried her. So did he
33. Chapter Twenty-Seven Boots planted on the edge of the basketball court inside the gym, Forge searched for his female in the chaos. His gaze jumped over Sloan and Bastian. Heads together, bent over a computer, the pair commiserated, yakking about God knew what and . . . shite. He didn’t care. Not right now. Not with Hope in the wind and—fucking hell. He turned his back for one second and she disappeared. Scampered from view. Made herself scarce . . . whatever. His brow furrowed, he leaned right, looked past Haider and Nian, ignored Wick’s raised brow and Venom’s knowing grin. He scowled. Where the hell— The sound of her voice cranked his head around. He found her in less than a second. Back to being quiet, she sat cross-legged on an exercise mat with the other females. Chin tilted down, she dragged her hands through her strawberry blond hair. A quick twist of her fingers. A faster flash of an elastic, and she tamed the unruly mass, imprisoning the strands in a messy bun atop her head. A
34. Chapter Twenty-Eight Tucked against Forge’s side, Hope stepped off the elevator. The movement jarred her. Her senses jangled, making her temples throb and her whole body hurt. Clenching her teeth, she took a deep breath and looked around, trying to get her bearings, allowing Forge to lead, struggling to stop the blinding whirl inside her head. But nothing she tried worked. The tumbling force inside her tightened its grip. One mental revolution spun into another. Now her mind burned and the awful buzz spread, infecting muscles and bone, bringing tears to her eyes. Hope blinked each away, but . . . God. She couldn’t stop the mental blur. The whiplash slashed her. No relief in sight. No safe port in the storm. Just the roar in her veins and the splinter of once-organized thoughts. “F-forge?” “Shh, jalâyla. We’re almost there.” Almost where? She wanted to ask him, but as her vision blurred, the hardwood floor beneath her feet warped. Her knees dipped. She stumbled. Forge cursed and, withou
35. Chapter Twenty-Nine Crouched in front of the dresser in her room, Hope reached into the bottom drawer. She nudged her boxing gloves aside. Bypassed her favorite skipping rope. Shoved a pile of workout clothes out of the way. Her fingertips brushed the box she’d hidden at the very back. Heartsore, still reeling from Daimler’s disapproval, she hesitated a second, palm pressed to the warped wooden top, wondering if she should just leave well enough alone. Some things deserved a quiet death. Her childhood was no doubt one of them, but as memories called to her, she couldn’t resist. Or turn away. She pulled the box out instead and, with a slow pivot, turned toward the bed. The thick duvet with pretty blue stars lay flat and smooth, the picture of perfection with its mound of pillows as she walked toward it, and into the teeth of her future. A funny thought, particularly since the past lay heavy in her hands. Not that it mattered. The juxtaposition, the span between then and now had shrunk.
36. Acknowledgments It took awhile for me to write Fury of Surrender, the sixth novel in the Dragonfury Series. Longer than I expected. I ran into one roadblock after another in the writing of it. Sometimes, I’ve learned, that happens to a writer. Life gets in the way, on purpose, forcing us to refocus, shining a brighter light on all we strive to accomplish. I learned a lot from Forge and Hope. Most of it about forgiveness and being as kind to yourself as you’ve been taught to be to others. Time well spent. Lessons well learned. And a book I absolutely adore. I hope you enjoy Fury of Surrender as much as I have and still do. Hugs, and happy reading! Tremendous thanks to my literary agent, Christine Witthohn: for your patience and encouragement over the last year, for shepherding me when I thought I’d lost my way. You are, without a doubt, the best of the best. Many thanks to my editors, Anh Schluep and Jennifer Glover, for taking the words on the page and making Fury of Surrender into a f
37. About the Author Photo © 2009 Julie Daniluk Coreene Callahan is the bestselling author of the Dragonfury novels and Circle of Seven Series, in which she combines her love of romance and adventure with her passion for history. After graduating with honors in psychology and taking a detour to work in interior design, Coreene finally returned to her first love: writing. Her debut novel, Fury of Fire, was a finalist in the New Jersey Romance Writers Golden Leaf Contest in two categories: Best First Book and Best Paranormal. She lives in Canada with her family, a spirited Great Pyrenees mix, and her wild imaginary world. Visit her online at www.CoreeneCallahan.com and on Twitter @coreenecallahan.