Anything he wanted. Sounded exactly right. Especially if Tigmar gave him a hard target instead of the usual fluff. The second he identified the mark, Grizgunn would use what Cyprus wanted to acquire to draw the Scots out into the open, then tear the thieving whoresons apart.
7
Quiet drifted through the lair like spindles of eerie fog, lying in wait for his brothers-in-arms to roll out of bed and banish the silence. Acutely aware of the absence of sound, Kruger stepped out of the shower. Steam rolled out behind him, puffing against his bare back. He allowed the invasion of his space a moment, then murmured his wishes. The door swung closed, trapping the mist inside the glass enclosure as his magic went to work. Water droplets sizzled on his skin, then vaporized. Damp air cleared. Fog on the mirrors over the double vanity with marble countertops disappeared, reflecting crisp white tile with blue trim.
Listening hard, hoping to hear one of his packmates up and moving, he stepped off the bath mat and walked into his bedroom. A king-size bed stood to his left, mattress askew on the low platform, cotton sheets twisted, coverlet a heap on the floor. The tangle broadcasted his chaotic state of mind, stating plainly he hadn’t slept—at all.
Not an optimal outcome.
Lack of sleep was a problem, worse for him than other Dragonkind warriors. Well rested he was a serious threat to others. Tired with his emotions frayed and thoughts tangled, he was a ticking time bomb. One set to go off in a hurry if he didn’t redirect his energy and quell the volatile nature of his need. He needed a distraction. Something to shift his focus and occupy his mind. If he stayed on his current course, one of his packmates—or goddess forbid, one of their females—would end up hurt.
Skirting the knotted mess on his bed, Kruger conjured a pair of basketball shorts, but nothing else. No need for a shirt or shoes. His internal temperature ran too hot to ever wear much. Sometimes he pushed the boundaries of comfort and yanked on a t-shirt. His mated packmates appreciated his efforts. Their females, however, didn’t care, telling him to be himself, never complaining about his preference for going shirtless inside the lair.
The large vent above his head rattled. A stream of icy air washed over him.
Tipping his head back, Kruger breathed it in, enjoying the chill as his internal temperature started to rise. Inferno-like heat rolled across his nape. He closed his eyes. Maybe another ice bath would help. Maybe he needed Levin to conjure him another snowdrift to sit in. Maybe he should give the breathing exercises Wallaig taught him another try. Not that anything his brothers-in-arms suggested ever worked. His dragon was too unstable—or mayhap too sensitive—to be contained when problems weighed heavy on his mind and solutions remained thin on the ground.
His cross to bear. Part of his nature as he fought the fire and lost.
Green and gold flames punched through his spine. Embers sparked across his skin, making him unsafe for mixed company. What he needed was a good fight, a way to exorcise his demons and settle his mind. But with Rannock still dead to the world—no doubt wrapped around his mate, content to laze the day away—Kruger’s outlet had disappeared. Tempel might be a good choice of sparring partner. Levin and Tydrin too, but as he sent his senses searching, nothing came back.
Everyone was still abed. All quiet on the Scottish lair front. No one to punch. No one to piss off. No one to help him contain the volatility—or the conflagration unfurling around his torso.
Toxic fumes spilled into the air. Stone walls trembled.
Feet planted, fists clenched, Kruger bowed his head and forced himself to focus. Little by little, the fire moved from out of control to somewhat contained. He pushed it from his belly, up his chest, around his neck, then down his back. Flames caught hold between his shoulder blades, rolling up and down his spine as he embraced the burn, allowing his dragon the outlet, then opened his hands and flicked his fingers.
The fireproof steel door opened without making a sound.
Putting himself in gear, Kruger dipped his head beneath the lintel and turned up the main corridor. Bare soles whispering over dark hardwood, he walked past an army of closed doors in a sea of pale granite. Lots of claw marks on stone. A few scorch marks from Wallaig’s flamethrower exhale. Old scars delivered by dragon claws rippling up to meet sixteen-foot ceilings.
All normal. Nothing out of place. Same old, same old…except for the echo of nothingness driven by inactivity.
Total silence. No relief in sight.
Kruger released a pent-up breath. The rasp echoed through the hush. He repeated the exercise, doing what Wallaig suggested, inhaling deep, exhaling smooth, trying to level out, but…fucking hell. Nothing he tried helped. The quiet only made things worse.
Especially after what had happened last night.
He needed a diversion. Right now. Before he made another mistake and even more of a mess.
With a low curse, he shook his head and kept his feet moving. The situation was more than just challenging. It was messed up. His reaction—along with his behavior inside The White Hare—crossed lines.
Not much raised his blood pressure. He couldn’t think of a single thing that had pushed him over the edge in the last two centuries. Difficult negotiations—no problem. Hard-nosed strategies that deployed brutal tactics—acceptable. Troublesome CEOs and hostile takeovers—bring it on. Corporate battles enlivened him. Winning in the world of business was what he did…so, nay, he never lost sleep over exerting his will, wasn’t prone to tossing and turning…until he met her.
Eighteen hours of hell. And it wasn’t over yet.
Stepping off smooth hardwood planks onto a mishmash of soft rugs, he strode into the common room. Ignoring the colorful stained-glass dome above his head, he skirted a cluster of deep armchairs, then walked between the twenty-foot sectional and the mounted TV. He shook his head. The screen was massive, a recent addition that took up most of the wall. One that Tempel, the newest member of the Scottish pack, insisted he needed to watch his favorite teams. Something about the NFL, the Premier League, and Australian rules football. Not that Kruger gave a shite. Unlike the American male, he wasn’t into sports.
Tempel kept trying to change his mind. Kruger continued to ignore him, preferring the ring—and sparring with Rannock—to sitting on his arse watching a bunch of humans dressed in ridiculous uniforms run around a field.
Bypassing the double swinging doors into the kitchen, he jogged up a set of stairs. Five steps up, and he entered the lair’s nerve center. The computer hub where Ivy spent most of her time was to his left. The new library where Elise curated the pack’s rare book collection took up all the space to his right. He glanced through the double glass doors as he walked past. No Elise, which meant no Cyprus.
Thank fuck.
Out of all the males he wanted to see right now, his commander wasn’t one of them. The last thing he needed was to come face to face with Cyprus. The male wasn’t stupid, far from it, which equaled disaster for Kruger right now. Unlike the other Scottish warriors, Cyprus possessed the ability to read him. One look and the male would know something was wrong. He’d demand an explanation, then poke and prod until Kruger gave him one.
Not advisable, given his current mood. And the fact he couldn’t pinpoint the problem—or figure out what the hell was wrong with him.
Though he knew the source. The second he laid eyes on her, Kruger clocked the threat. Identifying the target wasn’t the problem. His reaction to her, however? As serious as a being flambéed by a Dragonkind warrior who exhaled Scald.