Read Online Books/Novels:
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury #6)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
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?
|Books in Series:|
|Books by Author:|
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 inside the home he shared with the other Nightfury dragon warriors. Was accustomed to seeing the tidy show of wealth, so no need to be pissed off by it. Not today, or ever, except . . .
He didn’t know how else to stem the growing tide of unease.
Like a tidal wave, worry washed in. The force of it rolled over him, slowing his pace, clogging his throat, making him yearn for the safety of his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much. A quick pivot. A minute or two of walking. A solid door between him and what he’d learned to fear over the last week and a half.
Forge shook his head. Nay. No way. Not now. He wasn’t a coward and refused to run. Not after forcing himself to step over the threshold and close the door behind him. The thud of the wooden edge against the jamb had seemed final. He wanted it to be final. Needed it to be. No more hiding. No more avoiding. No more holding it in until he thought he might burst at the seams.
Onward. Upward. To his own death if necessary.
Gaze glued to the framed Matisse hanging at the end of the hall, Forge struggled to keep his legs moving. But it was hard. His feet felt heavy, each stride taking real effort. Bend knee. Lift foot. Move forward. His boot sole said hello to the floor. A second later, the other landed.
One step, two step, three step, four.
The counting didn’t help.
He muttered each number aloud anyway, walking toward the elevator that would take him into the underground lair. A few more bedroom doors to pass, and he’d be there, facing off with a steel cage he didn’t want to enter. Not that he’d been given much choice, but as his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor, a hollow spot opened behind his breastbone. The usual ache settled in and built a home, making him wonder if Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was right.
Forge frowned. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe all he needed was time. A little R & R. A slice of respite, the chance to catch his breath, open his mind wider, and remember.
He fisted his hands. His knuckles cracked under the strain. The snap ’n pop broke through the quiet and—Christ help him. He hated that word: remember. It sounded so simple. Reach in, grab hold, and pull the information out of his mind. Easy-peasy. Nothing complicated about it. But no matter how many times he tried to retrieve the memory, he came away empty handed. Zero information. Few visual clues, a dark hole where recollection should live.
A huge problem.
Catastrophic, given Bastian needed what lay buried in a forgotten place inside his mind.
The thought landed like a bomb inside him. Mental debris scattered. Forge cleared it away, acknowledging what up until now he’d refused to admit. God forgive him, but he didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to sit in that god-awful chair and allow B inside his head. Again. For the fifth bloody time, but running—leaving the lair and disappearing—wouldn’t solve anything.
He had a price on his head. Had been rubber-stamped for assassination by Dragonkind elite. Why? Forge huffed. For unbelievable shite . . . a pack of fucking lies. He still couldn’t believe the balls on the bastards. The Archguard high council and Rodin, leader of the entire travesty, had tried and convicted him of murder. Without Forge ever stepping foot inside a courtroom. Or touching the male he’d been accused of killing. Angela and Rikar had managed that all on their own. No help from him. Hell, he’d barely been part of the Nightfury pack at the time, never mind in the vicinity of the kill.
Not that he wasn’t happy to take the blame.