Fury of Fire (14 page)

Fine art wasn’t her forte. Myst always confused Monet with Manet, couldn’t tell Degas from Renoir, but the one she’d just walked past was a van Gogh. She paused mid-step to study the painting more closely. Yeah, definitely á la Vincent…as in painted by the master, not lifted from the rack at the local frame shop.

God, the thing had to be worth a fortune.

Why that surprised her, Myst wasn’t sure. She guessed she hadn’t expected quite so much from Bastian and his cohorts. In hindsight, though, she should have.

Her bedroom alone spoke volumes. It was refinement and taste wrapped up in a beautiful package that boasted the best of everything, from the antique sled bed to the brass fittings holding the silk curtains away from the windows. The colors were spectacular, too, the palate of soft lavenders and darker grays wrapped in an envelope of creamy white.

A feminine oasis complete with walk-in closet and matching bathroom.

Standing in the middle of all that gorgeousness, temptation had rung her bell, urging Myst to hunker down and well…hide. The problem? She wasn’t a chicken. Somewhere along the line, the
bok-bok
gene had skipped a few branches in her family tree, leaving her with the chromosome pairing of stare-’em-down and make-’em-pay.

“Fine time to find that out,” she said to herself.

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Myst got a whiff of ylang-ylang. She huffed. The scent was driving her crazy. Not that she didn’t like to smell good, but the ylang-ylang came with an added bonus. Damp hair. As in…she’d taken a shower recently. One she couldn’t remember.

And wasn’t that a kicker?

Bastian had…God. Had he really bathed her?

An undeniable
yes
echoed inside her head, dragging her inch by uncomfortable inch toward humiliation. Myst dug her heels in, told herself to grow up, but embarrassment grabbed her anyway, then threw her over the edge. Feeling her cheeks heat, she hit herself with a whole lot of logic.

So what? He’d seen her naked. Big deal, right? She wasn’t fifteen anymore and, reacting like a teenage girl when a man saw her N-A-K-E-D was just plain stupid. Not to mention unhelpful, especially since she’d decided not to hide…was, in fact, walking toward Bastian and not away.

But the thing was…stupid or not, she couldn’t deny that it mattered to her. Bothered her on a purely feminine level. It made her feel vulnerable, at a distinct disadvantage in the silent war raging between them.

How was she supposed to look him in the eye and not wonder if he was picturing her without a stitch on? Which, in turn, would make her think of him that way and…

Well, it was bad all the way around.

Myst rubbed her temples. She needed a new game plan. One in which she stood firm and told him to take her home. One that included telling him what she thought of his my-enemies-are-after-you theory. She didn’t need his protection. And honestly, the war between him and those other dragons didn’t have anything to with her, so why would anyone be after her?

The easy answer? They wouldn’t. Bastian was obviously overreacting, being overprotective after overblowing the situation.

And hallelujah. She was back on track, thinking about getting out, not being naked. With Bastian.

Still, the whole shower incident made her want to button up and armor down. Myst checked the zipper on her hoodie. Yup, the purple Lululemon was still zipped to her chin, covering everything vital. She took a second to smooth the front of her yoga pants, then frowned at the polish on her toenails.

Myst snorted. So much for looking tough. Yeah, because nothing said badass like bright pink nail polish and sequined flip-flops.

As she flip-flip-flopped her way along, Myst watched painting after painting roll by. The wash of color enlivened the white walls, sitting comfortably above the chunky chair rail and gleaming hardwood floors. Even out here—in a place that did nothing more than get a person from point A to point B—everything looked expensive. The mitered corners met with meticulous crispness. Each halogen lined up with its neighbor, blending into the all-white scheme, no scuff marks in sight.

The seamlessness made Myst uncomfortable. It was too perfect: no cracks or streaks of dust, no visible signs of weakness…anywhere.

Having grown up in a tiny, two-bedroom house—one that put the shabby in Shabby Chic design—Myst couldn’t identify with that kind of wealth. It made her feel like a second-class citizen traveling in a foreign country without a passport. Still, she kept her feet moving, each flip-flop a steady echo against the beautiful backdrop.

The corridor wasn’t the kind of place you sped through. It was too much like the The Met in New York City to gallop down like a runaway horse. She got the impression that if she sped up even a little, a guard—complete with museum uniform—would pop out of the woodwork and scold her.

Uh-huh, and there went her training again. All the politesse her mother had drilled into her on display for the gallery and…yeah, no one else to see.

Which was beyond unfair. Completely idiotic, really.

Her mother had died almost three years ago, yet Myst couldn’t forget. All those manners clung like old perfume, refusing to fade, reminding her of that dark December day.

It was more than just the violence, though, that stayed with her. It was the little things—all the stepping stones of behavior that her mother had insisted upon brought her low, too. Not that they were bad things to live by, but…

She missed her mom.

Missed her laughter and generous ways. Missed her crazy bohemian ideas and the wisdom that always accompanied them. Missed the endless lectures too: about respect and honesty, about treating others the way you wished to be treated.

And wow. Bastian had obviously skipped that lesson.

Passing a huge painting of a battle scene—something Napoleonic, judging by all the rearing horses and red, brass-buttoned coats—Myst finally heard what she’d been listening for…

Her angel. And oh, boy, he didn’t sound happy.

Neither did the male voices that came between the crying fits, all the stops and starts as the baby paused to take a breath.

Myst paused in the corridor. As much as she hated to hear him cry, she needed a second to compose herself. Walking in there unhinged wouldn’t help her, wouldn’t help him…wouldn’t help anyone. If she showed any weakness at all, Bastian would eat her alive and she wouldn’t get what she wanted.

Squaring her shoulders, Myst put on her best don’t-mess-with-me face and, taking a deep breath, rounded the corner into—

She stopped short, flip-flops glued to the limestone floor, eyes riveted to…

The scary army in the kitchen.

Well, okay. Not an army, exactly, but…jeez. The four guys sitting around the kitchen island were huge: all mean looking and muscular, and now? Completely focused on her. As four sets of eyes narrowed, Myst felt hers go wide. Taking a step back, she crossed her arms, hugging herself in a protective gesture she knew looked weak. But she couldn’t help it. The aggressive factor on these guys was off the charts.

Myst swallowed past her heart, now firmly lodged in her throat. “Ah, s-sorry, but I’m looking for—”

“
Bellmia
.” The deep timbre of Bastian’s tone flowed like honey, surrounding her with warmth and sweet safety.

Myst rode the wave and, releasing a shaky breath, turned toward his voice, needing to see him. Seeing was believing, after all, and regardless of the rift between them, she trusted him to shield her from the biker gang making mincemeat of her with their eyes.

He smiled as he met her gaze, and all the embarrassment Myst thought she’d feel departed for places unknown. The whole shower thing was okay. He hadn’t taken advantage of her. She knew it without asking. The need to take care of her was there for her to see—in his eyes, on his face—and for some reason, that made all the difference.

Leaning back against the countertop, Bastian stared at her a moment longer, then pushed away from his perch.

Without meaning to, she breathed, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, echoing her in word and meaning.

It was more than just a how-the-heck-are-ya kind of greeting. Somehow, the “hey” seemed profound, as if they were speaking a language no one else understood. Which scared Myst more than a squad of terrorists at close range…armed with rocket launchers.

Rubbing her upper arms, she watched Bastian cup the back of the baby’s head, supporting his neck as he adjusted his hold. A blue blanket tucked around him, her angel let out an ear-piercing howl. The guys at the island cringed, rearing a little in their seats.

With a grimace of his own, Bastian patted the baby’s bottom, no doubt hoping the movement would soothe the little guy. “Looking for him?”

“Yeah. And you, too. We need to talk about…” Pausing, Myst chanced a quick peek at their audience, who were now watching them with rapt attention. Like she and Bastian were the best show in town. “Umm—”

“Come and take him, okay?” Skirting the massive center island, Bastian crossed to her in a hurry. The newborn wailed, little fists pumping over the blanket edge as Bastian shifted him from his shoulder, preparing to hand him over. “He doesn’t like me very much this evening.”

“Or anyone else,” one of the four muttered.

Myst smiled. She couldn’t help it. The news that these big, tough guys were having trouble handling one little boy made them seem normal. Well, not quite, but still their grumbling was music to her ears. So were Bastian’s bloodshot eyes as he got close enough for her to see them.

“Have you been up with him all day?”

“Pretty much,” he said, sounding as tired as he looked.

Well, all right. Vindication. She might have had a shower without her consent, but he hadn’t slept all day. Somehow, that seemed, well, if not quite a fair trade, it came really, really close. “Is he fed?”

Bastian nodded. “An hour ago.”

Raising her arms, she accepted the newborn, feeling her heart lift as his slight weight settled warm against her. He stopped crying mid-wail, as though he knew who held him and was happy to see her. Myst cooed in greeting as she checked him out, making sure his vitals were good and his heartbeat strong. Red-faced from his temper tantrum, he grumbled at her baby-style and then blinked, looking up at her solemnly as if to say, “How could you leave me like that?”

A round of murmurs rolled through the kitchen.

“Wow,” one guy said.

“How did she do that?”

“The hell if I know,” a third voice answered, awe in each syllable. “Probably all that energy.”

Myst ignored them and feathered her fingertip over the baby’s cheek. With one last snuffle, he turned his face toward her and closed his eyes as she whispered, “That’s a good boy. Go to sleep, angel. I’m right here.”

With a sigh that sounded an awful lot like relief, Bastian peered over her shoulder. “You’re good with babies.”

“I love them.”

“Good,” he said, his tone so soft she barely heard him.

Someone cleared his throat, and Bastian stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

“Myst…you remember Rikar and Sloan?” With the slight head tilt toward his men, Bastian pivoted and, planting himself next to her, leaned back against the countertop. Huge black boots crossed at the ankles, he pointed to the biggest guy. “That’s Venom. Wick’s on the far end.”

She nodded, because honestly, what else could she do? Rikar, with his pale eyes and dark blond hair, was unforgettable. The mocha-skinned Sloan was gorgeous with a capital G. Venom’s laughing eyes and quick smile were no sloppy seconds either. Myst had seen all three in the clinic when she treated Rikar. But the fourth?

He scared the crap out of her.

It wasn’t his appearance. Wick was as good looking as the other three, but…his eyes. Something about the golden hue set her get-out-of-town bell ringing. She’d always thought gold was a warm color. Wick proved her wrong. His gaze was raptor flat, his eyes lifeless pits that bordered on cruel. And his stillness—the absolute absence of movement—screamed predator.

Myst inched closer to Bastian, thinking they should have called the guy Fuse instead of Wick. Light him up and watched him detonate. Kaboom!

“Are you hungry? Want some waffles?” Bastian’s shoulder bumped hers as he leaned around her to pick up a white plate. Nudging her with his hip, he urged her toward the kitchen island. “Sit down,
bellmia
.”

Sit where? Across from crazy-eyed Wick? No freaking way. “Ah, I’m really not that hun—”

“Here.” Venom slid out of his seat and patted the back of his chair. “You can have my spot, Myst. I’m done anyway.”

Okay. What to do…what to do?

Running sounded good, but impolite, too. Besides, leaving now would only get her more of the same. A bird’s eye view of the corridor when she needed the lay of the land…all the exits off the island. An X marks the spot sort of thing, and as she debated whether to be rude and walk away or play nice and take a seat, she scanned the wide archway on the other side of the kitchen. A dining room sat beyond and to the right of that? Double French doors.

Myst sat, murmuring her thanks to Venom.

“So…Myst.” Planted in the archway, Venom propped his shoulder against one of the timber-beam posts. “You from Seattle?”

“Leave her alone, man,” Sloan grumbled around a mouthful of waffle. He threw her an apologetic look. “Sorry. He’s a total pain in the a—ah, butt.”

Venom made a face. “What? Just curious. Nothing wrong with that.”

Feeling as if she’d fallen into the
Twilight Zone
, her gaze bounced between the two men. “I was born in LA. My mom moved us up here when I was four.”

“Ooh, a Cali-girl.” Without warning, Venom started singing his version of “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, fingers snapping to the beat.

“Christ,” Rikar said, sounding disgusted even though a smile threatened.

Sloan groaned, both hands over his ears. “Please, God. Make it stop.”

The comment pushed Myst over the edge and, unable to hold it back, she huffed. As soon as she laughed, Venom stopped serenading them to grin at her. God, they were almost charming. Except for Wick, who just stared like he was busy taking her measurements for a roasting pan.