Fury of Fire (15 page)

“Here.”

Warm with a hint of maple syrup, Bastian’s breath curled against the side of her neck. His heat came next, gloving her shoulders as his arms came around her from behind. Surrounded by his scent, Myst breathed him, staring at the plate loaded with waffles and fruit slices that he set in front of her.

Utensils made an appearance next, clinking against marble. With slow precision, he straightened the silverware next to her plate, prolonging contact with her. Myst wanted to argue, to push him away, but…wow. The guy was delicious, all hard muscle and glorious heat.

He hummed next to her ear, like he knew what kind of effect he had on her. The rat. “Eat your breakfast, baby.”

Her mouth went dry. Myst swallowed, working moisture back, and stifled a shiver. God, he was dangerous. And she was playing with fire. No matter how attractive she found him, she couldn’t allow herself to go down that road. It was full of potholes, ones deep enough to lose herself in if she let him charm her.

Rotating her shoulder, she bumped his chest. The silent message was simple…back off. No slouch in the brains department, Bastian stepped away, giving her the room she needed to adjust her hold on the baby. After she settled him, she picked up her fork and realized…

Bastian had cut her waffle into neat, bite-sized squares. As he drizzled syrup over her breakfast, Myst bit her tongue, resisting the urge to thank him. But she wanted to so badly that her teeth ached. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have hesitated. After all, he was feeding her, caring for her in a way that felt too good for words. All that Dr. Feel-good, though, was a problem. A potential pothole in the making.

The little things mattered, and something small like, oh, say gratitude (pothole number one) would turn into trust (pothole number two). Trust would inevitably circle into closeness, then take a nosedive into curiosity (potholes number three and four). And curious was not where Myst wanted to be with Bastian. All that would lead to was more nakedness. Which would…

Yeah, no use going there. Hot, wild sex needed to stay off her radar.

A knowing light in his eyes, Bastian nudged her plate. “Eat,
bellmia
.”

With a nod, Myst speared a bit-sized square. The outside crunched before her forked pushed through to the fluffy center. As she brought it to her mouth, she almost moaned. Yum. It was pure heaven, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The second bit of sugary perfection made her close her eyes. Man, oh, man, who knew a waffle could taste so good? Daimler was a wizard…the god of culinary delight.

“So B…” Shifting in his seat, Rikar looked away from her as she took another bite. “Time to vote?”

“Sounds good,” Bastian said, his voice deepening as he watched her eat. “You’re up, Rikar.”

“Hang on a minute.” Chasing a drop of maple syrup, Myst licked it off her bottom lip. As Bastian drew a long breath, she asked, “What are you voting on?”

“The infant needs a name.” His focus trained on her mouth, he watched her chew for a second before dragging his gaze back to hers. “I thought you might like to help us find the right one for him.”

“For real?”

Bastian nodded.

A half-eaten piece of waffle in her mouth, overwhelmed by Bastian’s generosity, Myst got a little misty-eyed. The giving of a name was serious business, the first in a long line of important decisions that would ensure her angel’s welfare. A name meant love, signaled caring and longtime commitment.

And wow. How much of a sap was she?

Still, as she glanced down at the sleeping infant, she couldn’t deny the sentiment…or how much she appreciated the gesture. By including her in the process, Bastian was giving her a gift. One she didn’t know how to repay except by…

Oh, great. A little thing…the first pothole in what she suspected would be a long line of them. “Thank you.”

His mouth curved. “My pleasure.”

“Hmm…all right.” Pale eyes narrowed, Rikar rubbed his hands together. “Attila.”

With a gasp, Myst threw him a look of outrage.

Rikar glanced at her, all doe-eyed innocence. “What? It’s a great name.”

“If you’re a mass murderer, maybe,” she countered, unable to believe he would suggest such a thing. Attila the Hun? Forget it. No way she would allow them to name her angel
that.

“She’s gotta point, buddy.” When Myst thanked him, Venom grinned at her, then threw his preference into the ring. “I vote for Torture…then we can call him Torch for short.”

Myst stared at him, open-mouthed. He couldn’t be serious. What kind of name was Torch? A bad one, that’s what.

“Nah, too obvious. What about Ironhide?”

Rikar snorted. “You can’t name him after an Autobot, Sloan.”

“Why not?” Sloan frowned at his friend. “
The Transformers
is an awesome movie.”

Myst bristled. “No way I’m voting for—”

“Viper,” Wick said with a barely audible growl that made her skin crawl.

“I like it,” Rikar said. “Good one, man. It’s a definite contender.”

Over her dead body. Which pretty much summed up how she felt about every suggestion they made, as names like Blitz and Hemlock made the rounds. Dear God, had they lost their flipping minds? Imagine naming a precious baby Grim.
Grim,
for pity’s sake!

“Mayhem,” Bastian said, finally tossing his choice in the ring.

Myst stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Man, that’s a good one, too.” Venom scratched the top of this head. “I can’t decide…Viper or Mayhem. So, which one?”

“None. Neither!” She glared at the lot of them.

“Well, if you’re going to KO all our ideas, female,” Sloan said, looking affronted, “make a suggestion.”

Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, Myst thought fast. She needed to come up with something…right now. If she didn’t, the great barbarian horde would choose one of those awful names and—

She had it. The perfect one. “Gregor.”

Five pairs of eyes narrowed as they mulled over her choice.

“It’s Scottish…a strong name,” she said, talking fast to convince them. “It was my grandfather’s.” Her voice went soft as she remembered the gentle man who’d helped raise her. Never having known her father, Grandpa G had been her lifeline, a solid role model in her unconventional upbringing. “He fought in the war. I had all his medals framed. They’re hanging on the wall in my apartment.”

Okay, so that was a little more personal than she intended, but…really. Her angel deserved a better name than
Viper
. And if telling them a bit about Grandpa G—the war hero—helped sway them? Well, she wasn’t too proud to fight dirty.

But, as the silence stretched and Bastian’s friends continued to stare, Myst wondered if she’d made a mistake. She didn’t know these guys or what they were capable of…although, the word “ruthless” came to mind. Maybe sharing family history or anything else was a bad idea. Maybe she should listen to her early warning system—the one ring-a-ling-linging inside her head—and run for the nearest exit. Because sure as she was sitting there, they didn’t look happy with her suggestion.

As far as strategies went, Myst’s was ingenuity in action. Beautiful, yet oh, so simple it sounded something like…
if at first you don’t succeed, guilt your opponent into caving.
Add a dash of feminine hope. Sprinkle in some bone-crushing dismay. Toss the whole dish with pleading violet eyes and…voilá, Bastian and his warriors had a recipe for disaster.

A cocktail called
pretty please
with a cherry on top.

“So…” Bastian glanced around the island and clamped down on the urge to laugh. For the first time ever, his warriors were speechless, unable to say no to the female who sat staring back at them. It was karma…payback with a knuckle-grinding punch. “Gregor, huh?”

“It’s a great name…” she paused to fuss with the baby blanket, then looked right at him. And wham, he got the full effect of those baby blues. The second part of Myst’s plan had just been deployed. Clever, clever female. Bastian’s lips twitched even as he resisted the urge to adjust what was happening behind his fly. “It suits him, don’t you think?”

“It’s a human name,” he said as she tilted her head, continuing to give him strong eye contact. Bastian shifted in his seat, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. God, what a female. She knew exactly how to play him. Still, he refused to give in without a fight. Okay, so he would give her what she wanted in the end—guaranteed—but that didn’t mean he had to be a pansy about it. “And he’s not—”

“Caroline was human and so is he. At least half, right? I know he’s fathered by…” She worried her bottom lip with her straight, white teeth, nearly sending him into orbit. Man, he loved her mouth. “I mean, that’s why he’s here…because he’s one of you? But, he’s human, too, and I know my
friend
would like my choice.”

Well, all right then. Sucker punch time. She was fighting dirty, slamming her trump card down on the table, the one labeled “mother and friend.” Which meant, they were off and running. Cuz, honestly, two could play that game.

Although, he would have to wing it and hope for the best. His brain wasn’t working right. The reason? Most of the blood was no longer in his head. Hell, more than half of it had headed south on the desire train about five minutes ago.

Folding his arms on the countertop, Bastian took a deep breath, needing his calm-cool-and-collected back. Yeah, that and a tub of cold water. He glanced at Rikar. Right. No help there. His best friend was trying to keep from cracking up. The warped SOB had one stupid sense of humor.

Bastian glanced at the steel-framed wall clock across the kitchen. A little over thirty-six hours to go. So little time to make her want him…to make her accept him.

Sloan cleared his throat, no doubt wanting him to get a move on.

Still holding up the archway, Venom shifted behind him, the scrape of his boots against stone sounding loud in the silence. “B, maybe we could—”

“I’ll make you a deal, Myst,” he said, cutting off his warrior’s capitulation. He didn’t care that Venom had problems denying a female anything. The big male would have to hang on…and bite holes in his tongue while he was at it. Bastian refused to give up his advantage. “I’ll give you the name Gregor if you give me something in return.”

Suspicion glinted in her eyes. “What?”

“His full name…the one recorded in the annals…will be Gregor Mayhem and—”

A round of appreciative—and relieved—murmurs rose in the kitchen.

“And?”

“Your word that you’ll stay here and spend every waking hour of the next three days…” He paused for effect, wanting her to feel the weight of his resolve. “…with me. No escape attempts.”

Her mouth fell open. After a second, she snapped it shut. “That’s not fair. I saved his life. I should get to—”

“You want the name? That’s the deal, but be careful,
bellmia
. Think hard. Once you give your word…” He stared at her from beneath his brows, warning her by deed and word. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Stuck between what she wanted and his conditions, Myst broke eye contact to glance down at the infant. Pretending to fuss, buying more time, she adjusted the blanket and then, as though unable to help herself, she stroked the Mohawk running down the center of the baby’s head.

A second passed into more while Bastian held his breath. Forcing her ran contrary to everything he believed, but he needed her close without having to fight to get her there. It was imperative…vital to him like food and water was to continued good health. He yearned for her in a way that crossed all the self-imposed limits he lived by. He couldn’t leave her anymore than he could stop breathing.

The deal closer, though…the absolute best? Bastian knew that if she gave her word, Myst would keep it. Even if she didn’t want to.

After a minute of chewing on her bottom lip, she met his gaze. A moment in time turned into infinity as he looked at her…as she looked back at him.

“Three days.” Her voice was whisper soft, all the considerable brainpower behind her eyes assessing, unearthing layer after layer as she searched for the catch. The trap in which he wanted to ensnare her. Bastian almost felt badly that she would never figure it out. Not until it was too late. “After that, all bets are off?”

Bastian nodded, watched her think, all but tasting victory.

“Fine, but…” Sounding unhappy but resigned, she tossed out a challenge of her own, “
Be careful
what you wish for, Bastian. You might not like what you get.”

“Impossible,” he murmured, allowing everything he felt for her to show in his eyes: all the heat and longing and neediness he always kept hidden from view.

As color stole into her cheeks and she broke eye contact, Bastian killed the urge to roar in satisfaction. He’d won. The next three days belonged to him. And whether she knew it or not, Myst was now his forevermore.

With careful, precise movements, Ivar grabbed one in a long line of stainless steel handles and pulled on the refrigerator door. The thing resisted for a second, clinging to the metal frame before it opened with a suctioning slurp. His hands steady, his heart racing, he slid the test tube holder onto the top shelf. Seven vials wobbled, clinking together as lip met glass lip. Still white-knuckling the handle, he held his breath, waiting for the volatile contents to settle.

Which was beyond ridiculous.

The biohazard suit he wore was airtight. An impenetrable beast with layer upon layer of protection. Why he even bothered to suit up was a mystery he’d yet to solve. Dragonkind didn’t react like humans did to contaminants. Or viruses.

Better to be safe than sorry, though. He couldn’t afford to become infected—for more than just the obvious reasons—and those bugs were serious monsters. Ones he wasn’t 100 percent sure he could control.

Ivar smiled behind his mask as he let the fridge door swing closed. Forget necessity. Experimentation. Innovation. Yeah, those two were the real mothers of invention.

Soon, though, his science project would need to be tested, and the outcomes analyzed. Seal a few of his worker bees in the vault—a secure, airtight chamber connected to his lab—and take one or two of the monsters out for a spin.

Humming “Born to Be Bad,” Ivar crossed his all white workspace. Seamless and pristine, the room pleased him more than the entire Razorback lair put together. It was his sanctuary, his place of solitude. A place no one else dared enter.

And yeah…the fear factor really got him off. His warriors didn’t understand his science, which was the best part of the whole operation. He could do whatever he wanted to down here: no holds barred, no questions asked.

The airlock hissed, the double-wide glass panel sliding open as Ivar approached. Pride hit him chest level as he stepped into the decontamination chamber. His little worker bees had done a stellar job. His laboratory was perfection, from the high-tech toys and stainless steel countertops to the smooth, shiny walls. One thing, however, irked him.

The chamber.

Sure, it came signed, sealed, and delivered…but only in size small.

Four by four feet square, the Decon chamber barely contained him. Was too tight a squeeze for even his considerable comfort level. Jesus, the thing felt more like a box than what it was…a necessary step en route from the lab to the lair. Thank God he didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. Otherwise, getting in and out of his sanctuary would be H-E-L-L. And he had enough on his plate without adding that to the mix.

Leaving the soothing quiet behind, he stood in the center of the Decon. As the door closed and locked behind him, the blowers got busy. The violent rush of air tugged at his suit as he waited for the sophisticated system to give him a thumbs-up and let him go. The light went from red to green above the second door. A second later, the lock released with a click and the glass panel facing him slid open.

Fresh air rushed in. Halle-fucking-lujah. The stagnant air inside the chamber always bothered him. It smelled too much like death. Or rather, the absence of life.

Taking a deep breath, Ivar willed the bio-suit off his body. Standing naked in a center foyer that looked a lot like his lab—without all of the long worktables—he rolled his shoulders, then got busy stretching out his muscles, one long limb at a time.

The knots bracketing his spine uncurled as he conjured his clothes. Ivar sighed. The wide-legged sweats and loose-fitting tee-shirt felt like heaven, the cotton equivalent of paradise after an afternoon spent in the confining heat of the bio-suit.

As the Nikes settled on his feet, Ivar put the sneakers to good use and crossed the vestibule. Without slowing, he punched through the double doors. The suckers swung with a soft squeak, dumping him into the half-finished corridor.

Ivar paused to examine the hinges. His eyes narrowed. The brackets weren’t installed properly, and now the metal pins were bent. Who the hell had—

A tingle rushed the length of his spine. Ah, good. The ruined hinges would have to wait. His XO had news for him.

Turning right, Ivar headed for the unfinished end of his home. As he walked, the hum of machinery and the clank of metal echoed in the deep. Male voices rounded out the symphony, telling him the humans were hard at work digging the last section of the lair.

Desperation hung in the air around them. Ivar smelled the stench of it through the concrete walls. Could feel the humans’ heartache, the awful homesickness that drove them. All were united under one goal—building his lair as fast as possible and going home to their families. Each wanted to restart his life and feel the sun on his face. It was sad, really. The pitiful creatures really believed the lies he told them. His busy bees didn’t have a clue they would never again see the light of day.

He almost felt bad about it. Almost, but not quite.

Stepping out of the corridor and into his office, Ivar got a load of his XO. Up against the far wall, Lothair was lit up like a Christmas tree, his gaze glowing from a good feed.

Lucky bastard.

Ivar rolled his bad shoulder, working out a cramp as he crossed his office. Still in the drywall stage, the room looked like death, the unfinished walls and concrete floor giving everything a gray tinge. Well, everything except his desk. The antique walnut piece was an absolute stunner with thick, hand-carved legs and intricate curlicues on the front panel. The matching chair wasn’t bad, either.

Skirting the corner of the monstrosity, Ivar raised a brow. “Good hunting last night?”

“A coed.” Lothair pushed away from the wall with a hum, like he was remembering the female and loving the picture. “Unbelievable mouth. Even better ride.”

“Gonna give me her address?”

“No.”

Ivar laughed. Shit, he couldn’t blame Lothair. He didn’t like to share, either. Then again, the females from whom he fed usually ended up dead. Like that brunette last night. What a waste. She hadn’t been worth the effort. He was already hungry…less than twelve hours after he’d taken her.

With a frown, he nudged his chair out and sat down. As he settled into the cushions, he tipped his chin in Lothair’s direction. “What’s up?”

“Forge is on his way down.”

“You blindfolded him?”

“Yeah. Drove him in circles for an hour, too. No way he can track us here.”

“Good.” And it was. He didn’t want anyone to know where to find their lair unless fully committed to the cause. Forge, included. Eyeing his XO, Ivar picked up a letter opener. Made of polished ivory, the smooth surface slid against his palm before he tossed it above his head. He watched it rotate end over end, then reached out and grabbed the hilt mid-spin. “So…you sticking around to see the explosion?”

A smile ghosted across Lothair’s face. “Thought I might enjoy the show.”

“It’ll be a good one,” he said, not bothering to hide his anticipation. Or the fact he liked Lothair’s desire to participate. The younger male made him proud. He really did.

An echo sounded in the corridor, the heavy footfalls coming closer by the second.

Ivar grinned at his XO, then wiped his expression clean. Forge didn’t need to see that he was jazzed; that he loved the fact that a freak turn of events had provided the very thing he needed to get the powerful male on his side.