Fury of Fire (21 page)

“Easy,” a guy said as the world went topsy-turvy.

As her head spun, Myst touched down, her spine connecting with something soft. A bed? A gurney? She didn’t know…didn’t care. All she knew was that Bastian needed help…the kind a trauma hospital specialized in giving.

“Help…hurt…need doctor.”

“Shh…it’s all right.”

Oh, God, the stranger didn’t understand. Myst shook her head, desperation taking root inside her. He needed to go for help. She didn’t have the strength to let Bastian go…to call his friends. Something was wrong with her. She was tapped out, muscles and mind so unresponsive she struggled to put two thoughts together.

She struggled to open her eyes. “No…help him. He’s hurt…burned.”

“Relax, female. You’re helping him,” the guy said, all soothing tones and easy rhythm. Cracking her lids, Myst got a blurry impression of a face. Pale eyes glowed from the masculine planes and angles, shimmering like blue stars. “He needs you. Hold onto him.”

Her eyes drifted closed. All right, she could do that…fat lot of good it would do in the end. She’d seen Bastian’s injuries. He needed medical attention, not her. But as he settled heavily against her, sucking hard at her throat, her mind floated up, winged out, leaving her with one thought. The stranger was right. She must hold on…keep Bastian close.

She could save him if she held on tight enough.

Consciousness hovered inches away. Or was it miles? Bastian couldn’t tell. Didn’t know much beyond the fact he was down. Flat on his back in a cold, dark place that he couldn’t remember landing in.

Not good on any level. A downed dragon was a dead one.

Shifting position, he tested his surroundings, struggling to put the puzzle together. One plus one didn’t equal two. Everything felt wrong, thick with haze. His built-in sonar was bent, receiving more static than viable information. Shit. He needed to move, knew it with an urgency that shoved through the fog, galvanizing him.

He dug deeper, searching his senses for information. His muscles twitched, racking him with sharp spasms. Cutting off a groan, Bastian sucked in some air and, reassured by the movement, drew another lungful. The in-out routine sidetracked the pain, shifting it from scream-worthy to teeth-grindingly brutal.

Thank God.

He didn’t have time to screw around. He needed to get mobile and out of wherever he’d landed—or face-planted, which was a safe bet, considering how much his head hurt—and reach…

What…the lair?

His brows collided. No. Not home. He must help
someone.

Ignoring the lethal ache between his temples, Bastian gathered his magic. Heat crackled like electricity, racing through his veins until his fingertips tingled. He held the wild surge tightly for a moment, letting the power buffet his internal control, before he let it go. Like a powerful riptide, the magical stream blanketed his surroundings, bouncing off obstacles, bringing information back with each ping of sound.

A room. A bed. The soft beep of machinery from somewhere nearby.

Bastian uncurled his fists. Moving with slow precision, he pressed his hands into the mattress. Pain flickered at the movement, but the cotton gave, brushing against his palms. He curled his fingers, grabbing handfuls to ground himself.

Safe. Jesus Christ. He was safe and—

A scraping sound came from his left.

Fighting dry-mouth, Bastian croaked, “Rikar?”

“Hey.”

“Where…” He cracked his eyelids.

“Recovery room in the clinic.” An indistinct blur, his best friend adjusted the blankets, covering Bastian’s bare chest.

Finished with the fuss routine, Rikar moved away from his bedside, footfalls loud in the quiet. The sound of rushing water filled the space. Bastian swallowed. He could almost taste it, feel the cool, wet slide down the back of his throat. The desperate quality of his need reminded him of another time and place. One he’d never revisited and didn’t want to now.

But as the faucet continued to flow, the sound triggered visceral memory. Jesus. He couldn’t stand it going back there. To the time after his father’s death and before his transition. He’d been so vulnerable, at the mercy of other males and the new pack leader’s cruelty, always hungry, thirsty, and caught between powerful males who didn’t give a damn about him.

Needing to forget, Bastian shifted on the mattress, welcoming the pain. As the burn moved through him, the sheets rustled and memory faded, turning his attention away from his past and into his injuries. The weight of his limbs reassured him. He was all there, nothing vital missing. Thank God. The tightness along his left side and the faint ache below his knee he could accept. But a missing limb?

Yeah, not so much.

Now, all he needed was his brain back. He felt like a lobotomy patient, complete with blank memory. Nothing jived. His head was fuzzy, a messy jumble of fragmented thoughts that didn’t fit together.

Hoping movement would help slide the pieces into place, Bastian pushed up onto one elbow. The sheet slid, pooling at his hips as he drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. Fluorescents nailed him, bright lights shooting straight to the back of his brain.

“Shit.”

With a snick, the lights went out. Good old Rikar. The male had always been quick to understand and even faster on the trigger.

Rubbing his brows, Bastian tried again. The second he opened his eyes, his focus went pinpoint sharp, his night vision kicking in to help him. Across the room, Rikar pivoted, pushing away from the bank of stainless steel cabinets. A furrow between his brows, his friend met his gaze. Bastian went on high alert. Something was wrong, more than just the normal, everyday stuff.

Cup in hand, pale eyes intense, his friend returned to his bedside. “Thirsty?”

The polite inquiry cranked Bastian one notch higher. Rikar was never polite. Direct as a sledgehammer to the forehead? Yeah, okay, but he never danced around a problem. Right now, though? His best friend was chewing on one and, by the looks of him, it didn’t taste good.

Attention trained on his friend’s face, Bastian reached for the glass. What the hell? His hand shook. And his arm felt like a lead pipe, heavy and uncooperative. Ignoring the rattle and shake, he drank deeply, draining the cup dry before handing it back to Rikar. As his first in command grabbed hold, Bastian tightened his grip, connecting them as he drilled his friend with a look.

“Spit it out.”

“I’m sorry…” His brows drawn tight, remorse flickered across Rikar’s face. “I’m sorry. She’s…she’s—”

“Holy fuck.” His mind snapped back online, clicking the puzzle pieces together. Adrenaline hit him like a freight train. He jackknifed, coming off the bed in a single surge of movement. “Myst!”

As his bare feet hit the floor, his left leg buckled. Bastian barely noticed, catching the edge of the bed, scanning the room. Empty, but for him, Rikar, and the king-size bed. Where the hell was Myst? She should be with him, not alone in the lair.

Bastian lurched forward, ignoring the pain. He needed to find her. What if…oh God. If he’d taken too much of her energy she would be in pain. Was that what Rikar didn’t want to tell him? Was she hurting and—

“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, his throat so tight he could hardly breathe. And as fear picked up his heart and slammed it against his breastbone, he hated himself for what he was…for what he needed from the female he wanted so badly to protect. “Where is she?”

Reaching out, Rikar steadied him when he rounded the end of the bed. “B…listen to me. Just—”

“Tell me.” Bastian turned on his friend and grabbed him by the throat. With a vicious shove, he pushed Rikar backward until his shoulders hit the wall behind them. Pinning him, Bastian got right in the male’s grill. “Tell me where or I’ll fucking end you. I’ll fucking—”

“She’s in the next room, but B…you need to be prepared.” Rikar glanced away. “She’s not doing well…her vitals are meandering downward. All her major organs are slowly shutting down.”

“God damn son of a bitch…you promised to pull her free.” Bastian’s voice broke, grief and self-hatred overwhelming him. “You promised!”

“Jesus Christ!” Pale eyes alive with pain and fury, Rikar grabbed Bastian’s wrist, lessening the pressure on his windpipe. “Yeah, I made the call and saved your life. And you know what? If I had to do it over? I’d fucking do it again.”

Bastian’s fingers flexed around Rikar’s throat. In that moment, he didn’t care that he loved the male like a brother. The pain of losing Myst was too much. He was fractured, split wide open, less of a male for what he’d done to her and…he wanted someone to pay. To hurt as badly as he did.

“Yeah…go ahead,” Rikar said, reading his intention. “Take your best shot. I won’t fight back…but it won’t change a fucking thing.”

Nose to nose with his best friend, Bastian snarled.

Tears in his eyes, Rikar raised his hands, palms up, body unresisting…a sacrificial lamb to Bastian’s rage. “You’re more important than her, B. Without you, Dragonkind—the whole race—is fucked. Do you think the fucking Archguard will keep it together when you’re gone? Jesus! The European packs follow your lead. Is one female worth your warriors’ lives…all of Dragonkind’s future?”

The dutiful answer? No. No one was worth the destruction of his kind. But his heart said something different. Myst was more important than anyone or anything. He needed her like he needed air, and now, he couldn’t breathe. And it was his fault…all of it. Had he done what she asked, Myst would be safe in her own world. But he’d been selfish—believing he could take without giving in return—and for his sins, she would lose her life.

With a hoarse sound, he pushed his best friend away. Rikar murmured, the sound full of anguish and, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, let him go. Without a backward glance, Bastian limped across the room, heading for the recovery suite next door. He could hear the bells now, the beep-beep-beep of the heart rate monitor that had pulled him from his dream.

Myst was in there, plugged into that machine. No way would he let her die alone.

“Bastian. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Bastian ignored the choked apology. He couldn’t forgive his best friend. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Smooth wood slid between his fingertips as Rikar drew the pool stick back and let the thing fly. Cue ball cracked against cue ball, the sound rising above the Def Leppard tune playing in the background. The number five ball rocketed across green felt and sank into the corner pocket. He straightened away from the table and glanced toward the U-shaped bar.

Yup, the redhead was still there, perched on a stool, sipping her drink. Straight up cranberry juice without the kick of vodka. The virgin cocktail told Rikar a lot about the female. One? She was a health freak, looking after her kidneys with a tumbler full of red, tart, and juicy. And two? She valued control too much to pour alcohol down her throat.

Too bad. A drunk female would be easier to handle.

Especially this one.

Angela Keen, of the gorgeous hazel eyes, was no dummy. Whipcord smart, she was hardcore, a homicide cop with suspicion in spades. As he walked around the pool table, Rikar saw it in the line of her shoulders, in the way she scanned the bar. Watching, waiting, searching the shadows for trouble. Even her seat choice was telling: back to the wall, face to the door, body poised on the edge of the stool. Relaxed, but ready. A she-warrior with the physical and intellectual chops to make a male pay.

And hell, that just turned him on.

Grabbing the microbrew from the edge of the table, Rikar took a long pull. When that didn’t help, he adjusted his baseball cap and pulled at his pant leg, making more room behind his button fly. The Sevens were his favorite non-fighting gear. Dark denim worn in to perfection, the jeans fit like a dream, style and comfort wrapped into one. Tonight, though, they felt too tight in all the wrong places.

Man, he was so cooked. He’d known she was pretty from the picture in Sloan’s file, but…

He hadn’t expected to be attracted to her. Not like this. Christ. She hit every marker on his considerable list. The one entitled, “Fuckable.” He’d never experienced anything like it. The need to possess and control—to dominate—had him by the throat. And all he’d done so far was look at her.

Look at her and covet.

She was power personified. Plugged in to the Meridian like Myst was, but in a different way. The redhead’s energy was jewel-like. Hard and gleaming, the current flowed through chilly intelligence and icy resolve. The combo wound Rikar tight. He wanted a taste. Wanted to feed his frosty side with the raw burn of all that arctic energy.

Which was just freaking perfect.

The last thing he needed was another complication. And Angela Keen was trouble under athletic curves.

Rikar flexed his hands around the pool cue and lined up another shot. As ball met pocket, he sighed. Other than his aim, nothing about tonight was hitting the mark. Not hunting the female cop. Not finding her. Certainty not the mind-scrub. He wasn’t even halfway there. Christ, he was all the way across the bar, using the pool table as cover, trying to decide how to approach her. Without losing his cool.

Shaking his head, Rikar grabbed the microbrew by the neck. Fuck it. No time like the present. She was almost finished with her drink. If he waited any longer, she would slip away, hop off that barstool and head for the door. Rikar needed to intercept her before that happened. Following her home wasn’t a good idea.

Not unless he wanted to end up like Bastian. Tied to a female he couldn’t resist.

The thought made him flinch. Allowed the pain he’d stuffed deep down earlier in the evening to rocket to the surface. God, it hurt. The whole situation was a mind fuck, but Bastian’s hatred was the worst.

His chest went tight as he replayed Bastian’s reaction. Dropping the f-bomb, Rikar cursed himself and the awful choice he’d been forced to make. His best friend’s life for the female’s.

Christ. He wished there’d been another way. Wanted to undo it, but…

Second-guessing himself wouldn’t change anything. He’d made a choice. Had hurt a female to save his best friend and…fuck. He hated himself for it. Could hardly stand to be inside his own skin. But consequence was a bitch. So he would stand firm at the whipping post and take every last lash. He deserved it…all the blood and pain. Bastian’s fury was justified. He only hoped his best friend found mercy enough to forgive him someday.

Rikar snorted and took another swig of his beer. Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. He’d seen the devastation. The awful emptiness in Bastian’s eyes as he’d turned toward the door, toward the female lying in the hospital bed on the other side.