Fury of Fire (23 page)

Bastian couldn’t feel a thing as he pushed the door open. Not the hard edge of the knob in his hand. Nor the cold floor beneath his bare feet. He was numb, frozen from the inside out, unable to feel anything but anguish.

The turbulence kicked up all kinds of garbage, stirring the debris in his mental junk drawer. Unpleasant things surfaced, the longing for Myst among them. He hadn’t thought himself capable of needing a female to the exclusion of all else. But the thought of losing her…

The pain of it knocked against his ribcage. Pushed inward until he couldn’t breathe. Reminded him of what he’d done. Damning him with the truth.

Forget the Razorbacks. He was his own worst enemy.

The proof of it lay unconscious across the room.

Afraid to look at her, Bastian stood on the threshold, head bowed, a death grip on the doorjamb as he transferred his weight to his uninjured leg. The one broken in the fight hurt like bitch, but the bone was already knitting. He’d be as good as new in less than twenty-four hours. His heart, on the other hand? Jesus, that wasn’t so simple. No amount of dragon DNA would heal the gaping wound torn in his soul.

A beep broke through the silence. The soft, repetitive sound drifted, carrying the scent of clean sheets and…lavender. The room smelled like Myst: the sweetness of her skin and fragrant shampoo. The one he’d used while in the shower with her.

The memory made him lift his head. She needed him now as she had then. He couldn’t abandon her. Yeah, it would be easier to leave…to protect himself and avoid the pain. Part of him wanted to, but he wasn’t a coward. She needed him, so he would stay until she didn’t need him anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Bastian opened his eyes. Even in the dim light, his eyesight was perfect, providing details, quick snapshots he wished he couldn’t see. Freaking night vision. He could do without the perfection today, because…God forgive him. She was so pale. So small and still in the center of the big bed.

Covered by the sheet, she lay on her side, arms curled against her chest, blonde lashes like crescent moons on chalk-white cheeks. Bastian’s throat went tight. She shouldn’t be like this: drained of life, waiting to die.

He wanted to go back. Reverse the clock and change the last twelve hours. The Razorback would’ve killed him quickly, left him ashed in the rail yard, just one more messy pile for the human police to clean up. Given a second chance, he would’ve taken that route and protected Myst. But it was too late now, and no amount of wishing could alter the facts.

His female was dying.

The need to blame Rikar lit him up from the inside out. Made him want to nail the selfish SOB. But taking his loss out on his best friend’s hide wouldn’t change a thing. Myst would still be here, unconscious and looking too small in the center of the big bed.

His eyes stung as he half-limped, half-hopped across the room. Bastian wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand. He never cried, but now, in the awful wash of dimmed halogens, black despair grabbed hold. He had done this…killed her as surely as if he’d buried a knife hilt-deep in her heart.

Bastian swiped at his eyes again and, taking a ragged breath, stopped at her bedside. He watched her chest rise and fall, thankful for each breath she took. Each one gave him more time with her. Not enough to say good-bye—there would never be enough hours in the day for that—but maybe he could soothe her. Bring her some small measure of peace at the end.

The bump and scrape of chair legs skittered through the quiet. Raising his fists, Bastian pivoted, bracing for the threat.

“Sorry.” Sloan pushed to his feet, hands raised to the side. “I didn’t mean to…”

As the male paused, Bastian dropped his fighting stance and tipped his chin. “You’ve been sitting with her?”

Sloan glanced away, color tingeing his cheeks. “I didn’t want her to be alone.”

At the end.

He didn’t need to hear the words to know Sloan thought them. The dark-skinned male knew better than most about loss…about pain. Eleven years, and still he mourned his female and son. And now? Bastian finally understood. Was already living that hell, and Myst wasn’t even gone yet.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with gratitude. “For staying.”

A frown furrowing his brow, his warrior nodded. Planted on the opposite side of the bed, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you’re pissed, B, but…don’t be angry with Rikar.”

Fantastic. Just what he needed: a peacemaker. Shit. Now all he wanted to do was hit something. Rikar was his first choice, but the male standing across from him would do in a pinch.

“We need you. I would have done the same in his place.” Dark eyes full of regret, he met Bastian’s gaze head on. “I would’ve hated it. But, like Rikar, I would’ve done it anyway.”

Bastian shook his head. He couldn’t do this. Not now.

When he didn’t answer, Sloan headed for the door. As he came even with the end of the bed, he hesitated, boots squeaking on linoleum, and changed course. Bastian tensed as his warrior came alongside him. He didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t deserve the comfort, but as Sloan’s shoulder bumped his in a show of support, he broke, inhaling a shaky breath as tears blurred his vision.

Raising one massive hand, Sloan cupped the nape of Bastian’s neck. Taking strength from his warrior’s touch, Bastian reached for Myst. His fingertips brushed her jaw, slid against her skin, traced the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of her nose. So beautiful. His female was hands-down the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen or had the privilege to touch.

He stroked her cheek, brushing the damp strands of hair away from her temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Ah…Bastian?” Sloan retreated a step, his hand dropping from his shoulder.

Focused on his female, Bastian didn’t acknowledge the interruption. He was too busy memorizing her face: the curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin, the shape of her mouth. All the small details that would sustain him…that needed to last a lifetime.

His friend knocked the side of his arm. “B.”

With a growl, he glanced over his shoulder, hammering the male with a load of leave-me-the-fuck-alone. “What?”

“Jesus, man. Look at her.”

Still cupping her cheek, Bastian drew a gentle circle on her temple. He stared at Sloan. The male pointed at Myst. Frowning, he switched focus, scanned her face and…his heart paused mid-beat. What the hell? Was she—

“Oh, my…holy shit, B. Get in. Get into bed with her.”

He froze as Myst took a deep breath and turned her face into his hand. “
Bellmia
? My baby…can you hear me?”

“Screw that…move your ass!” With a quick arm thrust, Sloan shoved him.

Bastian’s injured leg buckled, pitching him forward. With a quick twist, he tunneled his arm beneath Myst, wrapped her close and rolled, protecting her from the brunt of his weight. The wires connecting her to the machine tangled, wrenching her shoulder into an unnatural position.

Giving the f-bomb a workout, he unwound the mess and, seeing the marks on her skin, snarled, “What the fuck, man?”

His attention on the monitor, Sloan ignored him.

Myst whimpered, scissoring her legs against his, tucking her head beneath his chin. Bastian murmured, used his voice to soothe her, and slipped his hands beneath her tank top. As his palms connected with bare skin, she hummed, turning her face into the base of his throat. He drew her closer, touching his mouth to the curve of her shoulder as he whispered her name.

“Sloan…what’s happening?”

“I don’t know, but…she’s reacting to you. Her color is better and…get her out of those clothes. I think you need to be skin to skin with her.” Dark eyes narrowed, Sloan studied Myst for a moment before switching his attention back to the monitor beside the bed. He tapped the glass, following the green blip across the small screen. “Her heart rate is evening out, too. What are you doing…feeding her?”

Bastian didn’t have a clue. He didn’t much care either, but—

An electroshock blindsided him, hitting him chest level. Bastian twitched and tightened his grip on Myst as the current spread, corkscrewing in a heated twist around his torso.

Jesus. The Meridian.

Like a switch being flipped, the energy went live, roaring through him without prompting. Okay. That was different. Usually he controlled the energy surge, opened the connection from Meridian to female, and drew what he needed. Right now, though, his well was capped. He wasn’t feeding. Myst was the one linked in, creating the bond between them.

Shifting a little, he relaxed into the sensation. The current settled deep, gentling as his dragon responded and rose, channeling the energy flow from him to Myst.

One hand flat against her bare back, Bastian pushed the sheet out from between them. He cursed as he got tangled up in the wires again. “Sloan…get this shit off her. I can’t strip her if—”

“On it.” With quick hands, Sloan peeled the electrodes from Myst’s skin. “Good to go. Do you need—”

“Turn around.”

The second the command left his mouth, Bastian knew it was stupid. And possessive as hell. He shouldn’t care if anyone saw her naked. Not when her life hung by a thread. But he couldn’t control the need to keep her for himself. He didn’t want another male near her, never mind looking at her.

As Sloan spun to face the wall, Bastian got busy stripping her down. The white tank top went first. As it cleared the top of her head, he tossed it aside. Trying not to look at her bare breasts, he slid his hands beneath her waistband. Soft skin met his palms. God, she was naked beneath here, too. No panties, no barriers between them as he rolled the black pants down her thighs, off her feet, and kicked them to the end of the bed.

With a flip, he covered them with the sheet and wrapped his arms around her. Drawing her in, he put them chest to breast, tangling his legs with hers. She moaned, and Bastian hugged her closer, turning his face into her hair. As he kissed the soft waves, the current between them increased, tugging at his energy center. He gave it up, letting her take from him.

God, it was extraordinary. And a little strange.

He was feeding her, providing what he normally took. Though it was different, somehow. A gentler kind of nourishment, male to female instead of the other way around. He’d never heard of such a thing…hadn’t known his kind was capable of feeding another.

Was this some kind of ancient rite, one Dragonkind had forgotten?

He didn’t know, but as his hands traveled, stoking along Myst’s spine, he vowed to find out. He needed to visit the Archives and read what his ancestors had written. And he would. As soon as he got his female back on her feet.

Mont Blanc in hand, red leather-bound notebook in his lap, Ivar leaned back in his new chair and propped his feet on his makeshift desk. The folding table wobbled, threatening to collapse beneath the weight of his boots. He ignored the sway, too busy scribbling in the margins, adding detailed notes to the complicated formula.

He needed to get it right this time.

Ivar snorted, wishing solutions were like dogs. Those four-legged fuckers always came when called. Science? Not so much.

Each experiment followed its own protocol, precise steps that took time to develop and implement. Success came after measured results and evaluation, not the other way around. Soon, though, he’d solve the mystery. Crack the code and unravel the genetic mapping of Dragonkind’s fertility cycles. Once he did that? He’d be golden…have what he needed to start phase two of his project.

Phase one was already underway.

“Christ…underway. Barely,” Ivar muttered, retracing the genetic codes, frustration getting the better of him.

Patience wasn’t one of his virtues. He liked tangible results: the faster, the better. But even with the deck stacked, speed wasn’t in the cards. Which was problem number…oh, he didn’t know. Maybe 207? Number one on the list involved Bastian. The Nightfuries were a pain in the ass. That crew was hunting Razorbacks hard: killing his warriors, searching for him. Meanwhile, what was he doing? Sitting on his duff, waiting for clinical trials to begin, for his warriors to find the right residents for cellblock A.

All right. So the lack of progress wasn’t exactly their fault. High-energy females were a rare breed, harder to find than four-leaf clovers.

Doodling in the side margins, Ivar sighed. He needed six—just six, although, he’d settle for five in a pinch—to get his breeding program off the ground. After that? He’d find more to add to the pot, but until then…

He refused to rush things or get ahead of the data. Mistakes happened that way. And right now? He couldn’t afford to make any.

Ivar tossed his Mont Blanc onto the notebook in his lap. As the pen settled in the vee, he reached out and grabbed the journal sitting open on his desk. The leather-bound book was his bible; 179 pages of formulae and scribbled notes containing secrets he’d yet to unlock. His mouth curved, he smoothed the dog-eared pages, loving the textured paper and…the blood spatter.

Hmm, yes. The three-year-old blood blissed him out every time he touched it. Each droplet reminded him of the battle. He’d fought dirty that night—done the unspeakable in Dragonkind circles—to possess the journal. The one he held along with the six others locked in his safe.