Fury of Fire (26 page)

With one last body shiver, Myst collapsed on Bastian’s chest. Her ear pressed to his heart, she listened to the thump-thump-thump. Her mouth curved as she snuggled in, contentment that had nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with emotional satisfaction stealing through her. She’d ridden him good and hard, had made him beg this time instead of the other way around.

Hmm…what did they say about payback?

Satisfaction widened to a full-on grin.

Bastian’s arms came around her, and with a sigh, Myst relaxed into his embrace, wondering at the tally. Was it four or five now? She’d lost count sometime after the second round of lovemaking. She had a good excuse, though. He distracted her completely. Yeah, with loads of mind-numbing sex, but the time spent talking in between, too.

The man liked to ask questions. He wanted to know all about her: her likes and dislikes, interests, fears, about her job, where she lived…absolutely
everything.
Right down to what kind of ice cream she went for at the local parlor. Myst snuggled a bit closer, giving him an affectionate squeeze. The guy was incurably curious. But then, she wasn’t much better, asking him all kinds of questions in return.

And he hadn’t disappointed.

She now knew his favorite color was purple, he loved spicy food, Rugby was his game, and gangster movies were his favorites. Among other things. And the more she found out about him, the farther she tumbled down the I’m-falling-for-you slope.

Which meant? Grass stains and a whole lot of messy emotional grime.

But, God, he was hot. Macked out, so fierce in bed he made her beg. And she wanted more. Lots more. But…maybe not right now. She was suffering from serious body drain that only a full load of carbohydrates would cure. Yeah, that and a nap.

Myst yawned as Bastian drew lazy circles down her spine. Smoothing his hands over her hips, he cupped her bottom and, with a hum, she arched. Umm, she was sensitive. Her skin on fire from the time spent under and above him, from the exquisite pressure of having him deep inside her.

“God…” She squirmed, nestling her head beneath his chin when he palmed the back of her thighs. His fingers pressed inward and she gasped, muscles quivering as he caressed her with light, teasing strokes. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Insatiable.”

Laughter rumbled up from his chest, making her smile. “With you? Par for the course, love.”

And there it was…the compliment she craved. Stupid. Brainless. Way too needy. But she couldn’t help it. She needed to know that she pleased him. That he wanted her even now…with the wild passion fading and the quiet setting in.

Dangerous. Moments like these were dangerous. The in-between time when everything could—and usually did—go wrong.

Slipping sideways, Myst dismounted, pulling free of his body to settle at his side. Her head on his shoulder, arm slung across his chest, leg curled over his thigh, she tried to switch tracks. She didn’t want to doubt him or attach any expectations to the last few hours. Disaster lay in that direction, one full of excuses and empty promises. The inevitable “I’ll call you tomorrow, baby. We’ll do dinner.”

She didn’t need that crap—or the lies—and Bastian’s intensions in the aftermath shouldn’t matter. He’d been generous to a fault. Had made her come so many times his skill blew her away. But even as she told her herself that physical pleasure was enough, she didn’t believe it. She wanted more. Casual sex wasn’t her thing, and would never satisfy her.

Not when it came to Bastian.

Self-preservation urged her to deny it, but what good would that do? Something powerful was going on between them. On her end, at least. Myst felt the connection, the all-encompassing draw as it pulled her into his orbit. Tethered there, she revolved around him, yearning for commitment while simultaneously fearing it.

It was craziness squared. Emotional Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded. No way around it. She was going to take a bullet on this one.

“
Bellmia?
”

Myst swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Yeah?”

“Brace yourself.”

“What for?”

She yelped as Bastian flipped and the room pinwheeled. One up and over. A second time with the speed roll. The flash of ceiling-mattress, ceiling-mattress was all she saw over his shoulder. Like a circus performer, he dismounted, feet landing on the floor, arms locked around her.

She sucked in a quick breath. “Holy crap, you—”

He cut her off with a quick bend and toss. She gasped as her abdomen connected with his shoulder. Hanging upside down, butt in the air, and hair a tangled mess in her face, she growled at him.

“Shower time, love.” His arm curled around the backs of her thighs, he caressed her bottom with his free hand, then gave her a gentle slap.

“Hey!” She twisted to get a feel for his trajectory. She spotted the closed door across the room. “And what? You couldn’t just ask me?”

“More fun this way.”

“Caveman.”

“Baby, you have no idea.” Turning his head, he nipped her hip.

And oh, boy. Long live the Neanderthal.

She caught a glimpse of white tile as the bathroom door swung open. Without slowing, he crossed the threshold. The water came on without him touching it, but she didn’t care. Magic. No magic. What did it matter? All she wanted was for him to unleash his inner caveman and…

Oh, God, that was good.

She parted her thighs a little more, moaning as he stroked her with his fingers. He went deep, touching just…the right…spot…and stepped into the shower enclosure. Warm spray rushing over her spine, he withdrew from her core and swung her off his shoulder. Her feet didn’t hit the floor, though. Between one breath and the next, he wrapped her legs around his hips, pressed her back against the tile wall and—

“Oh, yes…pleeease,” she whispered, tilting her hips into his, welcoming his possession.

Thrusting deep, he took her mouth, flicking her with his tongue, setting a pace that drove her wild. But despite her impatience, he kept it slow, circled deep, heightening her pleasure with each stroke, delivering his taste, making her gasp. Her hands clenched in his hair, a second away from begging, she sucked on his tongue. Yum. He tasted like a man should: dark spice, erotic heat, hardcore domination in each stroke and release. And as his skin slid against hers, Myst yearned for more than just the physical. She wanted everything, the best kind of forever with the man in her arms.

Orgasm came fast, rushing her into ecstasy. She sobbed his name, shuddered around him, reveling in the ache deep inside her. He upped the pace, hips rolling into hers. She held on tight, rode the wave, and whispered to him, telling him he was beautiful, that she couldn’t get enough, how much she needed him. His breath hitched and, muscles flexing beneath her hands, he dropped his head to her shoulder and throbbed deep inside her.

A while later, he raised his head. His green eyes shimmering, he kissed her gently and pulled free, setting her feet on the tiled floor. She swayed. He smiled, snaked an arm around her to hold her steady, and reached for the soap. One last kiss, and he started to wash her. With a satisfied sigh, she let him, enjoying the soapy glide of his hands and the fresh scent of Dove in the air. Thorough as always, he didn’t miss a spot, massaging her sore muscles, working closer to her center until he touched the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

When she flinched, Bastian frowned. “You’re sore.”

“Only a little.” Running her hands down his back, she licked a water droplet from his skin.

He nipped her earlobe. “Forgive me. I was too rough with you.”

“No…you were perfect.”

He grinned. “And you…exquisite. But no more today. You need time to recover.”

Circling with gentle fingers, he rinsed her clean then stepped back to turn the soap on himself. Unable to help herself, she watched him, tracking the southbound suds across his chest and six-pack to…oh, man. He was beautifully made, so strong in all the right places.

“No fair,
bellmia
. You keep looking at me like that and…” His gaze glowed as he watched her admire him. The connection between them sparked, raising awareness until she could hardly breathe. Crazy. Totally nuts, but tender or not, she wanted him again. Reading her right, he shook his head, leaning around her to turn off the water. “Now, who’s the insatiable one?”

“Can’t help it,” she said, wanting to chase the droplets across his chest with her tongue. “You’re so fricking hot.”

He laughed. “Later. Rest and recover,
bellmia
. You’ll need all your strength for tonight.”

Picking her up, he opened the glass door and stepped onto a bath mat. Chilly air raised goose bumps on her wet skin and, with a shiver—and absolutely no shame—she snuggled into Bastian’s chest. He snagged a towel from the metal wall rack, wrapping her up before he grabbed another and went to work on her hair. And like a four-year-old, she let him. It felt so good to be taken care of…to be the recipient instead of the giver for a change.

“Bastian?” Fighting the hypnotic pull of his fingers in her hair, she stifled a yawn. “What’s tonight?”

He gave her a sharp look of surprise. “Nothing.”

Myst stilled, his quick denial raising her radar. A guy’s “nothing” was the equivalent of a woman’s “fine.” Not good on so many levels, and as she stared up into his face, the link she felt between them flared, gifting her with insight, telling her he wasn’t being honest, that he wanted her question buried six feet under. The rushing sensation intensified into a warning. She tugged at the towel, wrapping the fluffy terry cloth under her arms and over her breasts like armor.

What to do? Let it go or confront him?

She didn’t want to push, but it wasn’t in her nature to ignore important issues. She was a take-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of girl, and if she wanted something permanent with Bastian, she needed to stay true to herself. No hiding—not for her, not for him.

Reaching out, she spread her fingers on the damp skin over his heart. “Bastian…please, just tell me.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he said, “The Meridian realigns.”

“What’s that?”

“A biannual occurrence. It’s an…important event for my kind.” His fingers flexed in her hair a second before he let her go and stepped back to snag another towel.

She studied him, trying to get a bead on his mood. “Like a celebration?”

“I’ll explain everything later.” Wrapping the towel around his waist, he turned toward the door. “I called Daimler. He’s coming with clean clothes for you.”

Uh-huh. There it was…the deflection. The 180-degree turn in the distraction department. But man, it was effective. The topic switch up worked, rocketing her into how-did-he-do-that territory.

How
had he called Daimler? There were no telephones anywhere she could see, and she’d been with Bastian the whole time. Okay…admittedly, she’d been in a pleasure coma most of the afternoon, but still, she would’ve noticed something as significant as a cell phone.

“We don’t use phones, Myst,” he said over his shoulder. “You won’t find any in the lair.”

No phones? Crap. There went plan B. She wouldn’t be calling Tania anytime soon.

Padding on bare feet, she adjusted her towel and followed his retreat into the bedroom. “Okay. Then how did you—”

“We call it mind-speak.” He dropped the towel, and she got a terrific shot of his ass before…

Her mouth dropped open. Between one breath and the next, he was dressed: leather pants, black muscle shirt, big boots on his feet.

He rolled his shoulders, his expression so serious she got the impression he was worried about her reaction. “We have a few tricks like that,
bellmia.
”

No kidding. The ability to get dressed with a thought was, well…cool. And weird. But she must be getting used to all the weirdness. His ability didn’t bother her all that much. She knew he was different, had accepted the magic as part of the man. “Can you do that for me? Save Daimler the trip?”

His mouth curved as the tension left his shoulders. Crossing to where she stood, he pulled her in his arms. Giving her a gentle squeeze, he murmured, “You are an outstanding female.”

Her heart flip-flopped, somersaulting inside her chest. Myst slapped it into submission. She was already in enough trouble here. No sense upping the stakes into idiot territory and translating his praise into “I love you.”

“I have to go.” Dipping his chin, he kissed the top of her head. “Wait here for Daimler. Eat something. You need your strength. I’ll see you at the evening meal. All right?”

No. Not all right.

She wanted him to stay with her. Which made her let him go. Clinging to him wasn’t a good idea. Not even close to practical. He couldn’t spend all his time with her, but as he headed for the door, her heart didn’t listen to reason and hung onto him. Myst let it go, knowing she would never get it back.

An awful hollowness expanded inside her chest. This wasn’t like her. The fall-in-love, needy, clingy crap was someone else’s MO. She was the smart, practical one: strong, independent, tough. Raking her wet hair away from her face, Myst felt the pressure build inside her. It pushed at her boundaries, threatening to geyser into an emotional explosion.

She needed space. And clarity. A little fresh air—some time outside in the garden—was a definite must. Otherwise, she’d lose her mind like she’d already lost her heart to a man who didn’t love her in return.

With a growl, Bastian slammed the thick volume closed, resisting the urge to hurl the fucker across the library. He punched the tabletop instead, leaving a dent the size of his fist in the steel top. As metal clanged, reverberating off floor-to-ceiling bookcases and polished concrete floors, he shoved his chair back and stood.

Legs spread and feet planted, he snarled at the stacks of leather-bound tomes. Useless. All of them.

None held the answer he sought. Jesus. He’d left Myst—in nothing but a towel—for this? Abandoned his mate to spend a day alone in the lair while he’d come to the Archives on a Hail Mary mission to find answers that would never be his.

He’d had such high hopes, but found nothing but dead ends. And time was running out.

Hanging his head, he ran his hands through his hair. He laced his fingers and pressed down on the back of his head, trying to keep it together. His neck muscles stretched, screaming as the knots bracketing his spine got yanked. Bastian welcomed the discomfort. It distracted him, stalled the pressure that was turning his skull into a pressure cooker.

Imminent explosion. He was a nanosecond away from total meltdown.

He couldn’t forestall the inevitable. A future in which he didn’t hurt Myst. The answers he needed to keep her safe didn’t exist, and the Meridian would realign in…

Releasing the hold on his neck, he glanced at the clock across the room. In less than six hours.

“Christ.” His voice bounced against concrete and steel, playing ping-pong in the silence.

He already felt twitchy, the need for his female like poison in his veins: pervasive. Incurable. Catastrophic. He was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with no way of avoiding the bullet. But worse? He was the one with his finger on the trigger.

Resentment boiled up until Bastian tasted it on the back of his tongue. There was no way to negotiate it. The Meridian was a force of nature, a phenomenon his magic couldn’t touch, and like all of Dragonkind, his mating instinct would kick in the moment the energy bands merged. The biannual occurrence created a twelve-hour window, one in which his body shifted into high gear with singular purpose.

To spawn the next generation of strong sons.

Necessary to carry their race into the future. Hell to a bonded male in love with his female.

Bastian curled his hands into fists. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Wasn’t life grand?

The hungering was the reason he and his warriors had Daimler lock them in the vault twice a year—at the spring and fall realignments. Seven hundred feet below the surface, the crypt was a work of art. A steel cage with electronic locks surrounded by miles of hardcore granite. And inside? Full living quarters kitted out with the best of everything.

Usually, the vault worked like a charm. Kept the Nightfuries contained, giving them the space they needed to control the hunger as the energy surge flipped the fertility switch and the meter started running.

Not this realignment, though.

Masterpiece though it was, Bastian wasn’t sure the vault would hold him. He wanted Myst too much and would tear the reinforced steel apart to reach her.

So, where did that leave him?

Could he fight the pull—his very DNA? Find a way to dampen the hungering and his need, make it somehow manageable?

As restlessness fired up his neuro pathways, Bastian paced. His boots thudded against the floor, echoing in the quiet, bringing small comfort, but no relief. Round and round he went, circling the table in the center of the room, looking for a solution.

Maybe if he locked himself down. Got Daimler to tranquilize his ass and turn him into a zoo exhibit…

Yeah, that might work. No guarantees, though. He was a strong male—his magic potent both in and out of dragon form—but a terrible plan was better than nothing. It was worth a shot to keep Myst safe and—

“Knock-knock.”

Without slowing his roll, Bastian glanced toward the door.

Rikar stood on the threshold, shoulders filling the space between the jambs, a slim leather-bound book in his hands. “What…don’t feel like playing?”

Bastian’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck’s there?”

“Your sorry-as-shit best friend.” Pale eyes locked on Bastian’s face, Rikar stood tall—boots planted, spine straight, shoulders back—like he was preparing for something unpleasant. Probably a good bet, given Bastian’s level of pissed off.

Swinging left, Bastian strode past tall bookcases jammed with thick volumes, moving away from Rikar. Pacing toward his friend wasn’t a good idea. He wanted to hit the male so badly his knuckles ached.

“Look, B. All I ask is that you hear me out.” His expression grave, Rikar strode into the library. As he slid the journal onto the table, he said, “I offer you
grevaiz,
Commander.”

“In here?”

“We can go to the LZ if you want. More room out there.”

Bastian clenched his hands. Great. Just what he needed. A
grevaiz.

The ritual was time honored, a warriors’ tradition. An offering of first strike when one male had wronged another. A way for the offended to be appeased, and the offender, forgiven. The rite supposedly allowed healing, but as he stared at Rikar, his anger faded. He didn’t want to hurt his best friend. Yeah, yesterday he would’ve taken the shot and skinned the male alive. Right now? He needed his buddy like a lifeline.

“She’s all right, Rikar,” he said, flexing his fists to release the tension. It didn’t work. He still ached, inside and out. “Fully recovered.”

“I heard and…I’m glad. But…” A furrow between his brows, Rikar stared at the floor, offering what he believed he owed. “I still offer first strike.”

“I don’t want it.” Much as it killed him to admit it, Bastian said, “I would’ve done the same to save you. Now, enough with the bullshit. I need your help.”

Rikar tipped his chin. “Shoot.”

“Tonight…when the Meridian realigns, I want you to tranq me. Daimler’s getting a truck load of the drug and—”

“No fucking way.”

Bastian glared at his friend. “You
owe
me this. I don’t want to hurt her, but I won’t be able to stay away.”

“And what? You think the vault’s going to hold you?”

“It’ll work. All I need—”

“Even pumped full of drugs, B, you’ll get out.” Rikar crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “And fuck up the rest of us.”

Hell. He hadn’t thought of that. If he hammered a hole in the vault, he would provide his warriors an escape hatch. And where would they go? Into the city—juiced with need and hungry as hell—to find the nearest female. With a curse, Bastian kicked a chair out of his path and completed another circuit around the room.

“You can’t avoid it, Bastian. She’s here. You’ve bonded with her. There’s no escape for you.” he said, honest as always.

Stopping in front of a bookcase, Bastian grabbed the shelf at eye level and leaned in, the pain of circumstance tearing him apart. “What am I going to do? How can I keep her safe?”

A chair scraped along the floor behind him. “Come and sit down, B. I think I found something that will help.”

Taking a shaky breath, he pushed away from the bookcase and approached his best friend. “What did you find?”

Rikar pointed at the journal he’d set on the table. “Found it in the vault…mixed in with frickin’ Charles Dickens. Interesting story in there about a Dragon Queen.”

“A what?”

“Yeah, pretty cool stuff.” Knocking on the red cover with his knuckles, Rikar parked his ass in the chair opposite him. “Don’t know who wrote it…don’t know if it’s true, but it might explain the connection you share with Myst. Why you were able to feed her.”

“Sloan,” Bastian murmured.

His best friend nodded. “He filled me in. Now, he’s looking through the computerized annals, searching for more info. Maybe he’ll get lucky and find something, but the journal? Christ, I’m gonna kick the Scottish pack’s ass for keeping
this
from us.”

The Scottish pack? Those bastards were a tight unit. Closed to the outside world, they didn’t like outsiders—dragon or humankind—and sure as shit didn’t share information.

Bastian grabbed the chair he’d booted out of his way and sat. He tipped his chin in his buddy’s direction. “Hit me.”

“One of their females gave birth to three sons. All sired by the same male…the pack’s commander.”

Three
. Twins were rare, but…

“Triplets?”

Rikar shook his head. “The first two were born seven years apart. The middle and youngest son…ten years between them.”

His brow drawn tight, Bastian stared at his friend, not understanding. He heard the words, but their meaning couldn’t be. Females died on the birthing bed without exception. Myst’s patient—and the bloody mess she’d walked into—was proof positive of that. “It can’t…how…Jesus, the female survived?”

“Yeah. And according to this? She lived nearly three hundred years, dying when her mate did…an instant kind of thing. He was killed in battle. She died within minutes of him. In their lair fifty miles away.” His friend leaned forward, bringing their heads closer together. “Christ, Bastian. I think the two were energy-fused…like you and Myst.”

He shook his head. “It’s a myth.”

“Is it?” His eyes like blue flames, Rikar leveled him with his gaze. “Myths are formed around kernels of truth. You’re connected to her…have been from the moment you saw her in that kitchen.” He tapped the book again and continued, “How would we know whether it’s true or not? Our kind are notorious for the hit and run…love ’em and leave ’em fast. We never stay long enough to create a lasting bond. I think what you’ve found with Myst is so rare that the knowledge of it has been lost over time. The few who knew failed to pass it on.”

“Fucking Scots,” he growled, feeling like he’d collided with a concrete wall, skull first. Shoving a stack of tomes aside, Bastian planted his elbows on the tabletop and fisted his hands in his hair. He pulled at the strands, battling the ache and the unknown. If what his friend said was true…if the theory held? God. It opened up a whole new world—the possibility of keeping Myst in his life. “Are you sure about this? You’ve got to be—”

“Shit, B.” Reaching out, Rikar wrapped his hand around Bastian’s wrist and squeezed until Bastian raised his head and met his gaze. “You can feed her energy…healing energy. Do you know what that means? With you present, there’s a good chance she’ll survive birthing your son.”

A
good
chance. Not a 100 percent one. “When did this happen? How long ago did the Dragon Queen die?”

“The journal dates from over a hundred years ago.”

“Are her sons still alive?”

“The two eldest died in battle with their sire, but the third might still be alive.”

“Name?”

Releasing his wrist, Rikar grabbed the book off the table edge. Leather creaked as he cracked the spine and flipped through the pages. Near the back, he pulled out a long piece of paper folded into four equal parts. He unfolded it like an accordion, and Bastian caught a glimpse of black ink sprawled into the branches of a family tree.

Rikar traced his finger over the bottom half. He stopped on a name. “Forge.”

Bastian sat back in his chair, his mind churning over a plan.

“What are you thinking?” Rikar asked. “The Scottish pack won’t answer a summons. And no way we can get to Scotland without some serious—”

“We don’t need to jump the pond.” The thick burl of the Highlands ringing inside his head, he replayed a recent conversation. “You know the fucker in the rail yard…the Razorback rocking fire-acid?”

“Yeah.”

“From the Scottish pack.”

The corners of Rikar’s mouth curved. “We need to cage him. Find out what he knows.”

“Um-hmm.” Bastian stared at the rows of books over his friend’s shoulder, seeing them, but not really. His mind was fully engaged, turning over the plan, looking at it from all angles. He needed to clip Deep Purple’s wings. The only way to do that? Reel him into the kill box…close enough to zap him with some serious voltage and lock him down.

No easy feat. The enemy male was smart. Caging him would take real effort and tons of planning. Yeah, that and time. Something he didn’t have. At least, not until tomorrow night when the realignment was over.

“So, we bait him.” Slouching in his chair, Rikar crossed his ankle over his knee and turned the journal over in his hands. “Can you get him in the pipe? Will he even come?”

“He’ll come.” Chasing an itch, Bastian rubbed his shoulder blades against the backrest, his strategy crystallizing. “He won’t be able to resist. We’ve got something he wants.”

“What?”

“His son.”

Not that he would give Gregor Mayhem to the male—to a freaking Razorback. No way. Never mind that the Nightfury code of honor forbade it. He was more concerned with his mate. Myst would skin him alive, and…well, well, well, look at him go. He was suddenly into pleasing a female. Especially given the chance he might get to keep her for a lifetime.

Yeah. Hope sprang eternal and all that jazz.

But even as Bastian made light of it—was afraid to believe she would survive birthing his son—he prayed it was true.
Please, God, be merciful.
He wasn’t asking for much. One simple thing. That’s all he wanted. A family: a mate for him, a mother for his son.

Clinging to the hope, Bastian pushed to his feet. He needed to see Myst. He didn’t have much time, and she deserved every bit of his before the realignment. A real date. A shared meal…or something. Anything to make her feel special.

As he rounded the end of the table, Rikar handed him the journal. Smooth, red leather slid across his palm. He stared at it a moment, knowing he’d read it front to back—in search of more hope—before he laid Myst down tonight. Gripping the slim volume, he glanced sideways at his best friend, a brow raised in question.

Keeping pace, Rikar strode with him toward the door. “The rest of us will be locked down in an hour. You’ll have the lair to yourself. Have fun tonight.”

“Asshole.”

“You know it.” Slapping him on the shoulder, Rikar followed him into the hallway. “Relax, B. Even out of control in the hungering, you won’t hurt her.”