Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  “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.

  “Ivar?” The deep bass came from the other side of the door.

  “In here.”

  With a forceful shove, the door rocketed inward, banged against the wall and…stayed there, door handle buried in the Sheetrock. Ivar didn’t care about the damage to his wall. He was more interested in the male coming over the threshold. Amethyst eyes aglow, Forge dipped his head beneath the doorframe, then stopped short, standing just inside the room. The male always did that…came in, but never committed to sharing space with him.

  The indecisiveness annoyed the hell out of Ivar. The distance was like a physical manifestation of Forge’s mental state—of his inability to commit to the Razorback cause.

  Always direct and to the point, the male said, “What the fuck?”

  “Got some news.” Holding the warrior’s gaze, he stood and moved around to the front of his desk. Expression appropriately grave, he sat on the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

  Forge tipped his chin, telling him without words to let it fly.

  So, Ivar did. Got down to the nitty-gritty and explained exactly what had gone down with his female. He left nothing out, neither scent nor sound; retelling the female’s brutal death with perfect recall. But more important than the how was the why. And as Ivar talked, he laid the blame on thick, putting Bastian in the hot seat.

  “No.” Forge shook his head. Unsteady on his feet, he backpedaled and, as his shoulders hit the wall, fumbled for his cell phone. The one he’d bought to keep in touch with the female. “I just saw her…shared a meal with—”

  “I am sorry,” he said, surprised that he meant it. The pain in Forge’s eyes was too real too deny. Jesus, the male had actually loved Caroline what’s-her-name. “But we’ll get your son back. Lothair and I have already started searching…we’ll hunt the Nightfuries down and find—”

  Forge went off like a bomb, the agonizing roar unlike anything Ivar had ever heard. As the male went ballistic, magic surged and furniture flew, spinning around the office like a tornado had just touched down.

  So much for Ivar’s matched-set office furniture. His desk was already in two pieces, and the chair? Nothing but kindling. Not that it mattered. Forge could tear the place apart for all he cared, because after months of work, Ivar had the male exactly where he wanted him.

  Mad with grief, burning for revenge, Forge would do what he’d never been able to…track Bastian and make him suffer before he died.

  Ivar smiled as he and Lothair took cover in the hallway.

  Yippee-ki-yay. Let the games begin.

  Chapter Eighteen

  His radar up and running, Bastian walked into the Gridiron with Wick on his heels. Music thumped, the heavy metal vibe rolling up hard as he paused on the edge of the crowd and scanned the interior of the nightclub. Kitted out Goth style, everything was black and mirrored with stainless steel accents. Not that he cared. He hadn’t flown all the way downtown for a lesson in interior design.

  The enemy was here. Or had been. He could smell them. Trace amounts of brimstone cut through the sharp scent of alcohol and…huh. Bastian took another whiff. The scent was upscale, posh with a capital P—a fancy oil some dragons liked to rub on their scales.

  Bastian stifled a snort. Freaking pansies and their nasty spa treatments. Wicked vain, all of them.

  Not that he was complaining. The scent trail made his job easier. Made tracking them a softball pitch in a hardball game. Every once in a while, though, Bastian wished the idiots would grow an imagination and try something new. The club scene was getting old. But predictable was just that…predictable. The Seattle strip was prime hunting ground. An environment fit for blending, for finding females with the best energy.

  Which got his crank on.

  He hated the downtown core and the cloying sweetness of the clubs. All the female perfume sloshing around in a vat of human sweat and stale alcohol. Not to mention the overcrowding. Man, that was the worst, even though no one ever came near him. People always tripped over themselves to get out of his way.

  Tonight was no different.

  After getting a load of him, the humans scattered left and right, opening a path wide enough to drive a Humvee though. Fine by him. Anyone touched him tonight and he’
d go off like a fricking bomb.

  He didn’t want to be here in the filth and squalor. In the bump and grind. See all the sex happening in dark corners. Or watch the humans pour poison down their throats and shoot toxic waste into their veins.

  He wanted to be home. With his female.

  Bastian growled, disgusted with himself. Myst’s pull on him was insanity squared. But the tug—the alluring need—made him imagine her beneath him. She’d be unbelievable, magic with all that soft skin sliding against his and…shit. He kept picturing them together: entwined, tangled up in silk sheets, her head on his shoulder while they loved and talked and—

  He needed to get a grip. A big one before he completely lost control of the situation. And his fantasy.

  Yeah, on paper that argument worked great. In the real world? Not so much. The power of his attraction to Myst was impossible to ignore. Its grip was too strong. So he was stuck…jammed between what was right and what he wanted.

  Wasn’t that fun? Uh-huh, a whole barrel full of laughs.

  And the entire reason he wasn’t at Black Diamond tonight.

  He needed some space. She did, too. Rushing her wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Especially since he refused to let her go.

  Not for the reasons he’d given her—although those were pretty compelling. No, it was much worse than Ivar and the Razorbacks’ threat. Bastian couldn’t return her to the human world because he literally couldn’t…like he had a physical impediment or something. A stop button that got smacked every time he thought about taking the easy way out.

  Which meant one thing. He’d bonded with her. Taken to her so fiercely that his dragon side was digging in, building trenches to defend his territory.

  Man. Was that even normal?

  He didn’t know. The bonding had happened so fast. He’d met Myst what…a day ago? Yet he recognized that she belonged to him and, as much as he hated to admit it, Bastian knew he was hers, too.

  And didn’t that suck.

  What he had with Myst was destined to be short-term. He knew it. Biology confirmed it. She would never survive birthing his son. And getting her pregnant was inevitable. Even if he sent her home—hell, to the other side of the planet—he wouldn’t be able to stay away when the Meridian realigned. Not now that he’d tasted her. His biological imperative would drive him to find and claim her.