Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

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.

Chapter Twenty-nine
     
    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