Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

enjoying the rush of cold air against his scales. He wanted more from life, just…more. If only for a little while. Even if it couldn’t last.
    Myst’s car heavy in his talons, he increased his wing speed, flying through dark skies and pine-scented air. Pinpoint stars winked, then hid behind wispy clouds, taunting him with the promise of moonlight. But light wasn’t something he needed. Bastian knew the way home by heart. He recognized the forest below: the sway of crooked tree branches, the gradual roll of hills and higher altitude as he moved toward the mountains.
    So quiet.
    So peaceful.
    So fucking ridiculous.
    Normally, he loved flying on a night like tonight, with nothing but the chilly autumn air and black skies to keep him company. But fast was the only thing he wanted now. Not that the Razorbacks would follow. He was well cloaked, wrapped in a thick spell that kept both him and the car he carried from view. Still, he felt close to bursting, the pleasant hum beneath his scales pushing toward pain.
    The reason? Myst.
    He was trying to ignore her, but it wasn’t going well.
    Her energy and scent drove him crazy. He was hooked in, could feel the power and abundance that was all her. Combine that with a boatload of lust and he couldn’t stop remembering how good she tasted. How well she fit against him. How much he wanted to touch her soft skin again. Sex with her would be amazing. Life altering. A hot, sweaty, gorgeously intense mating.
    Jesus. He was in serious trouble here.
    He was jonesing for serious bed play, and Myst wasn’t even in the arena. She didn’t want him anywhere near her right now. What had she called him? Oh, right. A maniac. Add that to her other descriptor of Dragonkind— thing —and they were a match made in heaven.
    Bastian ground his fangs together, welcomed the sting against his lower lip, trying to block out her voice. It didn’t work. Her fear as she’d clutched him at the house came through loud and clear.
    Shit on a stick. Forget his reaction to her; her reaction to him pissed him off more. Even though it shouldn’t.
    She should be afraid of him.
    Any human with half a brain would be scared. He was, after all, the quintessential boogeyman for her kind. Did it matter that he wasn’t the bad guy? That he fought the Razorbacks to keep both Dragonkind and the humans safe, to save them from the mass genocide Ivar wanted? No, of course not. Like all things in human society, appearances mattered more than the truth. Vanity reigned supreme. And a monster was a monster, pure motives or not.
    Bastian soared over a rise of trees on a smooth glide. An earthy smell mixed with the scent of water rose from the river below. He kept his wings level, muscles stretching, following the tumbling rush of blue ribbon, working hard not to jostle Myst.
    And wasn’t he considerate?
    She name-called while he twisted himself into knots, desperate to protect her, more concerned for her comfort than his own. His reaction was so totally screwed up Bastian had no idea how to unravel it. Hell, he didn’t even know if he wanted to open that can of worms, but suspected it had as much to do with wanting Myst on her back as it did with his guilt for taking her.
    Okay, so the sleeping with her part was pretty clear-cut. The guilt, though, nailed him—hit him entirely too hard in uncomfortable places. The ferocity of it made him squirm, but not enough to let her go. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he’d been waiting for a female like Myst all his life. No matter how much he scared her, the fear wasn’t insurmountable. He could get around it, make her want him—like him even—if he put in enough effort.
    Bastian’s lips twitched. Okay, arrogant much? Well, maybe, but he believed in his ability to seduce. Myst didn’t stand a chance if he applied himself, which he would, not only for himself, but for his race.
    Ah, and wasn’t he a prince? Sacrificing himself on the altar of Myst’s desire for the good of Dragonkind?
    What a crock of shit.
    He wanted her for himself, to appease his own needs. The least he could do was be honest about it. Myst deserved more than a pack of lies, and as he peeked through the hatchback’s window—saw her sitting so still, curled up in the front seat humming a broken lullaby to comfort the baby, to calm herself—he couldn’t shake the truth.
    He was going to get bloody on this one.
    His chosen female was more than just appealing, she was warrior strong. Not