Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

scales.
    “Bastian!”
    “Down.”
    Wick? Holy Christ. “Where are you?”
    “ Can’t hold him…much longer. Current’s…too strong,” Wick rasped, the weakness in his voice nothing like the usual harsh tone.
    “Hold tight, buddy.” His head on a swivel, Rikar scanned the inky waves. Seconds ticked into more, triggering his internal alarm. The water was too black, hiding his comrades beneath choppy spray and rolling whitecaps. Jesus, he couldn’t find them, not in the dark like this. He needed more…a tracking device to lock onto and hold. “Wick, man. Talk to me.”
    Silence came back, revving Rikar into panic mode. “Wick?”
    Nothing. No heavy breathing, rasps of pain or—
    A yellow flash of light whipped Rikar’s head to the left. Like Morse code, the blinking light found a rhythm and…
    Had Rikar been the weeping kind, he would’ve cried. Thank God for Wick, the tough, wicked-smart SOB. The male was blinking, using his golden gaze as a beacon in the dark.
    Shifting mid-flight, Rikar rocketed toward them. Coming in low, mere feet above the white caps, he spotted them. Holding B around the chest, Wick bobbed in the waves, fighting to stay afloat. Without slowing, Rikar arced his wings and drew his front talons back. He wouldn’t get another chance. Wick might go under and not resurface if he missed.
    As the next wave crested, he struck. His talons plunged and caught. With a snarl, he climbed, pulling them free of the icy chop.
    He heard Wick’s gasp of pain, but didn’t slow as he hauled ass for the lair. Both males needed care, but Bastian? His best friend’s life force was dangerously low. He needed a serious energy infusion. If he didn’t get it soon, he wouldn’t survive.
    Flying fast and hard, Rikar reached altitude. With the city below and storm clouds gathering above, he felt the first raindrops and started to pray. For the wind to push him east toward Black Diamond. For the lightning to hold off. And for Myst to survive Bastian’s energy-greed when Rikar placed his best friend in her arms.
    Christ, his wish list was way too long. And when a male got greedy, something always went wrong.

     
    Three days. A whole seventy-two hours of Bastian and nothing but Bastian, so help her God. Had she really agreed to that?
    Yes.
    The word slithered through her mind, the “S” turning into a long-tailed hiss. As the special brand of poison sank deep, Myst rubbed a slow circle on her temple. She deserved the Idiot of the Year award…and a plaque. One that said, For Going Above and Beyond the Call of Stupidity.
    Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. She’d been pinned, after all, pushed to the wall by Bastian and his crew, but still…
    Baby name or no baby name, she should have stuck to her guns and demanded that he take her home. But oh, no…what had she done instead? Promised not to escape. Made a pact with the guy who’d not only kidnapped her but had flown her to the secret lair of a dragon-slash-human military unit.
    Or whatever they called themselves. Nightfuries. Or something.
    But that was only half the problem.
    The real crinkle—the one that had her tied in knots—was tantamount to self treason. A betrayal on all fronts: moral, intellectual, and emotional. And even though she wanted to deny it, Myst wasn’t into lying, especially to herself.
    Which left her with one doozy of an admission.
    She only half regretted being taken by Bastian.
    Myst let the cupboard door close with a bang. Yeah, she really, really deserved that stupidity award.
    But Bastian. He was just so…so…intriguing and smart, gentle in ways that drew her. And let’s not forget gorgeous. Throw in his scent and…wow. She was in real trouble, and that was before she remembered how he looked at her. The amped-up intensity in his eyes coupled with affection made her feel important and precious, maybe even a little loved.
    She’d lost her flipping mind.
    No way should she be romanticizing Bastian. What did she really know about him, anyway? Not much beyond what she’d seen, and most of that landed in the just-plain-crazy column of her running tally.
    God, she needed a drink.
    And not one of those fruity concoctions, either. She wanted a strong one, something vicious tasting with lethal alcohol content. The problem? She wasn’t much of a drinker. When stressed, she went straight for the hard stuff…70 percent chocolate.
    Oh, baby. What she wouldn’t give for some Lindt right now. Or some M&Ms. Plain or peanut,