Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

a woman down to have a friendly conversation. “Get your hands off me.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, looking like he actually meant it.
    Angela didn’t believe the lame apology for a second. She knew better. The sick SOB was a predator. The kind of scum she hunted and put away every day. She should have listened to her instincts. Something about Rikar hadn’t added up from the start. If only she’d paid better attention.
    His eyes started to shimmer.
    Angela’s breath caught as the silvery light expanded until his entire iris glowed. The blue wave lit up the darkness and…oh, God. Rikar was more than a criminal. He wasn’t normal. He was…something else.
    A chill slid along her spine. “What are you?”
    “Relax, angel. Let me in and I’ll take it away…make you forget.” Transferring both of her wrists into one of his large hands, he cupped her jaw and raised her chin. Angela tensed, twisting against him. He dipped his head. His mouth brushed her pulse point. She shook her head, denial locked in her throat as something unlocked deep inside her. A gate opened, flooding her with sensation. The heated curl settled belly low as pleasure surged, spreading through her limbs. “That’s it, love…help me make you forget.”
    She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but couldn’t find the words. They were gone, taken by bliss on a warm wave. As she went weightless in mental fog, Angela floated, listened to Rikar groan. Felt him settle snug against her as he nestled into the curve of her throat.
    The super-charged current intensified until her fingertips tingled. Angela didn’t care. He felt so good and…
    That was wrong, wasn’t it?
    Shouldn’t she push him away?
    She frowned, trying to catch hold of the thought. Yeah, definitely. She never let a guy get this close. But she couldn’t make herself move. Couldn’t remember a thing as she closed her eyes, tipped her head back and let Rikar have his way.

Chapter Twenty-six
     
    Bastian couldn’t feel a thing as he pushed the door open. Not the hard edge of the knob in his hand. Nor the cold floor beneath his bare feet. He was numb, frozen from the inside out, unable to feel anything but anguish.
    The turbulence kicked up all kinds of garbage, stirring the debris in his mental junk drawer. Unpleasant things surfaced, the longing for Myst among them. He hadn’t thought himself capable of needing a female to the exclusion of all else. But the thought of losing her…
    The pain of it knocked against his ribcage. Pushed inward until he couldn’t breathe. Reminded him of what he’d done. Damning him with the truth.
    Forget the Razorbacks. He was his own worst enemy.
    The proof of it lay unconscious across the room.
    Afraid to look at her, Bastian stood on the threshold, head bowed, a death grip on the doorjamb as he transferred his weight to his uninjured leg. The one broken in the fight hurt like bitch, but the bone was already knitting. He’d be as good as new in less than twenty-four hours. His heart, on the other hand? Jesus, that wasn’t so simple. No amount of dragon DNA would heal the gaping wound torn in his soul.
    A beep broke through the silence. The soft, repetitive sound drifted, carrying the scent of clean sheets and…lavender. The room smelled like Myst: the sweetness of her skin and fragrant shampoo. The one he’d used while in the shower with her.
    The memory made him lift his head. She needed him now as she had then. He couldn’t abandon her. Yeah, it would be easier to leave…to protect himself and avoid the pain. Part of him wanted to, but he wasn’t a coward. She needed him, so he would stay until she didn’t need him anymore.
    Taking a deep breath, Bastian opened his eyes. Even in the dim light, his eyesight was perfect, providing details, quick snapshots he wished he couldn’t see. Freaking night vision. He could do without the perfection today, because…God forgive him. She was so pale. So small and still in the center of the big bed.
    Covered by the sheet, she lay on her side, arms curled against her chest, blonde lashes like crescent moons on chalk-white cheeks. Bastian’s throat went tight. She shouldn’t be like this: drained of life, waiting to die.
    He wanted to go back. Reverse the clock and change the last twelve hours. The Razorback would’ve killed him quickly, left him ashed in the rail yard, just one more messy pile for the human police to clean up. Given a second chance, he would’ve taken that route and