Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

clock across the room. In less than six hours.
    “Christ.” His voice bounced against concrete and steel, playing ping-pong in the silence.
    He already felt twitchy, the need for his female like poison in his veins: pervasive. Incurable. Catastrophic. He was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with no way of avoiding the bullet. But worse? He was the one with his finger on the trigger.
    Resentment boiled up until Bastian tasted it on the back of his tongue. There was no way to negotiate it. The Meridian was a force of nature, a phenomenon his magic couldn’t touch, and like all of Dragonkind, his mating instinct would kick in the moment the energy bands merged. The biannual occurrence created a twelve-hour window, one in which his body shifted into high gear with singular purpose.
    To spawn the next generation of strong sons.
    Necessary to carry their race into the future. Hell to a bonded male in love with his female.
    Bastian curled his hands into fists. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
    Wasn’t life grand?
    The hungering was the reason he and his warriors had Daimler lock them in the vault twice a year—at the spring and fall realignments. Seven hundred feet below the surface, the crypt was a work of art. A steel cage with electronic locks surrounded by miles of hardcore granite. And inside? Full living quarters kitted out with the best of everything.
    Usually, the vault worked like a charm. Kept the Nightfuries contained, giving them the space they needed to control the hunger as the energy surge flipped the fertility switch and the meter started running.
    Not this realignment, though.
    Masterpiece though it was, Bastian wasn’t sure the vault would hold him. He wanted Myst too much and would tear the reinforced steel apart to reach her.
    So, where did that leave him?
    Could he fight the pull—his very DNA? Find a way to dampen the hungering and his need, make it somehow manageable?
    As restlessness fired up his neuro pathways, Bastian paced. His boots thudded against the floor, echoing in the quiet, bringing small comfort, but no relief. Round and round he went, circling the table in the center of the room, looking for a solution.
    Maybe if he locked himself down. Got Daimler to tranquilize his ass and turn him into a zoo exhibit…
    Yeah, that might work. No guarantees, though. He was a strong male—his magic potent both in and out of dragon form—but a terrible plan was better than nothing. It was worth a shot to keep Myst safe and—
    “Knock-knock.”
    Without slowing his roll, Bastian glanced toward the door.
    Rikar stood on the threshold, shoulders filling the space between the jambs, a slim leather-bound book in his hands. “What…don’t feel like playing?”
    Bastian’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck’s there?”
    “Your sorry-as-shit best friend.” Pale eyes locked on Bastian’s face, Rikar stood tall—boots planted, spine straight, shoulders back—like he was preparing for something unpleasant. Probably a good bet, given Bastian’s level of pissed off.
    Swinging left, Bastian strode past tall bookcases jammed with thick volumes, moving away from Rikar. Pacing toward his friend wasn’t a good idea. He wanted to hit the male so badly his knuckles ached.
    “Look, B. All I ask is that you hear me out.” His expression grave, Rikar strode into the library. As he slid the journal onto the table, he said, “I offer you grevaiz, Commander.”
    “In here?”
    “We can go to the LZ if you want. More room out there.”
    Bastian clenched his hands. Great. Just what he needed. A grevaiz.
    The ritual was time honored, a warriors’ tradition. An offering of first strike when one male had wronged another. A way for the offended to be appeased, and the offender, forgiven. The rite supposedly allowed healing, but as he stared at Rikar, his anger faded. He didn’t want to hurt his best friend. Yeah, yesterday he would’ve taken the shot and skinned the male alive. Right now? He needed his buddy like a lifeline.
    “She’s all right, Rikar,” he said, flexing his fists to release the tension. It didn’t work. He still ached, inside and out. “Fully recovered.”
    “I heard and…I’m glad. But…” A furrow between his brows, Rikar stared at the floor, offering what he believed he owed. “I still offer first strike.”
    “I don’t want it.” Much as it killed him to admit it, Bastian said, “I would’ve done the same to save you. Now, enough with the bullshit. I need your