Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

skirted the end of the pool table, walking past the cue racks to run her hand along the back of the couch. Butter-soft leather sliding against her palm, she approached the fireplace. Double-sided, the hearthstone rose in a sweep toward the ceiling. Space flowed on either side of its massive foundation, creating two equal passageways into the dining room beyond.
    Jackpot. The French doors leading out to the garden. She’d come full circle, slipping beneath Daimler’s radar.
    Tiptoeing past the fireplace, she hid behind its stone facade, using it for cover as she peeked into the dining room. From her vantage point, she had a clear view of the archway leading into the kitchen. No elf in sight. Thank God. So far so good.
    The smell of roasting lamb in the air, Myst prayed for quiet floorboards and, skirting the enormous table, made a beeline for the double glass doors. Outside, the trees swayed, waving her along, making Myst imagine the colorful leaves acting as lookouts in her personal getaway movie.
    Except, she wasn’t trying to get away.
    She’d given Bastian her word. Three days. He’d asked for three days, and foolish or not, she intended to give them to him. But as she opened the door and stepped out onto the patio, a pang of anxiety unfurled in her belly. This wasn’t betrayal. She wasn’t being unfaithful to Bastian—or her promise—by being outside the lair.
    Myst frowned. Right?
    Her feet rooted to the flagstone, Myst rubbed her upper arms, fighting the urge to go back inside and confess her sins. Which was just plain crazy. All she wanted was some fresh air, a little time alone to think and…to locate the garage.
    And there it was, an honest thought at last.
    Yeah, and she’d accused Bastian of lying. Her conscience told her she wasn’t any better. Despite her promise, she’d explored the house, searching for the best way out. Her actions spoke more of preparation than curiosity and, standing in the shadow of Black Diamond, she faced an inescapable truth.
    She had one foot in and the other out.
    Half of her wanted to commit and stay with Bastian while the other half itched to run. Hiding would be easier but more painful. No matter how she sliced it, Myst knew she would miss Bastian—her craving for him was too hard to ignore. Somehow, she’d fallen hard, gotten in too deep to ever get out unscathed.
    A gust of wind tugged at her, playing with her hair as she looked to the sky. A storm was coming. The fury of it didn’t surprise her. About the same time each year, Seattle suffered through a doozy and the cleanup afterward. Downed trees and severed electrical lines were par for the course, and the least of the problem. She always felt supercharged during Mother Nature’s fantastic crash-bang show: unable to stay still, like she had an overabundance of energy and no viable outlet.
    Usually, she did something stupid.
    Last year, she and Tania had gone running, a full-on sprint fest through rain-soaked streets. Trotting down the patio’s steps, she walked into the garden, taking the pathway to her right, wondering what Tania would do without her this year. Her best friend was high-strung, a little neurotic at the best of times. But during what they’d come to call the Fall Storm, Tania got so edgy she was prone to idiocy.
    She needed to call her friend, if only to hear her voice and make sure she was all right. But Bastian had told her the truth about the phones. In the hour that she’d searched, she hadn’t found a single one.
    Following the dirt path, she brushed her hands over some leafy ferns and walked parallel to the house. Black Diamond was a monster, a timber-framed structure that went on and on. The wing she could see sprawled out, taking up ground space with rustic majesty. She kept an eye on it, looking for a way to skirt its perimeter and find the front of the house. She’d already tried the front door. Talk about Fort Knox…the thing had more deadbolts than a maximum security prison. Ones that didn’t budge, no matter how much muscle she put into it.
    A few minutes later, she found what she sought: a break in the shrubbery and a narrow trail along the side of the lair. She studied the thorny ground cover and then glanced at the flip-flops on her feet. Work boots would’ve been better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Barefoot, it would have to be.
    Holding her footwear in one hand, she stepped carefully, tiptoeing through the bramble, ignoring the small scrapes against her