Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

carton. As he chug-a-lugged, Lothair jogged into the room with a laptop under his arm.
    Interesting.
    His XO was usually on a slow roll: his pace always even, a never-in-a-hurry kind of male. Ivar took another bite. Lettuce crunched between his back molars, sounding loud in his ears. His mouth half full, he said, “What’s up?”
    Lothair’s black eyes flashed. “Got something you should see.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    He tipped his chin as Lothair set the Mac down on the granite countertop. With a flip, his XO opened the computer, waited a second for the thing to fire up, then tapped in a password. The inside of an apartment took shape on the screen. Loft-like, the space was open plan: kitchen, living, dining, and bedroom all in one. Three windows with arched tops set in a brick wall marched down the far side of the room. An old warehouse, probably. One with good bones and enough luck to be converted into condos instead of becoming landfill.
    Ivar liked the idea. Recycle. Reuse. Refurbish instead of tearing down. Good move on the developer’s part. Way better than the ugly condo towers with which the humans ruined the skyline.
    “So,” Lothair said, fingers moving rapid-fire on the keyboard, “the cameras I planted fired up a minute ago. Thought you should see—”
    “Bastian’s female.” His hand tightened around his snack, squishing the guts out of the thing. Tomato juice dripped onto his palm, and Ivar dragged in a breath, eyes riveted to the blonde female as she came into view. She said something to someone in the corridor then turned and closed the door. The lock snicked, and she leaned back against the wood panel, both hands covering her face. “She’s crying.”
    “Trouble in paradise?”
    No doubt. His best guess? Bastian had taken her when the Meridian realigned. Rough play always upset females of worth. Well, most of the time. Some of them were into BDSM. Which was okay for other males, but not him. Yeah, he enjoyed killing, but taking a female’s energy didn’t mean smacking her around. When he drained them, they always died peacefully…with pleasure, even.
    Leaning closer to the screen, he watched her wipe her eyes and adjust the…“What’s she wearing? A blanket?”
    “Looks like it.” Lothair leaned in, and together they watched Myst Munroe make a beeline for the bedroom. As she disappeared through the only interior door, his XO murmured, “Bastian had some fun last night.”
    “Shit.” So much for plan A. Planting his own child deep in her womb wouldn’t work now. Not if she already carried Bastian’s son. But Ivar was nothing if not adaptive. A pregnant female was useful…especially as bait.
    Ten minutes later, Myst came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her body, damp hair pulled away from her pretty face. She headed for a chest of drawers and…
    “What is she—”
    “Scrubs,” Ivar said as she dropped the towel. The terry cloth crumpled around her feet, and his breath hitched. Hmm…she was a beauty: all pale skin, slight curves, and high, tight breasts. He set his sandwich down on the plate, growing thick behind his fly. “Where does she work again?”
    “Swedish Medical.”
    Ivar glanced at the clock across the kitchen. Seven hours until darkness. Until he got his hands on Myst Munroe. “Brief everyone. I want them all up to speed and ready to go as soon as the sun sets.”
    “Forge is still MIA.”
    “I’ll keep trying him.” Not that the big male would answer. Forge had gone postal, completely off the grid.
    “You think he’ll come around?” Lothair asked, eyeing his ham and cheese.
    “No clue.”
    Picking up the mangled half of his sandwich, he shoved the other half toward his XO. As they shared his snack, his mind turned inward, toward his plan and away from Forge. No sense crying over spilled milk. The warrior was of no use to Ivar in his present state of mind. Tonight’s plan required precision and control, not a male with suicidal tendencies on a paternal mission.
    And if push came to shove? He’d take the warrior out along with Bastian. At least then he’d have a matching set of urns for his mantelpiece.
    Ivar smiled. He loved it when a plan came together.

Chapter Thirty-two
    The medical center smelled as it always did…like chemical soup and bad aftershave. The obnoxious mix clung, coating the back of Myst’s throat. She swallowed the toxic taste, wishing she was anywhere but here—back in a place where everything looked normal, but