Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

boxes, echoing into the night.
    Without looking back, she sprinted toward the end of the ally and freedom: each footfall hammering against asphalt, her chest heaving so hard she couldn’t hear anything but her own ragged breath. She chanced a look over her shoulder. Rubbing the curve of his shoulder, Denzeil stood between the steel walls—thighs spread, boots planted—blocking the end of the alleyway, but…
    He wasn’t moving. Was just standing there, eyes shimmering in the gloom, an awful smile on his face.
    Terror flooded her, washing through her veins. Oh, God…no. Mind-speak. The psycho was communicating with someone. She could see the spike in energy. As his red aura flared, she came even with the end of the container and—
    A huge hand shot from around the corner.
    Sucking in a sharp breath, Myst skittered sideways and ducked low. She heard a growl. Felt the grab and pull as he fisted his hand in the back of her shirt. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed her into a dead-end alleyway. She twisted as she stumbled, trying to get her feet beneath her. She must find a way around him, but as he approached, a massive shadow against the rising moon, Myst knew she didn’t stand much of a chance.
    Making twin fists, she brought her bound hands up. “Stay away!”
    “No chance of that, female.” Dark red hair pulled away from his face, black wraparounds concealing his eyes, his mouth curved at the corners. “But I like your style.”
    “You won’t like it when I snap your neck.”
    “A fighter.” He grinned, flashing his straight white teeth. Flexing his fists, he came within striking distance, daring her to hit him. “I like that, too. It’ll make taming you far more interesting, don’t you think?”
    As far as taunts went, that was a good one. Especially since the bastard accompanied the words with movement. Step by step, he moved in for the kill, crowding her, pushing her back into a corner she held no hope of fighting her way out of. “It won’t happen. I am Bastian’s.”
    “I know,” he said, an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. His nostril flared, and Myst realized she had said exactly the wrong thing. “But possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I have you now. Do you think he will want you back when I am through with you? After I have ridden you hard…taken everything a female can give a male?”
    Balanced on the balls of her feet, Myst kept pace with him, pivoting, keeping him in sight as he circled her, looking for an opening. The soft tissue of the nose. Raking his eyes with her fingernails. Booting him in the balls. All viable options. The last one, though, was her favorite. “I’ll never give you the satisfaction…Ivar.”
    “You already have.” He walked around her again, staying just outside her strike zone. “Owning you, fucking you, feeding from you…seeing you locked in cellblock A with my daughter growing in your womb? That’s all the satisfaction I need.”
    Daughter? Myst frowned. What the hell was he talking about?
    Keeping her guard high, she stared at him from between her fists, mind working overtime. Dragonkind didn’t produce girls so…
    The answer hit her like a sledgehammer.
    Ivar was a scientist and, like her mother had always done, dealt more in results than reality. All things are achievable through scientific experimentation . How many times had she heard that growing up? She’d lived the obsession—knew exactly what had driven her mom—and saw the same commitment in the man backing her into a corner.
    She met his gaze through the dark lenses hiding his eyes. “You’re manipulating chromosomal DNA.”
    “Smart female,” he murmured, a sick sort of approval in his expression.
    “It won’t work. You’re chasing—”
    He struck so fast she didn’t see him move. Grabbing her by the nape, he buried his fingers in her hair. Fear lit her up, making her vicious. With a twist, she slammed her bound fists into him. She connected: once, twice. The third time he cursed as his sunglasses went flying. The Oakleys clanged against the shipping container. Myst screamed and struck again. His eyes flared, shimmering with violence, illuminating the darkness with a pink glow.
    “You son of a bitch.”
    Lashing out again, she thrust her knee up, aiming for his groin. He shifted and, without mercy, cranked her head back, raising her onto her toes. With a curse, she held the tears back, refusing to show weakness or acknowledge the pain, and kicked him