Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

doing her best imitation of a pretzel, watched eight individual talons—four on the right, four on the left—punch through steel into her car. Horror ran hand in hand with astonishment, sucking her lungs dry an instant before her tires lost contact with the pavement.
    “Hang on, baby.” The growl was deep and sure, without a hint of exertion as he lifted her car clean over the guardrail.
    Seated in her car and dangling in midair. Two very different activities, ones Myst would never have put together in the same sentence. Yet, here she was, a hundred feet in the air, over a very deep gorge…flying like the enchanted car in Harry Potter .
    Had she described the situation as surreal earlier? Well, she’d meant certifiable, loony with a capital L. The man—dragon…whatever!—was a complete whack job. What the hell did he think he was doing?
    Sucking air back into her lungs, she screamed at him, “You maniac!”
    Name calling probably wasn’t the best idea considering he was a dragon and she…well, wasn’t. But God help her, the baby was wailing again and she’d had enough. He’d stolen her car…with her in it! “Put us down!”
    “Later.”
    Bastian’s baritone rolled over her: so calm, so in control, so beautifully deep. But who the hell cared what he sounded like? All that mattered was the word. “Later” was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe his plan didn’t include dropping her into the gorge, hood first. Which meant she would live a little longer. “Bastian! I mean it. Put us—”
    He tucked his horned head under, looking at her upside down. “Try to relax, bellmia . Twenty minutes…half an hour tops and we’ll be there.”
    “Where?” she asked, holding his gaze while wondering why the hell she was talking to him.
    “Home.”
    Curled up in a ball in her front seat, Myst squeezed her eyes shut. Home. Yeah, that would be nice. Except there were all kinds of problems with that scenario. Number one, she was at a dragon’s mercy. Number two? Something told her the home he referred to wasn’t going to be her own.

Chapter Six
    Ivar, leader of the Razorback nation, popped the black wraparounds off the bridge of his nose and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. Man, he was tired. Sleep-deprived with a slap-happy helping of discouraged. Maybe PO’d was a better word. Either way, he was dead in the water…grounded until the construction site progressed enough for him to set his plan in motion.
    Dropping his hand, the Oakleys settled back into place, shielding his eyes. Damn delays were costing him. More than he could afford. Though, he didn’t care about the money. Green was easy to come by…time, on the other hand, wasn’t.
    Seven days behind schedule. Jesus, he had a headache.
    And no wonder. Despite his best efforts to ignore the sting, he was hungry again.
    He’d last fed, what?…two weeks ago? No, not even. Eleven days. He’d only made it eleven fucking days.
    The short span between feedings worried him. Then again, he’d been burning fuel like charcoal bricks in a barbecue. More waking hours meant little sleep. And not getting enough Zs made him drag-his-ass logy. He needed to hit the streets and go hunting again, corner a female fast. One with good energy. Ivar snorted. Screw that. He’d settle for subpar—short, fat, and ugly—as long as the bone-deep ache went away.
    Hitting the elevator button, he waited for the double doors to open. Installed just days ago, the pair of reinforced steel sliders retreated with soundless precision. Well, at least they worked right. Thank Christ.
    Ivar rolled his shoulders, fighting muscle tension as he abandoned the deserted, concrete corridor. In less than five hours, the subterranean labyrinth would be buzzing again: a symphony of jackhammers, welding equipment, and the scraping turn of cement mixers playing a happy tune as his worker bees went back to work.
    Right. Worker bees. A misnomer, for sure. Slave had a nicer ring to it—was more accurate, too.
    Man, he hated humans. Filthy creatures, lowest of the low. But he needed them to build his facility. Each man had been selected and then taken for his proficiency—the skill he brought to his trade. Ivar would have preferred to leave the humans out of it, but his soldiers were warriors, not construction workers. And though each could have learned the necessary trades to complete the project, he didn’t have time to dick around. The laboratory—and the framework of tunnels, bedroom