Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

the words. She could hear the music: the cheery jingle, the people singing along as they double-fisted their hamburgers.
    Pickles.
    Yes, it had something to do with pickles and onions. Lettuce and tomatoes were in there somewhere, too. Okay. All right. She was getting it, the tune and lyrics were melding, helping to slow the rush of adrenaline.
    Lettuce, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.
    Yeehaw. She had it, along with the ability to breathe again.
    Way to go, McDonald’s. No wonder they sold so many Happy Meals.
    Held prisoner by Bastian’s gaze, she shifted in her seat, hoping movement would help her break away. She didn’t have to look at him. Eye contact, after all, was a choice, wasn’t it? All she needed to do was find another focal point, one that didn’t make her heart do the slam-out-of-her-ribcage thing.
    Her angel squirmed in her arms, making an adorable baby sound. Myst blinked, glanced down—breaking the spell that was Bastian. Still fast asleep, the newborn stretched, then frowned, his soft, arching brows drawn into a tiny pucker. The sight evened Myst out, reminded her of Caroline. She’d made a promise to her friend to keep her beautiful baby boy safe.
    Nothing Bastian planned trumped that.
    A crunching sound cut through the quiet. Black leather flashed in her periphery. Bastian was on the move, long legs taking him around the front bumper of her car. Myst tensed in her seat, taking in the width of his shoulders, the muscles roping his arms, the flex and release of his long muscular legs. The word invincible came to mind—echoing inside her head in all CAPS—but as he got closer, she realized something important. His approach was cautious, almost gentle…as if he was trying not to overwhelm her.
    At any other time, she would’ve approved. Appreciated the generosity. But not tonight. Trust wasn’t on the table. She’d tried that once—back at Caroline’s house—and he’d pulled a nasty surprise out of his hat. She refused to go for round two in the Ways-to-Scare-the-Crap-out-of-Myst Department.
    Bastian paused beside the driver’s side door. In slow motion, she released her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She didn’t want to startle her kidnapper into pouncing…or make him come after her before she was ready. Curling both arms around the baby, she secured her hold. Tiny fists tucked beneath his chin, he snuffled, but accepted the shift. Thank God. The last thing she wanted to do was bobble him when she scrambled over the middle console toward the passenger seat. But if Bastian tried to touch her, flight would become her only option.
    The muscles in Bastian’s forearm flexed as he grabbed the door handle. Myst slammed the fleshy part of her fist against a black button. The locks engaged, the snick sounding loud in the silence.
    His eyes crinkled at the corners. A second later and, all by themselves, the locks flipped back to the open position. With a quick tug, he pulled the car door open.
    The interior light went on, glowing yellow as musty air rushed in. With a yelp, she planted her heels on the seat and scrambled to the other side of her Honda.
    “Myst…” Coming down to her level, he crouched in the space between the door and the car frame. As he met her gaze, he held his hands out, palms up in a gesture meant to reassure. “I won’t hurt you.”
    Uh-huh. Right. Like she believed that.
    Bastian wasn’t some fairy tale knight in shining armor. He was a kidnapper: the one who’d taken her freedom and might even now take her life. Only a fool would give him a clear shot by allowing him too close.
    Her chest heaved as she fumbled at the door behind her. He shook his head, murmured something, but she couldn’t hear him. Her heart was pounding too hard, taking up all the space inside her head. Only one thing registered. She needed to get herself and the baby away from him…to some place that was truly safe. Like a US military base manned by big strong marines with submachine guns.
    Maybe one of the Few and the Proud could get the freaking door open for her. Her hand was slick with sweat, and the handle wasn’t cooperating. Stiff from disuse, the thing kept jamming, making her lose her grip and—
    Her fingers slid off the curved plastic for a second time.
    Close to tears, Myst juggled the baby, shifting him to the crook of her other arm. She found the latch and yanked hard. The lock popped. Putting herself in reverse, she pushed against the armrest, away from