Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

run?”
    “Yes,” she said a little too quickly. His eyes narrowed as he picked up on her lie, and she babbled, “I promise…cross my heart and hope to die…” she trailed off as he raised both brows. She scrambled in full reverse. “Okay…not hope to die , but you get my point, so—”
    “Look, I know you’re dealing with some heavy shit here. I get it. I really do.” One hand still cupping her nape, the other imprisoning her hand, it was as if they were slow dancing, without the body sway or willingness on her part. He sighed, as though tired. “But, here’s the thing. You run. I give chase. In the end, we’re right back where we started…me touching you. So, let’s save ourselves the trip. You can’t win this one, Myst. You’re here. I am, too. Accept it so we can move on.”
    “I want to go home.” Crap . Not exactly a convincing argument. She sounded like a spoiled six-year-old. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “I won’t tell anyone, Bastian. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’m an excellent secret keeper…the very best. It’ll be like it never happened. I’ll go home. You’ll—”
    “Maybe I believe you…” His pause gave her hope. He killed it with one quick slice. “Maybe I don’t. But that’s not the real problem.”
    The real problem? Bigger than the fact that she’d been kidnapped? “It can’t be that bad. Not enough to take away my freedom.”
    His hand flexed around hers. “You remember the brown dragon you saw tonight?”
    She nodded. “The fire breather.”
    “He was part of an elite group of warriors…my enemies…and one of his comrades escaped during the fight.” He shifted, slipping his hand from her nape to her cheek. He cupped her face gently, and Myst flinched as the pad of his thumb brushed over her temple. “Do you know what he’s doing right now?”
    “No.”
    “He’s telling his commander about you. About the baby. That Rikar and I protected you. You know what conclusion he’ll draw?” She shook her head. Bastian continued, “He’ll think you’re important to me, and that makes finding you a priority. Myst, you can’t go home. It’s no longer safe for you in the human world. Like it or not, you are now a part of mine.”
    Tears stung her eyes. “No…no way. I have friends, a job…a life I love.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Sorry . Yeah, right. He looked devastated. Completely ruined standing there, his green eyes steady…and not a bit sorry. God help her. It wasn’t fair. Not Caroline’s death, and her angel’s sad start in the world. Nor the fact she was trapped in Bastian’s stupid, upside-down war.
    As he released her and stepped back—leaving her wrung out—she closed her eyes and let the tears fall. She was more than a prisoner now. She was lost. Spiraling out of control in a place she didn’t understand or want to be.
    And wasn’t that the perfect nightcap to an already gut-wrenching day.

Chapter Nine
    Calamity erupted from the bedside table, guitars riffs screaming heavy metal. Detective Angela Keen burrowed a little deeper into her pillow, trying to tune out the screech of AC/DC. It didn’t work. Brian Johnson just kept singing.
    Holy hell. “Thunderstruck” was fast becoming her least favorite song.
    But then, that was the point. The whole reason she’d chosen death rock in the first place. She needed a good kick to jar her awake, and the ringtone was the only one that ever managed it.
    Cracking an eyelid, she stared at the digital alarm clock. The red lines stayed blurry for a moment, then jumped into focus. Three forty-two a.m. Great. She’d only climbed into bed four hours ago.
    Angela reached for her cell phone, fumbled a second before getting a hold of it and flipped the top open. “Yeah?”
    “Wakey-wakey, Ange.” The gruff male voice came through the line loud and clear. “I need you on site A-SAP. We’ve got another vic.”
    Her brows drawn tight, she pushed up onto one elbow. “Are you sure?”
    “Same MO,” her partner said, his East Coast accent clipped.
    Not a good sign. The intensity of Mac’s voice always indicated his level of pissed off. And a tight tone on Ian MacCord meant one thing…another girl had turned up dead.
    A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and, fighting clingy sheets, Angela shoved her duvet aside. She loved her job—she really did—even though someone had to die for her to go work. The problem here? Young women were the ones doing the