Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

wanted to do.
    Breathing like a wounded racehorse, Bastian hammered his internal gearshift and put himself in reverse. Careening backward, he led with his shoulders, slamming into the wall beside the clinic door. The concrete cracked, fissures spreading like a spiderweb on the cinder blocks. He planted his feet, desperate to stay away from the stainless tub.
    Jesus, he was in real trouble here.
    Rikar was his best friend…his buddy, and yet in the heat of his fixation, it didn’t matter. He wanted to rip the warrior’s head off his shoulders…fracture his skull for feeding from the female he’d claimed as his own.
    And man, that scared him, because the bond he and Rikar shared ran bone deep, right to his marrow. The fact Myst overrode that connection just hours after meeting her shook the hell out of him.
    He needed a bailout…fast. Someone to knock him into concussion land before shit got critical, before he couldn’t control it anymore. But Sloan was busy jumping when Myst said jump, scrambling for the supplies she needed.
    And holy shit. How amazing was she? Barking out instructions, controlling the situation, helping his friend, soothing him with her words. God, he loved her voice, its calm, confident lilt as she calmed Rikar while telling Sloan how she wanted things done.
    “Myst…baby…” His voice came out on a groan as Myst laid her palm against Rikar’s forehead. “Don’t…”
    She brushed his friend’s hair back, stroking his skin with her elegant fingers. Rikar moaned, turning into her touch. And Bastian’s body went ape shit, twitching as sweat ran in rivulets down his spine. Gritting his teeth on another snarl, Bastian locked his knees, reminding himself who he held in his arms. He needed to get out of the clinic, but…his dragon refused to leave. Had nailed his feet to the floor in the mental sphere. No matter how much he wanted to haul ass—to protect the baby and Rikar—Bastian couldn’t move.
    And wasn’t that fantastic? Un-huh, right…the territorial bullshit was a freaking peach.
    After handing Myst an IV bag, Sloan glanced over at him. And did a double take. “Oh, fuck.”
    Bang on, Columbo. They were in Deepshitsville, and the male was only just now noticing? Great detective work there, buddy.
    “Ah, Myst,” Sloan said, voice soft, trying to keep it casual. “We got a problem.”
    “I know.” All business, Myst cracked the plastic pack on the IV needle, getting ready to nail Rikar in the arm and get fluids flowing. “His blood pressure’s dropping. Where the heck is your—”
    The glass door slid open with a hiss, hammering Bastian in the shoulder. As he got knocked sideways, Bastian grunted. Good. More pain. Enough to dislodge need and predatory instinct. As Bastian threw a collar on his inner beast, Venom sprinted over the threshold, his hands loaded with white boxes. Juggling the anti-venom, the warrior skidded to a halt in the middle of the clinic, picking up the vibe with one shrewd sweep of his ruby gaze.
    Good boy. At least someone was paying attention.
    Tossing the entire load at Sloan, Venom spun and nailed him right between the eyes with a whole lot of you-keep-your-shit-together-brother.
    Shaking all over now, Bastian shook his head. “I can’t…you need…to…take him.”
    “Nah, you’re cool, Commander.” Ven rolled his shoulders and got up close, blocking Bastian’s view of Myst, his physique on display in a black muscle shirt. The male was huge, taller and wider than Bastian. Not that size mattered. The ruby-eyed warrior didn’t stand a chance against him, and that was on a good day. “Besides, if I take the infant, you’re gonna download the launch code and go nuclear on Rikar. Can’t have that, my man. So, hang tight. The female’s almost done with our boy.”
    A simple “no” would’ve gotten the job done, but Venom was a talker. Much to everyone’s consternation, the charismatic SOB gum-flapped more than any male he knew.
    “Then hit me…knock me out,” Bastian rasped, the mine-mine-mine getting louder inside his head. The refrain downloaded into a humming chant, stomping its foot like an irate three-year-old. And yeah, that sounded about right. His dragon was nowhere near mature when it came to Myst. “I’m not going to make it. I’ll kill him. Just—”
    “Bastian?” Myst’s voice—that beautiful, soft lilt—cut through the noise inside his skull. “I think I’ve got him stabilized, but…” Blue eyes the color