Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

didn’t need the ambulance. Flying would be better—faster—than driving. But carrying a pregnant female in his talons wasn’t a good idea. He might squeeze too hard, hurt her or the baby.
    With a curse, he threw the vehicle into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The engine roared and the back tires spun, burning through ice to grip asphalt, rocketing them down the deserted highway.
    He must reach the female first. Before the enemy tore her apart and stole the precious life she carried.

Chapter Two
    Myst Munroe was so tired her left leg could have fallen off and she wouldn’t have noticed. All right, so maybe not a leg, but really, the fourteen-hour days were getting ridiculous. Clichéd in a nasty sort of way. Long hours were part of the job, what she’d signed on for when she’d become a nurse practitioner. But the neat little letters after her name at the bottom of her business card read “DNP,” not “slave.”
    Though, come to think of it, she might have to check. The last batch of black and white cards had only arrived yesterday.
    In a small cardboard box: no embossing, no fancy lettering, nothing exciting.
    Just like her life.
    Not that she was complaining. She got to help people every day, and there wasn’t much more fulfilling than that. But some mornings she wished for something beyond 5 a.m. wake-up calls. Like cuddling and kisses and the warm male body required for both.
    Myst popped the latch on her hatchback, wondering what she’d been drinking when she scheduled house calls two straight days in a row. Something strong, with high alcohol content…doubles, maybe, with colorful little umbrellas in them. Yeah, definitely plural, as in many over the course of a very few hours.
    One of those fruity concoctions would taste good right about now. She settled for coffee instead, taking a sip from her oversized travel mug. A nutty favor spiked with cream coasted down her throat as she stared into her trunk. The dome light cast a yellowy glow over boxes filled with medical supplies. She frowned at them, trying to get her brain to work.
    What did she need again?
    She rubbed the grit from her eyes. “Oh, yeah, extra gloves.”
    Taking another sip of her café au lait, she rattled off the rest of the list in her head. Her medical bag needed restocking in a bad way. Two days on the road, visiting patients had taken its toll on the duffle’s tidy interior. Myst set her mug down on the only available patch of trunk floor uncluttered by the jumbled assortment of what constituted her office when she wasn’t working out of Seattle Medical Center. Flipping cardboard box tops, she grabbed what she needed, tucking supplies into compartmentalized sections and nifty pockets, pausing now and then to nurse her addiction…caffeine.
    Some might not have enjoyed living out of their trunks. Myst didn’t mind. No matter how exhausting, she enjoyed her home visits, liked driving the rural routes.
    Washington State was more than scenic. It was beautiful, with its mountains, Douglas fir forests, and panoramic ocean views. She loved the coast best, though: the rugged cliffs and sandy beaches and fresh salty smell. Something about it called to her, made her yearn for something more. Maybe it was the wildness, the unpredictability and unbridled strength of nature’s force…and the possibilities inherent in it.
    Then again, maybe it wasn’t any of those things. Maybe the restlessness her hippie mother had always accused her of was finally catching up.
    Heaving the duffle, Myst slammed the hatchback closed. She didn’t want to think about her mom. The pain of losing her was still too much. She missed the long bohemian skirts, bead-strung doorways, and tarot card readings. The smell of jasmine incense, homemade cookies, and…
    God, she needed to get moving.
    Night had arrived, bringing with it the kind of darkness never seen in the city. The skyscape was absolute, nothing to disturb the wispy clouds as they swirled beneath a blanket of pinpoint stars. The lights from Sal’s highway restaurant, fluorescents flickering in protest behind the S, barely touched the gloom.
    With a shiver, she tossed the bag onto the passenger seat. Just as she slammed her door closed, her cell phone rang, Mariah Carey’s “Touch My Body” rolling with the beat of her heart. Myst sighed. If only.
    She glanced at the caller ID, flipped the phone open and said, “I think my brain is hemorrhaging.”
    “That bad, huh?” Her best