Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

scrubs. He tried not to look, but…wow. She was so beautifully made: all smooth skin and gentle curves. And her hair. The blonde waves were so thick, a luxurious tangle he wanted across his chest and wrapped around his—
    Jesus. He needed to flambé those thoughts. ASAP.
    This was about her, not him. About respect and caring, not sex. About giving Myst what she needed when she couldn’t do it for herself.
    On a rough exhale, Bastian shrugged out of his leather duster, ditching it on the limestone floor. The rest of his clothes, he kept on. He didn’t trust himself. Couldn’t get naked with her if he had any hope of maintaining control.
    Sticking his hand under the spray, he checked the water, then adjusted the temperature, wanting it just right for her. When he was satisfied, he picked her up and stepped under the warm stream: letting the water hit his back first, double-checking to make sure it was warm enough before turning to let it touch her.
    With stark efficiency, Bastian washed and rinsed her. When he got the shampoo out, however, he slowed down. He couldn’t help himself, and as he ran his fingers through her hair, testing its texture and weight, he heard himself purr. Man, he loved her thick waves, the softness of each lock, the sheer quantity of it.
    Shaking his head, he rinsed the last of the suds away. He was a walking, talking cliché. A male having a thing for his female’s hair…duh, a total no-brainer.
    Another one was getting them out of the shower and himself the hell away from her. If he didn’t, he would do something stupid, like ditch his clothes and join her in bed.
    And wasn’t he a freaking hero? Myst was asleep on her feet, and what was he thinking about? Hot, sweaty, mind-bending sex.
    Disgusting. End of story.
    With a vicious pull, Bastian cranked the faucet, cutting off the warm rush from the rainforest showerhead. After grabbing a towel off the overhead rack, he wrapped Myst up to keep her warm, then snagged another thick-white-and-fluffy and went to work on her hair.
    As he patted water droplets from her shoulders and neck, her cheeks and mouth, Bastian’s chest grew tight. He was taking care of his female, looking after her when she needed him most and…
    He loved it. Loved being the one to bring her comfort and protect her from harm. And as he gathered her up—towels and all—and headed into the lavender room to tuck her in, Bastian felt torn: ripped wide open by obligation and circumstance. Worse than that? The condition of his conscience.
    But right or wrong, duty would win in the end. The future of his kind depended on it.

Chapter Thirteen
    The human police were at the scene, circling the house like a bunch of…okay, not vultures. He was the one doing that. Ivar hadn’t been able to help himself. After Lothair had dropped the bomb about the infant, he’d tried to distract himself, gone downtown to find what he needed.
    The dark-haired female seemed like an excellent idea at the time, but…Jesus.
    Ivar should have known better.
    He’d been too jazzed to enjoy her. A shame, really. She’d been pretty, leggy, a tight squeeze inside…just the way he liked his females. Too bad he’d lost control. It was happening a little too often lately…not that he regretted taking her life.
    Nah, no time for that. Her energy—subpar quality not withstanding—had revived him. Umm, umm good. Yeah, to the last drop.
    Huh, where had he heard that before? Oh, right, the Maxwell House coffee slogan. Not that he ever drank the shit, but Denzeil—his second in command—loved TV. Especially the commercials. The male even DVR’d the damn things.
    Ivar shook his head, laughing at himself as the last of the female’s energy kicked in. Thank God. His headache was finally fading, moving from behind his eyes to the back of his head. Now the pain was just a blip, a backseat driver to the frustration shifting his gears.
    Wings spread wide, Ivar circled above the house again, night vision sharp as he watched another SUV roll in.
    Idiot humans. Cattle, every one of them. So clueless they didn’t know he was here, one hundred feet above their heads. All right, so he was cloaked, deep in the invisibility spell that allowed him to rule the skies. Still, he couldn’t keep his hatred of their species under wraps. He wanted to breathe in and let loose, burn them to cinders. But that wasn’t why he’d made the flight.
    The ashes. He wanted the remains of his fallen comrades.
    Maybe that made