Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

been…ah, sexually active last night, then certain muscles should be sore.
    Right?
    She nodded, liking the logic. “Yes, absolutely.”
    Myst came close to crying when she realized she wasn’t hurting…at all. But the craziest thing? The one with sure wow factor? Other than the hole in her memory, she felt amazing: well rested, energetic, no headache. No headache? Man, that was a gift. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up without—
    A knock sounded from across the room.
    Her head whipped around. She stared at the door, traced its antique lines, not wanting to know who was bare-knuckling the thing from the other side. She’d just gotten used to the idea that she was okay, and now? Someone stood out there with every intention of proving her wrong.
    A second knock echoed, stomping on the quiet like a herd of elephants.
    Galvanized into motion, she scrambled over the side of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she tripped over a throw pillow and, heading ass-over-tea-kettle, grabbed onto the top sheet. Still anchored to the mattress, the cotton did its job and kept her upright before she yanked the entire mess off the bed. The duvet and an assortment of other bedding went flying.
    But, what did she care?
    She wasn’t going for homemaker of the year here. The goal was safety, and as she wrapped the bed sheet around her like a toga, she searched for a weapon. Whoever stood in the corridor wasn’t necessarily her friend. She needed to be prepared to do…what exactly?
    The heavy silver candlestick sitting on the bedside table caught her eye. One hand holding her makeshift dress, she snatched the thing off its perch. Curling her hand around its neck, Myst held it close, right up against her breastbone.
    “My lady?” A crisp British accent came through the door, drifting on a polite wave of inquiry. “May I come in?”
    Myst blinked. My lady?
    The Brit waited half a heartbeat before the handle began to turn. Myst’s pulse went ballistic, ratcheting up another notch when the polished pewter rotated and the space grew wider between the door and its wooden frame. She raised the candlestick, widened her stance, expecting an axe murderer to come through the door.
    A cherub—compete with dark curls and innocent eyes—stuck his head into the room. “Oh, wonderful. I am so pleased you are awake. Good morrow, my lady.” Completely ignoring the fact she was brandishing a candlestick like a battle axe, he pranced over the threshold. “Are you hungry, my lady? I have prepared waffles this eve and all have gathered in the kitchen.”
    Myst stared at him, mystified. Waffles? In the kitchen? Holy crap, who—
    “Oh, my goodness me,” he said as his flying fairy feet paused in the center of the room. He gave her an apologetic look, then smiled, flashing a gold front tooth. “Forgive me. Wherever are my manners? I am Daimler, and I am so very pleased to meet you, Ms. Munroe.”
    With a flourish, he bowed, twin tails on his tux flapping.
    Okay, so Daimler—Mr. Starched-Pressed-and-Buttoned-Up—knew her name, but as far as monikers went, she didn’t like that one. Ms. Munroe reminded her too much of her mother and, right this second, she didn’t need to have an emotional breakdown as well as a mental one. “Ah, it’s Myst.”
    The little guy stooped to pick up a small throw pillow. He came back up with a perplexed look on his angelic face.
    She cleared her throat. “My name is Myst.”
    “Oh, my lady…thank you.” His eyes went a little misty, like she’d given him a huge gift. “You honor me beyond measure…” Smoothing the pillow with his long-fingered hands, he gave her a wobbly smile. “Myst. Master Bastian said you were a female of great worth, but…”
    As Daimler prattled on, he scurried around the bed, picking up the discarded duvet. Myst heard every word, but didn’t care about any of them but one.
    Bastian .
    Bam.
    Her memories poured back into her skull like water into a glass. Her eyes narrowed. The kidnapping jerk had kissed her. Last night. In the clinic. And…goddamn it. Why had she liked it so much? Exhaustion. Yes, that was a good excuse. She’d been so tired, and no wonder. After a night like that—after Caroline’s horrifying death and her angel’s near miss—she…
    Holy crap. The baby.
    Panic closed her throat for a second. Myst zapped herself with mental jumper cables.
    “Daimler,” she said, her tone sharp with worry. “Where’s the baby?”
    The butler hit