Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

whole mind-meld thing his friend was packing. To have the ability to read and dissect the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses from a distance was one hell of an advantage. Christ, that kind of up-front info came in handy in a firefight.
    Playing with his fork, Rikar flicked a strawberry across his plate. He watched it somersault through the syrup with little enthusiasm. His hunger wasn’t about food. He needed to log some personal time with a female, draw some energy to flush out the last of the poison.
    Not that he was hurting anymore.
    Nah, the anti-venom had done its job, and the gash on his arm? Nothing but a thin pink line on his skin, one that would disappear completely before the night ended. Still, a faint ache stayed with him, giving him a headache that jammed up his ability to concentrate. A little sip from the right female and he’d be good to go.
    That was if B didn’t ground him for the night.
    Christ, he hoped not, even though protocol called for it. Warrior or not, an injury like he’d suffered wasn’t taken lightly. Had it been any one of his comrades, Rikar would’ve been on board with a night off the fighting rotation. But no way he could stay home. Not tonight. He needed to stretch his wings or he’d go rat-shit crazy…especially with Myst in the lair. He needed to stay the hell away from her. There’d be no double jeopardy on that one. He went anywhere near her again and Bastian would kill him.
    Rikar stabbed a piece of melon, wishing it was a Razorback’s head. Wishing Bastian would start the freaking meeting already.
    They were all here, in their usual spots around the kitchen island. Everyone except…
    “Where the fuck is Sloan?” With a scowl, Rikar put his fork down before he did more than mangle a fruit wedge.
    Sitting opposite him, forearms folded on the marble countertop, Venom raised a blond brow. “Temper, temper there, buddy.”
    “Sun’s going down,” he growled. Translation? Time to get out of Black Diamond and head downtown to hunt the enemy…and feed.
    Wick murmured his agreement. Which amazed the hell out of everyone. The taciturn male never talked, rarely made any sound at all. He was more phantom than male, ghosting in and among the Nightfury warriors…with them, but not really. The only one who truly knew him was Venom, his bunkmate. Yeah, those males were tight—as close as he and Bastian were—but their history remained a mystery. Ven protected the male like a cub, refusing to share the hows and whys.
    Fine by him. Rikar knew all he needed or wanted to know about Wick. The golden-eyed SOB was lethal, a sociopathic killer without conscience or reserve. The perfect male to have your back on a battlefield.
    The newborn’s cry started up like a siren on a fire engine. Soft at first, the unhappy sound gathered in strength until every male looked up from his carb overload to focus on the playpen on the other side of the kitchen. Looking like a blurry-eyed first-time father, Bastian pushed away from his stool and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
    Tinted black, the glass panels were alive with movement and magic at the moment. Soon, they would lighten on their own, go from black to crystal clear, allowing moonlight to shine into the aboveground lair. The special feature protected them from the sun, allowing them to move freely during the daylight hours.
    As he scooped up the infant and set him against his shoulder, Bastian strode back to his spot. Instead of sitting on his stool, though, he sat on the adjacent countertop, leaned back and tipped his chin in Rikar’s direction. “Any word from the others?”
    “Not yet.” Rikar shoved his plate away. Fine china slid across marble on its way to meeting the butter dish. The pair kissed with a clink as he said, “They should arrive at The Gathering soon, though.”
    A furrow between his brows, Bastian rubbed the baby’s back, his concern for the other members of the pack showing. As Nightfury commander, his friend carried a heavy burden…worried about them all. But what he hated most? Too much distance, and the fact that Haider and Gage were an entire continent away didn’t sit well. With any of them.
    “Fucking Archguard,” he murmured, disgusted with the idiots responsible for the mess about to go down in Prague.
    Venom snorted. “Arch-idiots, you mean.”
    Yeah, that sounded about right. The Archguard—the males who headed the five dynastic families and sat on the high counsel— were idiots. The