Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)
polish on her toenails.
Myst snorted. So much for looking tough. Yeah, because nothing said badass like bright pink nail polish and sequined flip-flops.
As she flip-flip-flopped her way along, Myst watched painting after painting roll by. The wash of color enlivened the white walls, sitting comfortably above the chunky chair rail and gleaming hardwood floors. Even out here—in a place that did nothing more than get a person from point A to point B—everything looked expensive. The mitered corners met with meticulous crispness. Each halogen lined up with its neighbor, blending into the all-white scheme, no scuff marks in sight.
The seamlessness made Myst uncomfortable. It was too perfect: no cracks or streaks of dust, no visible signs of weakness…anywhere.
Having grown up in a tiny, two-bedroom house—one that put the shabby in Shabby Chic design—Myst couldn’t identify with that kind of wealth. It made her feel like a second-class citizen traveling in a foreign country without a passport. Still, she kept her feet moving, each flip-flop a steady echo against the beautiful backdrop.
The corridor wasn’t the kind of place you sped through. It was too much like the The Met in New York City to gallop down like a runaway horse. She got the impression that if she sped up even a little, a guard—complete with museum uniform—would pop out of the woodwork and scold her.
Uh-huh, and there went her training again. All the politesse her mother had drilled into her on display for the gallery and…yeah, no one else to see.
Which was beyond unfair. Completely idiotic, really.
Her mother had died almost three years ago, yet Myst couldn’t forget. All those manners clung like old perfume, refusing to fade, reminding her of that dark December day.
It was more than just the violence, though, that stayed with her. It was the little things—all the stepping stones of behavior that her mother had insisted upon brought her low, too. Not that they were bad things to live by, but…
She missed her mom.
Missed her laughter and generous ways. Missed her crazy bohemian ideas and the wisdom that always accompanied them. Missed the endless lectures too: about respect and honesty, about treating others the way you wished to be treated.
And wow. Bastian had obviously skipped that lesson.
Passing a huge painting of a battle scene—something Napoleonic, judging by all the rearing horses and red, brass-buttoned coats—Myst finally heard what she’d been listening for…
Her angel. And oh, boy, he didn’t sound happy.
Neither did the male voices that came between the crying fits, all the stops and starts as the baby paused to take a breath.
Myst paused in the corridor. As much as she hated to hear him cry, she needed a second to compose herself. Walking in there unhinged wouldn’t help her, wouldn’t help him…wouldn’t help anyone. If she showed any weakness at all, Bastian would eat her alive and she wouldn’t get what she wanted.
Squaring her shoulders, Myst put on her best don’t-mess-with-me face and, taking a deep breath, rounded the corner into—
She stopped short, flip-flops glued to the limestone floor, eyes riveted to…
The scary army in the kitchen.
Well, okay. Not an army, exactly, but…jeez. The four guys sitting around the kitchen island were huge: all mean looking and muscular, and now? Completely focused on her. As four sets of eyes narrowed, Myst felt hers go wide. Taking a step back, she crossed her arms, hugging herself in a protective gesture she knew looked weak. But she couldn’t help it. The aggressive factor on these guys was off the charts.
Myst swallowed past her heart, now firmly lodged in her throat. “Ah, s-sorry, but I’m looking for—”
“ Bellmia .” The deep timbre of Bastian’s tone flowed like honey, surrounding her with warmth and sweet safety.
Myst rode the wave and, releasing a shaky breath, turned toward his voice, needing to see him. Seeing was believing, after all, and regardless of the rift between them, she trusted him to shield her from the biker gang making mincemeat of her with their eyes.
He smiled as he met her gaze, and all the embarrassment Myst thought she’d feel departed for places unknown. The whole shower thing was okay. He hadn’t taken advantage of her. She knew it without asking. The need to take care of her was there for her to see—in his eyes, on his face—and for some reason, that made all the difference.
Leaning back against
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