Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

sound, he pushed his best friend away. Rikar murmured, the sound full of anguish and, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, let him go. Without a backward glance, Bastian limped across the room, heading for the recovery suite next door. He could hear the bells now, the beep-beep-beep of the heart rate monitor that had pulled him from his dream.
    Myst was in there, plugged into that machine. No way would he let her die alone.
    “Bastian. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
    Bastian ignored the choked apology. He couldn’t forgive his best friend. Not now. Maybe not ever.

    Smooth wood slid between his fingertips as Rikar drew the pool stick back and let the thing fly. Cue ball cracked against cue ball, the sound rising above the Def Leppard tune playing in the background. The number five ball rocketed across green felt and sank into the corner pocket. He straightened away from the table and glanced toward the U-shaped bar.
    Yup, the redhead was still there, perched on a stool, sipping her drink. Straight up cranberry juice without the kick of vodka. The virgin cocktail told Rikar a lot about the female. One? She was a health freak, looking after her kidneys with a tumbler full of red, tart, and juicy. And two? She valued control too much to pour alcohol down her throat.
    Too bad. A drunk female would be easier to handle.
    Especially this one.
    Angela Keen, of the gorgeous hazel eyes, was no dummy. Whipcord smart, she was hardcore, a homicide cop with suspicion in spades. As he walked around the pool table, Rikar saw it in the line of her shoulders, in the way she scanned the bar. Watching, waiting, searching the shadows for trouble. Even her seat choice was telling: back to the wall, face to the door, body poised on the edge of the stool. Relaxed, but ready. A she-warrior with the physical and intellectual chops to make a male pay.
    And hell, that just turned him on.
    Grabbing the microbrew from the edge of the table, Rikar took a long pull. When that didn’t help, he adjusted his baseball cap and pulled at his pant leg, making more room behind his button fly. The Sevens were his favorite non-fighting gear. Dark denim worn in to perfection, the jeans fit like a dream, style and comfort wrapped into one. Tonight, though, they felt too tight in all the wrong places.
    Man, he was so cooked. He’d known she was pretty from the picture in Sloan’s file, but…
    He hadn’t expected to be attracted to her. Not like this. Christ. She hit every marker on his considerable list. The one entitled, “Fuckable.” He’d never experienced anything like it. The need to possess and control—to dominate—had him by the throat. And all he’d done so far was look at her.
    Look at her and covet.
    She was power personified. Plugged in to the Meridian like Myst was, but in a different way. The redhead’s energy was jewel-like. Hard and gleaming, the current flowed through chilly intelligence and icy resolve. The combo wound Rikar tight. He wanted a taste. Wanted to feed his frosty side with the raw burn of all that arctic energy.
    Which was just freaking perfect.
    The last thing he needed was another complication. And Angela Keen was trouble under athletic curves.
    Rikar flexed his hands around the pool cue and lined up another shot. As ball met pocket, he sighed. Other than his aim, nothing about tonight was hitting the mark. Not hunting the female cop. Not finding her. Certainty not the mind-scrub. He wasn’t even halfway there. Christ, he was all the way across the bar, using the pool table as cover, trying to decide how to approach her. Without losing his cool.
    Shaking his head, Rikar grabbed the microbrew by the neck. Fuck it. No time like the present. She was almost finished with her drink. If he waited any longer, she would slip away, hop off that barstool and head for the door. Rikar needed to intercept her before that happened. Following her home wasn’t a good idea.
    Not unless he wanted to end up like Bastian. Tied to a female he couldn’t resist.
    The thought made him flinch. Allowed the pain he’d stuffed deep down earlier in the evening to rocket to the surface. God, it hurt. The whole situation was a mind fuck, but Bastian’s hatred was the worst.
    His chest went tight as he replayed Bastian’s reaction. Dropping the f-bomb, Rikar cursed himself and the awful choice he’d been forced to make. His best friend’s life for the female’s.
    Christ. He wished there’d been another way. Wanted to undo it,