Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

but…
    Second-guessing himself wouldn’t change anything. He’d made a choice. Had hurt a female to save his best friend and…fuck. He hated himself for it. Could hardly stand to be inside his own skin. But consequence was a bitch. So he would stand firm at the whipping post and take every last lash. He deserved it…all the blood and pain. Bastian’s fury was justified. He only hoped his best friend found mercy enough to forgive him someday.
    Rikar snorted and took another swig of his beer. Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. He’d seen the devastation. The awful emptiness in Bastian’s eyes as he’d turned toward the door, toward the female lying in the hospital bed on the other side.
    Bastian loved her. There wouldn’t be any easy up and over for his best friend when it came to Myst.
    His focus on the pretty cop, Rikar shook his head as he slid his cue stick into the slotted wall rack. How the hell had his friend fallen into that trap? And so fast. Bastian was the strongest male he knew. Tight in the head, solid in the heart, his friend never allowed the emotional side of his nature—aka the human side—to rule him. Okay, so they shared certain DNA markers with humankind—and, God knew, the humans went wild for the lovey-dovey BS—but that didn’t explain his friend’s reaction. Something far bigger than chromosome pairing was at work here.
    And Rikar itched to know the what, how, and why. Maybe if he could answer those questions he’d be able to free Bastian. Maybe then he’d get his best friend back. But answers weren’t coming tonight. A trip to the Archives to study the texts would have to wait. Right now, he had another female to deal with. Rikar sighed, wanting to hang his head.
    Deal with . Right. Traumatize was a better word. It seemed more in keeping with his MO lately.
    Yeah, he was a fucking peach. Pillar among males.

Chapter Twenty-five
    Swirling ice in her almost empty glass, Angela watched the big guy approach from the corner of her eye. She’d wondered when he would make his move. He’d been staring, checking her out from across the bar for at least fifteen minutes.
    She would’ve been flattered. Really. Had she been an airhead without the sense God gave her.
    Something about the guy was, well…off. Not wrong, exactly, just different in a way that raised her radar, got it blipping like a warning shot across a warship’s bow. Or maybe it was more meteorological. Like an oncoming storm, Mr. Rough-and-Tumble rolled toward her, his “hot” factor whipping her hormones into a frenzy.
    God, was that what she was feeling? Molten attraction? The urge to unlock her long neglected libido’s cage and let it out to play? Sure seemed like it.
    Angela took a sip of her Cran-Raz. Mixed with ice, the cold slide felt good going down. Keeping an ice chip, she cracked it with her teeth. The sharp sound chilled her out, helped her take a breath and control her heart. The steady thump-thump-thump was ridiculous. Especially considering she didn’t know the guy.
    But, man, he was something. Male beauty and strength wrapped up in one crazy-hot package.
    Skirting a couple of chairs, he walked between tables on a direct collision course with her position at the bar. The closer he got, the more intrigued she became. Mr. Rough-and-Tumble was a walking contradiction. Big, yet graceful. Handsome without being pretty. Casual body language covering lethal ability and iron will. How did she know? She saw it in the way he moved. Recognized the aggression—and potential brutality—in the coiled strength of his body. In the swing of his arms, the angle of his shoulders, and in each controlled stride. An enforcer, maybe. Or military.
    Yeah, definitely. The SEALS or Delta force. Maybe even the Green Berets. The guy had seen action…and plenty of it.
    Didn’t explain why he was here, though. In McGovern’s, a cop bar on the outskirts of town.
    He slid in next to her, taking the elbow room to her right. And…thank you, God, he smelled fantastic, like spicy cologne and hardcore male. One whiff of him and her libido went first-grader on her: hand raised, butt dancing in the chair as her hormones screamed, “Pick me! Pick me!” Which was just plain crazy. No way should she be reacting to him like that. Her brain had obviously been short circuited by one too many handfuls of salted peanuts.
    Angela pushed the bowl of Planters’ finest away and, glancing at Mr. Rough-and-Tumble, raised a brow.