Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

mental health unit. That wasn’t far from the truth. She’d held it together long enough to do her job, to save the baby only to fall apart like a freak show the second she held him in her arms.
    “Myst,” he said, tone soft, but somehow urgent. “Can you walk? We need to go.”
    Go? Yes, of course, they did.
    In theory, the idea made perfect sense, but she couldn’t move. She was numb all over, inside and out, unable to string much of anything together.
    Gentle pressure brought her chin up. Steady green eyes met hers and she jolted, more aware of his hand on her skin than the two attached to her own body. Focused on him, she grounded herself in the inherent strength of his features. Dark hair clipped military short, his face was hard planes and elegant angles, handsome with a harshness that reminded her of the coastline. Her favorite place in the world. The thought helped to even her out. He was solid and safe, exactly what she needed to grasp the trailing ends of control.
    Shifting the newborn to her shoulder, Myst kept hold of the paramedic’s gaze and stripped off her rubber gloves. He was right. They had to get the baby to the nearest hospital. The ambulance would have some of the supplies she needed to check him out, but a pediatrician would be better. And a second opinion would be helpful. Her synapses weren’t exactly firing on all the necessary cylinders right now.
    She reached for the EMT just as he reached for her. Her palm connected with his, and she got zapped with static electricity. More startled than hurt, she flinched. He shuddered hard as though the contact pained him.
    Myst let go. He held on, grip gentle but firm as he pulled her off the floor and onto her feet.
    Numb from sitting on ceramic tile, she wobbled. Strong hands steadied her, settling on the bare skin of her upper arms. A prickly sensation swept the nape of her neck and spiraled out, working down her spine in a long, soothing swirl. Tense muscles relaxed and, unable to help herself, she leaned into him, touching her shoulder to the wall of his chest. He twitched, muttered something under his breath Myst didn’t catch.
    God, he was so warm.
    Heat rolled off him in waves, attacking her bone-deep chill as he stroked his thumbs along her biceps. Myst drifted closer to him. All she wanted was the fear to go away, for the lump of ice sitting in the middle of her chest to thaw and—
    It was crazy. She shouldn’t be relying on him, but couldn’t stop herself. Something about him calmed her, helped her let go of the horror and settle into sanity. As anxiety drained, her mind sharpened, laying out a clear action plan.
    “I need an incubator,” she said, the nurse in her charging back onto the battlefield.
    His brows collided. “What?”
    “For the baby,” she said, wondering what was wrong with him. A minute ago, he’d been Mr. Calm-cool-and-collected. Now, color rode his cheekbones and he looked distracted, a breath away from true discomfort. “Do you have one in the ambulance?”
    He pulled in a long breath, then let it go. “Let’s find out.”
    Good idea. They’d just…what? That didn’t make any sense. The guy should know exactly what kind of equipment he towed around with him. Most paramedics were fanatical about that, checking and rechecking their gear before they went on shift. Myst frowned at him, confusion doing a dance inside her head. Something was wrong…well, besides the obvious. Caroline’s death was an awful reminder of that terrible fact. But this guy didn’t seem right. He wasn’t doing the usual things, and she couldn’t see his medical bag anywhere. What kind of paramedic came onto a scene without his kit?
    Her gaze dropped to the right side of his chest, looking for a name tag. She stared at the empty space on his shirt, wondering—
    “Bastian.”
    She blinked. “Pardon?”
    “My name,” he said, picking her question out of the air before she could ask. Her mouth worked wordlessly as he tipped his chin toward the door. “That’s Rikar. Now, hang onto the infant. We’re out of here.”
    Myst barely had time to register the huge, blond man standing just inside the door before Bastian shifted his grip on her. A heartbeat later, she was in his arms, against his chest, and he was out of the kitchen, into the corridor, headed for the front porch.
    “Wait…I can walk…put me…” she trailed off as the baby started to fuss, protesting Bastian’s rhythmic strides and the sudden rush of cold