Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

out on his best friend’s hide wouldn’t change a thing. Myst would still be here, unconscious and looking too small in the center of the big bed.
    His eyes stung as he half-limped, half-hopped across the room. Bastian wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand. He never cried, but now, in the awful wash of dimmed halogens, black despair grabbed hold. He had done this…killed her as surely as if he’d buried a knife hilt-deep in her heart.
    Bastian swiped at his eyes again and, taking a ragged breath, stopped at her bedside. He watched her chest rise and fall, thankful for each breath she took. Each one gave him more time with her. Not enough to say good-bye—there would never be enough hours in the day for that—but maybe he could soothe her. Bring her some small measure of peace at the end.
    The bump and scrape of chair legs skittered through the quiet. Raising his fists, Bastian pivoted, bracing for the threat.
    “Sorry.” Sloan pushed to his feet, hands raised to the side. “I didn’t mean to…”
    As the male paused, Bastian dropped his fighting stance and tipped his chin. “You’ve been sitting with her?”
    Sloan glanced away, color tingeing his cheeks. “I didn’t want her to be alone.”
    At the end.
    He didn’t need to hear the words to know Sloan thought them. The dark-skinned male knew better than most about loss…about pain. Eleven years, and still he mourned his female and son. And now? Bastian finally understood. Was already living that hell, and Myst wasn’t even gone yet.
    “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with gratitude. “For staying.”
    A frown furrowing his brow, his warrior nodded. Planted on the opposite side of the bed, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you’re pissed, B, but…don’t be angry with Rikar.”
    Fantastic. Just what he needed: a peacemaker. Shit. Now all he wanted to do was hit something. Rikar was his first choice, but the male standing across from him would do in a pinch.
    “We need you. I would have done the same in his place.” Dark eyes full of regret, he met Bastian’s gaze head on. “I would’ve hated it. But, like Rikar, I would’ve done it anyway.”
    Bastian shook his head. He couldn’t do this. Not now.
    When he didn’t answer, Sloan headed for the door. As he came even with the end of the bed, he hesitated, boots squeaking on linoleum, and changed course. Bastian tensed as his warrior came alongside him. He didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t deserve the comfort, but as Sloan’s shoulder bumped his in a show of support, he broke, inhaling a shaky breath as tears blurred his vision.
    Raising one massive hand, Sloan cupped the nape of Bastian’s neck. Taking strength from his warrior’s touch, Bastian reached for Myst. His fingertips brushed her jaw, slid against her skin, traced the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of her nose. So beautiful. His female was hands-down the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen or had the privilege to touch.
    He stroked her cheek, brushing the damp strands of hair away from her temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    “Ah…Bastian?” Sloan retreated a step, his hand dropping from his shoulder.
    Focused on his female, Bastian didn’t acknowledge the interruption. He was too busy memorizing her face: the curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin, the shape of her mouth. All the small details that would sustain him…that needed to last a lifetime.
    His friend knocked the side of his arm. “B.”
    With a growl, he glanced over his shoulder, hammering the male with a load of leave-me-the-fuck-alone. “What?”
    “Jesus, man. Look at her.”
    Still cupping her cheek, Bastian drew a gentle circle on her temple. He stared at Sloan. The male pointed at Myst. Frowning, he switched focus, scanned her face and…his heart paused mid-beat. What the hell? Was she—
    “Oh, my…holy shit, B. Get in. Get into bed with her.”
    He froze as Myst took a deep breath and turned her face into his hand. “ Bellmia ? My baby…can you hear me?”
    “Screw that…move your ass!” With a quick arm thrust, Sloan shoved him.
    Bastian’s injured leg buckled, pitching him forward. With a quick twist, he tunneled his arm beneath Myst, wrapped her close and rolled, protecting her from the brunt of his weight. The wires connecting her to the machine tangled, wrenching her shoulder into an unnatural position.
    Giving the f-bomb a workout, he unwound the mess and, seeing the marks