Fury of Fire

by Coreene Callahan

  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 the countertop, Bastian stared at her a moment longer, then pushed away from his perch.

  Without meaning to, she breathed, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said, echoing her in word and meaning.

  It was more than just a how-the-heck-are-ya kind of greeting. Somehow, the “hey” seemed profound, as if they were speaking a language no one else understood. Which scared Myst more than a squad of terrorists at close range…armed with rocket launchers.

  Rubbing her upper arms, she watched Bastian cup the back of the baby’s head, supporting his neck as he adjusted his hold. A blue blanket tucked around him, her angel let out an ear-piercing howl. The guys at the island cringed, rearing a little in their seats.

  With a grimace of his own, Bastian patted the baby’s bottom, no doubt hoping the movement would soothe the little guy. “Looking for him?”

  “Yeah. And you, too. We need to talk about…” Pausing, Myst chanced a quick peek at their audience, who were now watching them with rapt attention. Like she and Bastian were the best show in town. “Umm—”

  “Come and take him, okay?” Skirting the massive center island, Bastian crossed to her in a hurry. The newborn wailed, little fists pumping over the blanket edge as Bastian shifted him from his shoulder, preparing to hand him over. “He doesn’t like me very much this evening.”

  “Or anyone else,” one of the four muttered.

  Myst smiled. She couldn’t help it. The news that these big, tough guys were having trouble handling one little boy made them seem normal. Well, not quite, but still their grumbling was music to her ears. So were Bastian’s bloodshot eyes as he got close enough for her to see them.

  “Have you been up with him all day?”

  “Pretty much,” he said, sounding as tired as he looked.

  Well, all right. Vindication. She might have had a shower without her consent, but he hadn’t slept all day. Somehow, that seemed, well, if not quite a fair trade, it came really, really close. “Is he fed?”

  Bastian nodded. “An hour ago.”

  Raising her arms, she accepted the newborn, feeling her heart lift as his slight weight settled warm against her. He stopped crying mid-wail, as though he knew who held him and was happy to see her. Myst cooed in greeting as she checked him out, making sure his vitals were good and his heartbeat strong. Red-faced from his temper tantrum, he grumbled at her baby-style and then blinked, looking up at her solemnly as if to say, “How could you leave me like that?”

  A round of murmurs rolled through the kitchen.

  “Wow,” one guy said.

  “How did she do that?”

  “The hell if I know,” a third voice answered, awe in each syllable. “Probably all that energy.”

  Myst ignored them and feathered her fingertip over the baby’s cheek. With one last snuffle, he turned his face toward her and closed his eyes as she whispered, “That’s a good boy. Go to sleep, angel. I’m right here.”

  With a sigh that sounded an awful lot like relief, Bastian peered over her shoulder. “You’re good with babies.”

  “I love them.”

  “Good,” he said, his tone so soft she barely heard him.

  Someone cleared his throat, and Bastian stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

  “Myst…you remember Rikar and Sloan?” With the slight head tilt toward his men, Bastian pivoted and, planting himself next to her, leaned back against the countertop. Huge black boots crossed at the ankles, he pointed to the biggest guy. “That’s Venom. Wick’s on the far end.”

  She nodded, because honestly, what else could she do? Rikar, with his pale eyes and dark blond hair, was unforgettable. The mocha-skinned Sloan was gorgeous with a capital G. Venom’s laughing eyes and quick smile were no sloppy seconds either. Myst had seen all three in the clinic when she treated Rikar. But the fourth?

  He scared the crap out of her.

  It wasn’t his appearance. Wick was as good looking as the other three, but…his eyes. Something about the golden hue set her get-out-of-town bell ringing. She’d always thought gold was a warm color. Wick proved her wrong. His gaze was raptor flat, his eyes lifeless pits that bordered on cruel. And his stillness—the absolute absence of movement—screamed predator.

  Myst inched closer to Bastian, thinking they should have called the guy Fuse instead of Wick. Light him up and watched him detonate. Kaboom!

  “Are you hungry? Want some waffles?” Bastian’s shoulder bumped hers as he leaned around her to pick up a white plate. Nudging her with his hip, he urged her toward the kitchen island. “Sit down, bellmia.”

  Sit where? Across from crazy-eyed Wick? No freaking way. “Ah, I’m really not that hun—”

  “Here.” Venom slid out of his seat and patted the back of his chair. “You can have my spot, Myst. I’m done anyway.”

  Okay. What to do…what to do?

  Running sounded good, but impolite, too. Besides, leaving now would only get her more of the same. A bird’s eye view of the corridor when she needed the lay of the land…all the exits off the island. An X marks the spot sort of thing, and as she
debated whether to be rude and walk away or play nice and take a seat, she scanned the wide archway on the other side of the kitchen. A dining room sat beyond and to the right of that? Double French doors.

  Myst sat, murmuring her thanks to Venom.

  “So…Myst.” Planted in the archway, Venom propped his shoulder against one of the timber-beam posts. “You from Seattle?”

  “Leave her alone, man,” Sloan grumbled around a mouthful of waffle. He threw her an apologetic look. “Sorry. He’s a total pain in the a—ah, butt.”

  Venom made a face. “What? Just curious. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Feeling as if she’d fallen into the Twilight Zone, her gaze bounced between the two men. “I was born in LA. My mom moved us up here when I was four.”

  “Ooh, a Cali-girl.” Without warning, Venom started singing his version of “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, fingers snapping to the beat.

  “Christ,” Rikar said, sounding disgusted even though a smile threatened.

  Sloan groaned, both hands over his ears. “Please, God. Make it stop.”

  The comment pushed Myst over the edge and, unable to hold it back, she huffed. As soon as she laughed, Venom stopped serenading them to grin at her. God, they were almost charming. Except for Wick, who just stared like he was busy taking her measurements for a roasting pan.

  “Here.”

  Warm with a hint of maple syrup, Bastian’s breath curled against the side of her neck. His heat came next, gloving her shoulders as his arms came around her from behind. Surrounded by his scent, Myst breathed him, staring at the plate loaded with waffles and fruit slices that he set in front of her.

  Utensils made an appearance next, clinking against marble. With slow precision, he straightened the silverware next to her plate, prolonging contact with her. Myst wanted to argue, to push him away, but…wow. The guy was delicious, all hard muscle and glorious heat.

  He hummed next to her ear, like he knew what kind of effect he had on her. The rat. “Eat your breakfast, baby.”

  Her mouth went dry. Myst swallowed, working moisture back, and stifled a shiver. God, he was dangerous. And she was playing with fire. No matter how attractive she found him, she couldn’t allow herself to go down that road. It was full of potholes, ones deep enough to lose herself in if she let him charm her.

  Rotating her shoulder, she bumped his chest. The silent message was simple…back off. No slouch in the brains department, Bastian stepped away, giving her the room she needed to adjust her hold on the baby. After she settled him, she picked up her fork and realized…

  Bastian had cut her waffle into neat, bite-sized squares. As he drizzled syrup over her breakfast, Myst bit her tongue, resisting the urge to thank him. But she wanted to so badly that her teeth ached. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have hesitated. After all, he was feeding her, caring for her in a way that felt too good for words. All that Dr. Feel-good, though, was a problem. A potential pothole in the making.

  The little things mattered, and something small like, oh, say gratitude (pothole number one) would turn into trust (pothole number two). Trust would inevitably circle into closeness, then take a nosedive into curiosity (potholes number three and four). And curious was not where Myst wanted to be with Bastian. All that would lead to was more nakedness. Which would…

  Yeah, no use going there. Hot, wild sex needed to stay off her radar.

  A knowing light in his eyes, Bastian nudged her plate. “Eat, bellmia.”

  With a nod, Myst speared a bit-sized square. The outside crunched before her forked pushed through to the fluffy center. As she brought it to her mouth, she almost moaned. Yum. It was pure heaven, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The second bit of sugary perfection made her close her eyes. Man, oh, man, who knew a waffle could taste so good? Daimler was a wizard…the god of culinary delight.

  “So B…” Shifting in his seat, Rikar looked away from her as she took another bite. “Time to vote?”

  “Sounds good,” Bastian said, his voice deepening as he watched her eat. “You’re up, Rikar.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Chasing a drop of maple syrup, Myst licked it off her bottom lip. As Bastian drew a long breath, she asked, “What are you voting on?”

  “The infant needs a name.” His focus trained on her mouth, he watched her chew for a second before dragging his gaze back to hers. “I thought you might like to help us find the right one for him.”

  “For real?”

  Bastian nodded.

  A half-eaten piece of waffle in her mouth, overwhelmed by Bastian’s generosity, Myst got a little misty-eyed. The giving of a name was serious business, the first in a long line of important decisions that would ensure her angel’s welfare. A name meant love, signaled caring and longtime commitment.

  And wow. How much of a sap was she?

  Still, as she glanced down at the sleeping infant, she couldn’t deny the sentiment…or how much she appreciated the gesture. By including her in the process, Bastian was giving her a gift. One she didn’t know how to repay except by…

  Oh, great. A little thing…the first pothole in what she suspected would be a long line of them. “Thank you.”

  His mouth curved. “My pleasure.”

  “Hmm…all right.” Pale eyes narrowed, Rikar rubbed his hands together. “Attila.”

  With a gasp, Myst threw him a look of outrage.

  Rikar glanced at her, all doe-eyed innocence. “What? It’s a great name.”

  “If you’re a mass murderer, maybe,” she countered, unable to believe he would suggest such a thing. Attila the Hun? Forget it. No way she would allow them to name her angel that.

  “She’s gotta point, buddy.” When Myst thanked him, Venom grinned at her, then threw his preference into the ring. “I vote for Torture…then we can call him Torch for short.”

  Myst stared at him, open-mouthed. He couldn’t be serious. What kind of name was Torch? A bad one, that’s what.

  “Nah, too obvious. What about Ironhide?”

  Rikar snorted. “You can’t name him after an Autobot, Sloan.”

  “Why not?” Sloan frowned at his friend. “The Transformers is an awesome movie.”

  Myst bristled. “No way I’m voting for—”

  “Viper,” Wick said with a barely audible growl that made her skin crawl.

  “I like it,” Rikar said. “Good one, man. It’s a definite contender.”

  Over her dead body. Which pretty much summed up how she felt about every suggestion they made, as names like Blitz and Hemlock made the rounds. Dear God, had they lost their flipping minds? Imagine naming a precious baby Grim. Grim, for pity’s sake!

  “Mayhem,” Bastian said, finally tossing his choice in the ring.

  Myst stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Man, that’s a good one, too.” Venom scratched the top of this head. “I can’t decide…Viper or Mayhem. So, which one?”

  “None. Neither!” She glared at the lot of them.

  “Well, if you’re going to KO all our ideas, female,” Sloan said, looking affronted, “make a suggestion.”

  Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, Myst thought fast. She needed to come up with something…right now. If she didn’t, the great barbarian horde would choose one of those awful names and—

  She had it. The perfect one. “Gregor.”

  Five pairs of eyes narrowed as they mulled over her choice.

  “It’s Scottish…a strong name,” she said, talking fast to convince them. “It was my grandfather’s.” Her voice went soft as she remembered the gentle man who’d helped raise her. Never having known her father, Grandpa G had been her lifeline, a solid role model in her unconventional upbringing. “He fought in the war. I had all his medals framed. They’re hanging on the wall in my apartment.”

  Okay, so that was a little more personal than she intended, but…really. Her angel deserved a better name than Viper. And if telling them a bit about Grandpa G—the war hero—helped sway th
em? Well, she wasn’t too proud to fight dirty.

  But, as the silence stretched and Bastian’s friends continued to stare, Myst wondered if she’d made a mistake. She didn’t know these guys or what they were capable of…although, the word “ruthless” came to mind. Maybe sharing family history or anything else was a bad idea. Maybe she should listen to her early warning system—the one ring-a-ling-linging inside her head—and run for the nearest exit. Because sure as she was sitting there, they didn’t look happy with her suggestion.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As far as strategies went, Myst’s was ingenuity in action. Beautiful, yet oh, so simple it sounded something like…if at first you don’t succeed, guilt your opponent into caving. Add a dash of feminine hope. Sprinkle in some bone-crushing dismay. Toss the whole dish with pleading violet eyes and…voilá, Bastian and his warriors had a recipe for disaster.

  A cocktail called pretty please with a cherry on top.

  “So…” Bastian glanced around the island and clamped down on the urge to laugh. For the first time ever, his warriors were speechless, unable to say no to the female who sat staring back at them. It was karma…payback with a knuckle-grinding punch. “Gregor, huh?”

  “It’s a great name…” she paused to fuss with the baby blanket, then looked right at him. And wham, he got the full effect of those baby blues. The second part of Myst’s plan had just been deployed. Clever, clever female. Bastian’s lips twitched even as he resisted the urge to adjust what was happening behind his fly. “It suits him, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a human name,” he said as she tilted her head, continuing to give him strong eye contact. Bastian shifted in his seat, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. God, what a female. She knew exactly how to play him. Still, he refused to give in without a fight. Okay, so he would give her what she wanted in the end—guaranteed—but that didn’t mean he had to be a pansy about it. “And he’s not—”

  “Caroline was human and so is he. At least half, right? I know he’s fathered by…” She worried her bottom lip with her straight, white teeth, nearly sending him into orbit. Man, he loved her mouth. “I mean, that’s why he’s here…because he’s one of you? But, he’s human, too, and I know my friend would like my choice.”