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trouble here.
He was jonesing for serious bed play, and Myst wasn’t even in the arena. She didn’t want him anywhere near her right now. What had she called him? Oh, right. A maniac. Add that to her other descriptor of Dragonkind— thing —and they were a match made in heaven.
Bastian ground his fangs together, welcomed the sting against his lower lip, trying to block out her voice. It didn’t work. Her fear as she’d clutched him at the house came through loud and clear.
Shit on a stick. Forget his reaction to her; her reaction to him pissed him off more. Even though it shouldn’t.
She should be afraid of him.
Any human with half a brain would be scared. He was, after all, the quintessential boogeyman for her kind. Did it matter that he wasn’t the bad guy? That he fought the Razorbacks to keep both Dragonkind and the humans safe, to save them from the mass genocide Ivar wanted? No, of course not. Like all things in human society, appearances mattered more than the truth. Vanity reigned supreme. And a monster was a monster, pure motives or not.
Bastian soared over a rise of trees on a smooth glide. An earthy smell mixed with the scent of water rose from the river below. He kept his wings level, muscles stretching, following the tumbling rush of blue ribbon, working hard not to jostle Myst.
And wasn’t he considerate?
She name-called while he twisted himself into knots, desperate to protect her, more concerned for her comfort than his own. His reaction was so totally screwed up Bastian had no idea how to unravel it. Hell, he didn’t even know if he wanted to open that can of worms, but suspected it had as much to do with wanting Myst on her back as it did with his guilt for taking her.
Okay, so the sleeping with her part was pretty clear-cut. The guilt, though, nailed him—hit him entirely too hard in uncomfortable places. The ferocity of it made him squirm, but not enough to let her go. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he’d been waiting for a female like Myst all his life. No matter how much he scared her, the fear wasn’t insurmountable. He could get around it, make her want him—like him even—if he put in enough effort.
Bastian’s lips twitched. Okay, arrogant much? Well, maybe, but he believed in his ability to seduce. Myst didn’t stand a chance if he applied himself, which he would, not only for himself, but for his race.
Ah, and wasn’t he a prince? Sacrificing himself on the altar of Myst’s desire for the good of Dragonkind?
What a crock of shit.
He wanted her for himself, to appease his own needs. The least he could do was be honest about it. Myst deserved more than a pack of lies, and as he peeked through the hatchback’s window—saw her sitting so still, curled up in the front seat humming a broken lullaby to comfort the baby, to calm herself—he couldn’t shake the truth.
He was going to get bloody on this one.
His chosen female was more than just appealing, she was warrior strong. Not that she knew it. She was probably sitting there beating herself up, replaying the scenario, all of the “what ifs,” in an attempt to understand where she’d gone wrong.
The courageous ones did that, wanting to improve, to do better next time. He should know. He’d done the “what if” bullshit too many times to count. Knew what it felt like to second-guess every decision in the aftermath. Too bad that strategy wouldn’t help either of them this time. His decision couldn’t be undone. Myst belonged to him now, and he couldn’t make himself regret it. He wanted her that badly. Enough to screw up her life. Enough to take what little time he had with her. Enough to raise their child alone.
“Don’t think about it,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so Myst wouldn’t hear him. “What’s done is done.”
Banking right, Bastian swung around a bend in the river, hearing the rush, feeling the spray before he spotted the waterfall. The cascade tumbled from three hundred
He was jonesing for serious bed play, and Myst wasn’t even in the arena. She didn’t want him anywhere near her right now. What had she called him? Oh, right. A maniac. Add that to her other descriptor of Dragonkind— thing —and they were a match made in heaven.
Bastian ground his fangs together, welcomed the sting against his lower lip, trying to block out her voice. It didn’t work. Her fear as she’d clutched him at the house came through loud and clear.
Shit on a stick. Forget his reaction to her; her reaction to him pissed him off more. Even though it shouldn’t.
She should be afraid of him.
Any human with half a brain would be scared. He was, after all, the quintessential boogeyman for her kind. Did it matter that he wasn’t the bad guy? That he fought the Razorbacks to keep both Dragonkind and the humans safe, to save them from the mass genocide Ivar wanted? No, of course not. Like all things in human society, appearances mattered more than the truth. Vanity reigned supreme. And a monster was a monster, pure motives or not.
Bastian soared over a rise of trees on a smooth glide. An earthy smell mixed with the scent of water rose from the river below. He kept his wings level, muscles stretching, following the tumbling rush of blue ribbon, working hard not to jostle Myst.
And wasn’t he considerate?
She name-called while he twisted himself into knots, desperate to protect her, more concerned for her comfort than his own. His reaction was so totally screwed up Bastian had no idea how to unravel it. Hell, he didn’t even know if he wanted to open that can of worms, but suspected it had as much to do with wanting Myst on her back as it did with his guilt for taking her.
Okay, so the sleeping with her part was pretty clear-cut. The guilt, though, nailed him—hit him entirely too hard in uncomfortable places. The ferocity of it made him squirm, but not enough to let her go. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he’d been waiting for a female like Myst all his life. No matter how much he scared her, the fear wasn’t insurmountable. He could get around it, make her want him—like him even—if he put in enough effort.
Bastian’s lips twitched. Okay, arrogant much? Well, maybe, but he believed in his ability to seduce. Myst didn’t stand a chance if he applied himself, which he would, not only for himself, but for his race.
Ah, and wasn’t he a prince? Sacrificing himself on the altar of Myst’s desire for the good of Dragonkind?
What a crock of shit.
He wanted her for himself, to appease his own needs. The least he could do was be honest about it. Myst deserved more than a pack of lies, and as he peeked through the hatchback’s window—saw her sitting so still, curled up in the front seat humming a broken lullaby to comfort the baby, to calm herself—he couldn’t shake the truth.
He was going to get bloody on this one.
His chosen female was more than just appealing, she was warrior strong. Not that she knew it. She was probably sitting there beating herself up, replaying the scenario, all of the “what ifs,” in an attempt to understand where she’d gone wrong.
The courageous ones did that, wanting to improve, to do better next time. He should know. He’d done the “what if” bullshit too many times to count. Knew what it felt like to second-guess every decision in the aftermath. Too bad that strategy wouldn’t help either of them this time. His decision couldn’t be undone. Myst belonged to him now, and he couldn’t make himself regret it. He wanted her that badly. Enough to screw up her life. Enough to take what little time he had with her. Enough to raise their child alone.
“Don’t think about it,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so Myst wouldn’t hear him. “What’s done is done.”
Banking right, Bastian swung around a bend in the river, hearing the rush, feeling the spray before he spotted the waterfall. The cascade tumbled from three hundred
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