for Sal’s. If she played her hand now—let him know she knew he was there—he might knock her off the road and into the ravine before she hit the straightaway.
A death grip on the wheel, she stared out the windshield into the darkness, but kept her peripheral vision sharp. If he surfaced, made his move, she would—
Something scraped the roof of her car. A second later, the tip of a dark wing came into view, dipping low over the driver’s side. Metal groaned, then buckled, giving way beneath razor-sharp claws. With an “Oh shit,” Myst ducked and, doing her best imitation of a pretzel, watched eight individual talons—four on the right, four on the left—punch through steel into her car. Horror ran hand in hand with astonishment, sucking her lungs dry an instant before her tires lost contact with the pavement.
“Hang on, baby.” The growl was deep and sure, without a hint of exertion as he lifted her car clean over the guardrail.
Seated in her car and dangling in midair. Two very different activities, ones Myst would never have put together in the same sentence. Yet, here she was, a hundred feet in the air, over a very deep gorge…flying like the enchanted car in Harry Potter .
Had she described the situation as surreal earlier? Well, she’d meant certifiable, loony with a capital L. The man—dragon…whatever!—was a complete whack job. What the hell did he think he was doing?
Sucking air back into her lungs, she screamed at him, “You maniac!”
Name calling probably wasn’t the best idea considering he was a dragon and she…well, wasn’t. But God help her, the baby was wailing again and she’d had enough. He’d stolen her car…with her in it! “Put us down!”
“Later.”
Bastian’s baritone rolled over her: so calm, so in control, so beautifully deep. But who the hell cared what he sounded like? All that mattered was the word. “Later” was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe his plan didn’t include dropping her into the gorge, hood first. Which meant she would live a little longer. “Bastian! I mean it. Put us—”
He tucked his horned head under, looking at her upside down. “Try to relax, bellmia . Twenty minutes…half an hour tops and we’ll be there.”
“Where?” she asked, holding his gaze while wondering why the hell she was talking to him.
“Home.”
Curled up in a ball in her front seat, Myst squeezed her eyes shut. Home. Yeah, that would be nice. Except there were all kinds of problems with that scenario. Number one, she was at a dragon’s mercy. Number two? Something told her the home he referred to wasn’t going to be her own.
Chapter Six
Ivar, leader of the Razorback nation, popped the black wraparounds off the bridge of his nose and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. Man, he was tired. Sleep-deprived with a slap-happy helping of discouraged. Maybe PO’d was a better word. Either way, he was dead in the water…grounded until the construction site progressed enough for him to set his plan in motion.
Dropping his hand, the Oakleys settled back into place, shielding his eyes. Damn delays were costing him. More than he could afford. Though, he didn’t care about the money. Green was easy to come by…time, on the other hand, wasn’t.
Seven days behind schedule. Jesus, he had a headache.
And no wonder. Despite his best efforts to ignore the sting, he was hungry again.
He’d last fed, what?…two weeks ago? No, not even. Eleven days. He’d only made it eleven fucking days.
The short span between feedings worried him. Then again, he’d been burning fuel like charcoal bricks in a barbecue. More waking hours meant little sleep. And not getting enough Zs made him drag-his-ass logy. He needed to hit the streets and go hunting again, corner a female fast. One with good energy. Ivar snorted. Screw that. He’d settle for subpar—short, fat, and ugly—as long as the bone-deep ache went away.
Hitting the elevator button, he waited for the double doors
A death grip on the wheel, she stared out the windshield into the darkness, but kept her peripheral vision sharp. If he surfaced, made his move, she would—
Something scraped the roof of her car. A second later, the tip of a dark wing came into view, dipping low over the driver’s side. Metal groaned, then buckled, giving way beneath razor-sharp claws. With an “Oh shit,” Myst ducked and, doing her best imitation of a pretzel, watched eight individual talons—four on the right, four on the left—punch through steel into her car. Horror ran hand in hand with astonishment, sucking her lungs dry an instant before her tires lost contact with the pavement.
“Hang on, baby.” The growl was deep and sure, without a hint of exertion as he lifted her car clean over the guardrail.
Seated in her car and dangling in midair. Two very different activities, ones Myst would never have put together in the same sentence. Yet, here she was, a hundred feet in the air, over a very deep gorge…flying like the enchanted car in Harry Potter .
Had she described the situation as surreal earlier? Well, she’d meant certifiable, loony with a capital L. The man—dragon…whatever!—was a complete whack job. What the hell did he think he was doing?
Sucking air back into her lungs, she screamed at him, “You maniac!”
Name calling probably wasn’t the best idea considering he was a dragon and she…well, wasn’t. But God help her, the baby was wailing again and she’d had enough. He’d stolen her car…with her in it! “Put us down!”
“Later.”
Bastian’s baritone rolled over her: so calm, so in control, so beautifully deep. But who the hell cared what he sounded like? All that mattered was the word. “Later” was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe his plan didn’t include dropping her into the gorge, hood first. Which meant she would live a little longer. “Bastian! I mean it. Put us—”
He tucked his horned head under, looking at her upside down. “Try to relax, bellmia . Twenty minutes…half an hour tops and we’ll be there.”
“Where?” she asked, holding his gaze while wondering why the hell she was talking to him.
“Home.”
Curled up in a ball in her front seat, Myst squeezed her eyes shut. Home. Yeah, that would be nice. Except there were all kinds of problems with that scenario. Number one, she was at a dragon’s mercy. Number two? Something told her the home he referred to wasn’t going to be her own.
Chapter Six
Ivar, leader of the Razorback nation, popped the black wraparounds off the bridge of his nose and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. Man, he was tired. Sleep-deprived with a slap-happy helping of discouraged. Maybe PO’d was a better word. Either way, he was dead in the water…grounded until the construction site progressed enough for him to set his plan in motion.
Dropping his hand, the Oakleys settled back into place, shielding his eyes. Damn delays were costing him. More than he could afford. Though, he didn’t care about the money. Green was easy to come by…time, on the other hand, wasn’t.
Seven days behind schedule. Jesus, he had a headache.
And no wonder. Despite his best efforts to ignore the sting, he was hungry again.
He’d last fed, what?…two weeks ago? No, not even. Eleven days. He’d only made it eleven fucking days.
The short span between feedings worried him. Then again, he’d been burning fuel like charcoal bricks in a barbecue. More waking hours meant little sleep. And not getting enough Zs made him drag-his-ass logy. He needed to hit the streets and go hunting again, corner a female fast. One with good energy. Ivar snorted. Screw that. He’d settle for subpar—short, fat, and ugly—as long as the bone-deep ache went away.
Hitting the elevator button, he waited for the double doors
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