Born of Fire (5 page)

His blood rushed through his veins like lava as his cock turned rock hard. “Get a hold of yourself. You’re not some horny teen chasing after the first girl who smiled at you.”

True, but there was something about this woman. Something that put a slow burn in his blood.

Yeah, she wants to beat your ass, you masochistic bastard
.

Sliding his hands over her firm calf, he located a knife tucked inside her pant leg. He pulled it out and studied the intricate design.

Shit
. . .

“I knew it.” The weapon in his hand was legendary. An entwined bird and viper engraved on the silver handle—the symbol of a Gondarion Seax. Only one person in her entire generation had passed seax training.

Shahara Dagan.

Suspicions confirmed, he sighed in aggravation.
You’re so going to die
. . .

Shock and disgust poured through him.
Well, isn’t this just typical? After months of celibacy you finally find a woman who sets your hormones on fire and not only is she after your head in the worst sort of way, she’s the treasured sister of one of your best friends.

“Just shoot me now and get it over with.” Because that would be kind compared to what Dagan would do if he found out Syn had shot the older sister he worshiped.

He balanced the carefully honed blade between his fingers and looked back at the tracer whose very name made most fugitives surrender immediately.

And no wonder, given the way she fought.

“So you’re the infamous Shahara . . .” He shook his
head in amazement that such a petite beauty could inspire so lethal a reputation. “I wonder what Caillen would say if he knew you were here?”

I’m going to cut your balls off, Syn
.

Yeah, that would probably be it . . .

On the good side and
if
Syn was lucky. If Dagan was having a bad day . . .

He shuddered.

Rolling his eyes at his typical luck, Syn placed the knife on top of the other weapons and devices he’d taken off her. He picked up her blasters and locked them, along with everything else, in the wall safe in his bedroom.

What was he going to do with her?

Unbidden, an image of her writhing naked in his bed flashed before his eyes and he grinned wickedly. That was definitely what he
wanted
to do with her.

But hormones aside, he had to be practical.

The woman wanted to hand him over to the authorities. Seaxes were unfortunately notorious for their unshakable sense of justice and honor. And she was honor-bound to take him in no matter what argument he made.

He wasn’t about to be executed for crimes he hadn’t committed and he damn sure couldn’t kill her without upsetting Caillen.

So where did that leave him?

Screwed blue and tattooed
.

Maybe he should call Caillen after all . . .

Syn scoffed at the thought. If he knew his friend at all—and he did—Caillen would kill
him
for stunning her.

So what options were left?

Kill her. Hide the body
.

If only he could . . . Damn, stupid conscience. Why
had the gods given them
that
gift? It definitely should have come with a return policy.

In the end, he had no real choice about it. When she regained consciousness in another hour or so, he’d try to talk sense into her. With any luck, she’d share her brother’s reason and intellect.

Gods, just let her be more reasonable than Kasen. Otherwise he
would
have to kill her.

And lie to Caillen for the rest of their lives.

Yeah . . .

With that thought foremost in his mind, he moved to the front door and switched the scanner back on. Now she’d have no choice except to stay put until he could think of some way to escape this tangled nightmare with his life intact.

Shahara moaned, her temples throbbing a painful beat. Blinking open her eyes, she wondered why she felt so terrible. Her sight focused on the white stucco wall before her where a beautiful Chinergov painting hung. As she stared at the impressionist’s interpretation of a huge, black bird in flight, she instantly remembered what had happened.

Where she was.

That slippery bastard had shot her!

With a gasp, she sat up, her head protesting the sudden movement. Ignoring the pain, she forced her blurry eyesight to clear and scanned the room.

It was empty. Thank goodness.

Silence buzzed in her ears and she wondered where Syn had gone.

Why had he left her alone?

Well, she didn’t care about the answer. As long as he wasn’t here, he couldn’t kill her, or keep her from
leaving. Stealthily, in case he was in the bedroom or bathroom, she slid off the couch.

Without a sound, she crossed to the door and reached for the controls. Before her fingers touched the keypad, she glanced up and gnashed her teeth in frustration. He’d reactivated the scanner.

You double bastard, rat punk!

You didn’t really think he’d make it easy for you, did you?
No, but a woman could always hope for a brain injury that would leave him stupid and make it easier on her.

If only . . .

She wanted to curse and strike out at the almost invisible beams that crosshatched the door, but she knew if she did that, they’d singe her flesh with a burn far worse than any fire. Worst of all, they’d trip an alarm.

She was at his mercy.

Instinctively, she reached for her weapons. As expected, they were gone along with the lockbox she’d used to breach the security system earlier.

Clenching her fists, she wished she could strangle Syn. Without her lockbox, she had no hope of guessing the scanner’s code. Grimson had designed his security systems too carefully and the number sequences were too intricate to ever be guessed by random choice, or remembered from her earlier success.

There was a nine in it
. . .

Someplace.

Yeah, that wasn’t exactly helpful.

Sighing, she looked around the room. She wasn’t just going to stand here waiting for him to come back and discover she was awake. There had to be a weapon somewhere in this giant mausoleum.

She headed to the kitchen.

Maybe you should look for him first
. . .

No. Better to get a weapon. If he happened to be in one of the other rooms, she didn’t want him to know she was awake until she had some way to protect herself.

Gah, my head hurts
.

It’s what you deserve for letting him get the drop on you and you’re lucky that’s all he did.

Very true.

Carefully, quietly, she opened cabinets and drawers seeking a knife, but instead, all she found were empty shelves. No cutlery at all—not even a rusty spoon.

Frowning, she opened the equally empty refrigerator. What did the man live on? Air?

Aggravated at not finding anything, she had to force herself not to slam the cabinet shut—in case he was in the other room. She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the counter. Again she saw a bottle of wine resting near the sink.

Not quite her weapon of choice, but in a pinch . . .

A determined smile curved her lips. It should serve to at least knock him senseless for a moment or two. That should be long enough to pull a weapon off his body.

She picked up the bottle and glanced at the blue and gold label. “Hmm, vintage.” Good year too. This bottle alone would probably make her fighter payments for six months. Such a shame to waste premium Gondarion grade on a worthless criminal.

Oh well.

Sliding her fingers around the cool, slick glass neck, she gripped the bottle and went hunting. With practiced, stalking strides, she inched toward the bedroom,
then paused. The door to the bedroom slid upwards, which would give him ample time to pull a blaster on her and shoot her again.

Her head pounded even more, reminding her that the last thing she needed was another sharp blast.

There had to be something else . . .

She smiled as she noticed the partially opened door of the bathroom . . . it might also swing open into the bedroom.

It was her best shot.

Changing course, she headed for it.

She tried to calm the pounding beat of her heart that sent even more sharp pulses of pain to her head and played havoc with her eyesight. Damn him for
that
particular misery. She gripped the bottle in her icy, clammy hands and slipped inside the bathroom.

It was empty.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she crept toward the door on the opposite side which also had a knob. So far, everything looked good.

As silently as she could, she pushed the door open, relieved the hinges didn’t creak.

She took a step into his room, then froze in shocked disbelief. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t the sight greeting her.

On the opposite side of the room, Syn knelt on a red, embroidered prayer cloth, his head sedately bowed, his eyes reverently closed. His ebony hair, pulled back into a ponytail, hung just past his wide shoulders.

He wore a pair of black leather pants and a loose, black silk shirt, the cuffs rolled back from his wrists. She could see the tiniest bit of white bandage on the arm where she’d cut him earlier and a bit of scrollwork from a tattoo it covered. His gloved hands rested on his
knees, turned palm-upwards, and before him lay an opened prayer book. The light glinted off two silver hoops in his left ear.

Even while he rested she could detect his aura of restrained lethal power. See the outline of steely muscles beneath the leather and silk, and for some unknown reason she wished she could hear the masculine, musical cadence of his voice while he whispered a prayer.

What are you? Insane?

He’s a felon
.

She tightened her grip on the bottle. Pray? How could anyone with his brutal reputation be so hypocritical?

The thought sent anger pouring through her.

Her eyes focused on the blaster strapped to his left hip and a slow smile spread across her face. That was the ticket to freedom.

Without making a sound to alert him to her presence or intentions, she snuck across the room and reached for his weapon. His hand enclosed hers before she could snatch the blaster free.

He glared up at her with eyes that were . . .

Well . . .

As dark as sin.

And every bit as frigid and evil.

With a curse, Shahara raised the bottle to strike him.

Quicker than she could blink, he pulled the blaster free and held it under her chin. “I don’t like scars,” he gritted between his teeth in that deep baritone voice that sent a shiver down her spine. “And I really hate people who mess up my house. Put the bottle down, slowly, and take a step back.”

Shahara weighed her options as she felt the cold barrel of his blaster pressing against her jaw. The air
around her sizzled with his anger and ferocity. Two things belied by blank, emotionless eyes that stared into hers.

She knew he would kill her without a second thought.

She swallowed the tight lump of fear in her throat. There had to be some way she could gain the advantage.

A sudden idea leapt into her mind—distraction.

Yeah, but she hated what that would entail since she only had one thing she could use.

I would rather be shot than come on to a convict
.

If you don’t get that weapon out of his hand, you
will
be
.

She forced herself not to show her anger or frustration. Like it or not, she only had one thing to rely on and if she didn’t get his blaster, she was at his mercy for however long he decided to keep her.

And no one knew where she was to even look for her.

The first rule of a seax was to use whatever means you had at your disposal . . .

That cemented it. Curving her lips into a seductive smile, she slowly, suggestively slid the bottle down the front of her battlesuit and set it on the hardwood floor with a soft thud. She took a step back, giving him a warm, playful look.

He holstered his weapon and rose slowly to his feet.

Shahara tensed in uncertainty at his height. She barely reached mid-chest. And he had a way about him that dominated the room. A way about him that made him seem even more formidable.

He watched her like a deadly viper eyeing its prey—calculating, waiting. Ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

But then men were fools. Even dangerous ones. They
lived their lives by their hormones and as long as she kept her wits about her, he would be easy prey to her tactics.

Her life and Tessa’s depended on her acting ability.

Opening her mouth, Shahara licked her lips and scanned his body with a hungry look that would make a prostitute proud. “We could negotiate this,” she whispered, her voice heavy with feigned desire as she gazed meaningfully at the bulge in his pants, then to the bed.

Syn stared at her in disbelief, his senses whirling at the real-life version of his fantasy. All too well, he remembered Caillen’s stories about his notorious sister, as well as the rumors that circulated about her fierceness.

If he knew anything, it was that Shahara Dagan didn’t practice bedroom politics.

She began unbraiding her hair. His arguments scattering, Syn watched her separate the thick, heavy, mahogany tresses. Every inch of his body burned for her as he imagined her long, graceful fingers caressing his flesh with the same tenderness she used to stroke her hair.

She climbed onto his bed.

Oh yeah, baby
. . .

Resting on her knees, she arched her back and ran her hands through the soft, tangled hair that tumbled around her, framing her face to perfection.

Did she have
any
idea what such a pose did to a man?

His throat suddenly dry, he burned. He took a step toward her, then stopped.

It was a trick.

Granted, he’d had more than his share of women come on to him unexpectedly, but he wasn’t dumb or conceited enough to believe for a single instant that he could inspire Seax Shahara Dagan to forget her duty.