Born of Fire

She couldn’t blame him for his anger.

What was it her mother had always told her? Love was a fragile flower that took a lot of care and hard work to sustain. And just like a flower, it would wither and die if abused or neglected.

Once gone, nothing could ever bring it back.

Still, she couldn’t believe it was completely dead. He’d been glad to see her, if only for a second.

Surely he wouldn’t have had even that moment of delight if he truly hated her.

She tried again. “The overseer told me that the judges are ready to release you with amnesty as soon as you testify against Merjack and his son. I guess you’ll be going home in a few days . . .”

She waited, and again he said nothing.

Sighing, she realized the futility of trying. He would never forgive her.

So be it. She wasn’t one to beg.

“Have a nice life,” she said, heading for the door.

With every step that carried her further and further from his cell, her heart broke into another piece. It was really over. Syn would never give her another chance. And she couldn’t even blame him for it.

Unable to stand what she’d done to them, she started to cry.

Staring at the chair where Shahara had been, Syn pulled out the tiny ring he’d bought for her and looked at the flashing amber stones. He’d had to bribe the hell out of one of the guards to get it.

He should have said something to her. Thanked her at the very least for getting him released—for bringing him his work.

But he’d been afraid to trust himself. If he spoke, he might have forgiven her.

Oh, to hell with forgiveness, anyway. He had his life back and she had hers. He’d known all along that they were incompatible.

What was the use of trying?

With that thought, he went to the pack she’d left on his table. As he reached in for the portable, his hand brushed a large piece of canvas.

Pulling it out, he froze.

It was an enlargement of his picture of Paden. Absolutely stunned, he stared at his son’s laughing face.

She must have found someone to repair his photograph and transfer it onto a 10 × 13 panel. And beneath that was a wallet-sized picture of him and Talia. He’d assumed it’d been destroyed along with his place.

A crushing pressure seized his chest as he held the photographs. Only Shahara would have known how important those pictures were to him.

She was the only person who had ever known him at all.

And he’d let her go.





CHAPTER 22


Syn lay on the couch in his office, staring out at the stars while he did his best to drain another bottle of Tondarion A-Grade Hellfire. He’d tried everything else to forget Shahara and the pain she’d given him.

Only this helped.

He wanted to see her so badly that it caused a physical ache inside him. But he just couldn’t bring himself to go crawling back.

Not after she’d turned him in.

True, she’d also freed him. And if she’d handed over the right chip to Merjack, he’d now be dead. It still didn’t erase that moment of utter despair when she’d handed him off and had stood over him telling him that she’d used him.

That was what he couldn’t forgive. Those words were forever carved in his heart.

Besides, she was a seax. She’d have been stripped of her title had she not taken the chip to the overseer and seen Merjack punished. That had nothing to do with her feelings, or lack thereof, toward him.

The truth of it cut him like a knife. And even in her endeavor to save him, she’d forced him to spend weeks staring at his mother on a vid screen while he’d been held in a cubicle to testify.

The sight of his mother sitting there so emotionless while she listened to his testimony . . .

Every day had cut him to his soul.

He curled his lip and guzzled more alcohol. That had probably been the worst part of all this—watching his mother sit in judgment on him.

At least she hadn’t condemned him—this time. But her refusal to address him had spoken louder than anything else. He had no family.

He would never have a family.

Like I care.

With a deep sigh, he took another swig. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been home. His days blurred together, marked only by the empty bottles that he’d strewn across the floor.

A knock sounded on his door.

Was it payroll again? Another week gone by?

Shaking his head to clear it, he decided he’d give Criam the authority to sign the pay forms. He no longer wanted to be bothered with it.

“Come in.”

He didn’t look around at the door as it opened. But the hair on the back of his neck stood up when he didn’t hear anyone walking in.

It wasn’t until a shadow fell over him that he knew who it was.

Nykyrian.

The tall blond assassin was dressed all in black, his long hair pulled back into a braid. He leaned heavily against a cane—an injury he’d sustained while saving his wife’s life from his enemy. Likewise, one half of his face was still scarred from the crash that had almost ended his life.