Born of Fire

He probably had a portable, then, that he kept on him.

She shook her head as she swept her gaze around his home again. What a great place to live. She’d only dreamed of an apartment like this and she’d never have imagined such a place as the home of someone with Syn’s brutal reputation. Most of the places she’d been to track down her targets had been grubby holes filled with rodents and stenches that defied belief.

This place looked like it belonged to an aristocrat. Nothing was out of order. She could understand why he remained adamant she not destroy anything. She’d take pride of ownership, too.

But then, she didn’t steal from others.

With that thought in mind, she went to search his bedroom, looking for her weapons. They had to be here somewhere.

At the end of the hour, she hadn’t found anything. Nothing under the ebony-wood bed, nothing in the closet he’d filled with exclusive, handmade clothes. Nothing.

Not even a friggin’ dust bunny.

Her gaze fell to the nightstand she had yet to open. Only because she knew he wouldn’t store anything in plain sight. That would be stupid and he was anything but.

He must have everything locked in his wall safe. If only it didn’t have a Grimson lock, she might have been able to breach the code. Or if she had her missing lockbox . . .

Yeah.

Shahara sighed in disgust and picked up Syn’s holy book and prayer cloth from the floor where he’d left them. Even though she didn’t respect his hypocrisy, she did respect the objects of his religion. She carefully wrapped the cloth around the book and moved to return them to their prayer box.

Only there wasn’t one.

Must be in the nightstand . . .

She headed for it and opened the drawer. There, inside, was a large backpack. Hope flared inside her that maybe it held a computer.

Placing the book and cloth on top of the stand, she pulled it out and opened it. But her relief was short-lived as she found nothing more than a change of clothes, toothbrush, and the missing prayer box.

Crap . . .

Sighing, she paused as she realized the significance of what she held. Escape supplies. It was packed up in case he had to evacuate in a hurry. So while he valued his home, he was ready to leave it all behind at a moment’s notice.

What a sad way to live.

Which is why I’m not a criminal. But still she ached at the thought of having to be so paranoid all the time. She couldn’t imagine existing like that. Shaking her head, she pulled the small, red prayer box out to return the book and cloth to it.

When she lifted back the lid, she froze. Inside the box were the first really private items she’d found about her captor.

Placing the book in her lap, she pulled out a handful of documents and photos. With a scowl, she glanced at the top picture. A much younger Syn sat in a studio photograph with an extremely attractive woman and a little boy no older than four in his arms.

It was a typical family shot that stunned her.

Could Syn possibly be married?

Have a child?

There had been no record of it in his posted file, but there was no denying what she was looking at.

The woman was absolutely beautiful and looked very upper crust and haughty. Syn . . . he looked sophisticated too, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eye that only came from those who’d been raised on the street.

And as she looked at the picture, some strange, foreign emotion constricted her throat.

Unwilling to examine the source of it, she looked at the next picture. It contained a dark-haired boy about the age of seven clutching a girl in her early teens. The girl had her arms wrapped protectively around the boy as if she would fight an army to defend him. Both of them were barefoot, filthy, and bruised, their clothes tattered and threadbare. And as she studied the large black eye and split lip on the boy’s face, she realized it was Syn as a child.

Her heart lurched at the sight of his battered face. How awful. Clenching her teeth to keep her tender emotions at bay, she reminded herself that poverty and abuse were no excuse for criminal behavior.

She’d risen above her childhood and become better. He could have, too.

As she put the pictures back in the box, she saw that there was writing on the one with him and his sister. Masculine and bold, the words were as disturbing as their condition.

Your beloved children miss you, dearest. Send money or I’ll send them for a visit to their mother and her family during your next high society soiree.

What in the universe did that mean? And how had Syn gotten the photo that must have been used to blackmail his mother?

Most of all, what kind of mother could be threatened by a visit from her own children? The mere thought revolted her.

Putting the photos away, she turned her attention to the carefully stacked documents that were also inside. The first one was a child’s birth certificate for Paden Belask with the father’s name listed as Sheridan Belask.