Born of Fire

Just as he started to doze, he heard a sharp click from the main room that sounded like someone had deactivated his alarm system and opened his front door.

Senses alert, he tensed, forcing himself to lie still and listen. When he heard nothing more, he wondered if he’d imagined the sound. Hell, it was probably nothing more than a hallucination brought on by sleep dep—or overworked nerves—that heard assassins coming at him from every shadow.

Of course the alcohol didn’t help, either.

The muffled, padded sound of boots against his hardwood floor barely reached his ears. Nothing imaginary about that. Someone was definitely sneaking through his flat.

Damn . . . Would he ever get another full night’s sleep?

Clenching his teeth, Syn slid his blaster out of its leather holster. Only one thing made him really furious—unknown people in his home. He didn’t barge into other people’s homes and, dammit, he expected the same courtesy.

Well, whoever they were, they were about to receive a memorable lesson in manners.

Syn rose from the bed and crept to his door, his blaster gripped tightly in his hand. He flattened himself against the wall and pushed the control to slide the door open.

Nothing.

Frowning in confusion, he looked around the main room from the safety of his partially concealed position behind the wall. There wasn’t so much as a shadow in the dim light of his apartment.

Syn scoffed at his paranoia.

Definitely sleep deprivation.

What would he imagine next? Little hairy beasties tap-dancing on his sofa, or other fey creatures sneaking up on him in the shower?

Clicking the release of his blaster back into safety, he lowered his weapon and reached to close the door.

Light flashed against the silver barrel of a blaster pointed straight at his chest from the concealment of the opposite wall.





CHAPTER 2


“Don’t move,” a smooth, lilting feminine voice ordered.

Syn arched one brow. It wasn’t every day someone got the drop on him, especially a woman who had a voice that leant itself to seduction.

“Or what?” He wished he could catch a glimpse of whomever had outsmarted him. She had to be something, because this never happened to him.

She clicked off the safety release of her blaster.

Syn wasn’t prone to panic, and having people level a weapon at him was pretty commonplace, but he didn’t usually face unseen attackers.

Especially not in his home.

“Are you an assassin or tracer?” he asked.

“Free-tracer.”

Free-tracers, unlike assassins, had a conscience as a rule. And since he was still breathing and not dead, it told him she was going after his living contract, which gave him a lot of latitude in dealing with her.

“Good.” He snatched her blaster from her hands.

A blast of red sizzled up toward his ceiling, searing a long black streak across the white paint. He cursed at the mark. He’d fought too long and too hard to drag himself out of the streets and have a nice home for someone to come in and start destroying it.

“No one messes up my place.” He grabbed a small, silken wrist and jerked the woman into his view. Shock jolted him as he stared into the face of a startled angel.

Damn, she was beautiful.

In that instant of hesitation, she drove her knee straight into his groin.

Pure agony spread through him. Gasping, he doubled over with a sharp curse.

Shahara pulled the reserve blaster from her boot and leveled it at C.I. Syn: rapist, murderer, traitor, and filch. He was huge and powerful. She’d have to watch him closely if she were to succeed. Keeping her eyes on him, she bent her knees to retrieve the other two blasters from the floor.

The man in front of her was not the usual type she was used to dealing with. Not only was he more refined, but something proud and primal emanated from every molecule of his body. Only one word could define it.

Sexy.

And she was far from immune to it.

Unlike the other class three and four felons she’d traced, this one possessed an air of sophistication. When he spoke, it wasn’t in a gruff, ignorant street dialect, it was with a fluid, baritone voice that resonated deep from within him. His cadence and syntax were that of an educated man or an aristocrat, not a lowly filch.

With a deep breath, he recovered himself from her kick—something she’d never seen a man do so quickly before. He moved away from her with the lithe, powerful grace of a predator.

Granted he was still limping, but there was an unmistakable fluidity.

That was it. That was what she sensed from him. He had a raw animal magnetism. He moved like a caged panther—sleek, rippling, deadly.

Vicious.

And he pounced like lightning. Before she realized what was happening, he had her completely unarmed. She kicked him back. He spun and shoved her into the wall.

Shahara used the rebound to propel herself at him and caught him a stiff blow to his jaw. Grunting, he grabbed her. She flipped up and kicked him back.

Syn cursed at her skill. She was incredible when it came to fighting. And every time he tried to pin her, she escaped. He hissed as she caught him another blow to the gut.