Born of Fire (The League #2)(3)
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon

Men were blind fools and women weakened the soul and stole the heart. Then when they had both in their possession, they stomped them into the ground.

Bitches.

Unable to stand it, he went to his bar and grabbed a glass and a bottle of the strongest whisky he had. As he poured it, his gaze fell to the stuffed animal and photo frame of his son.

Paden . . .

He winced in misery as bitter memories tore through him.

Mara, listen to me. I’m not my father. I would never hurt you.

No, you’re worse than your father. At least he stayed in the gutter where he belonged. You . . . you made me believe the lies you told. That you were decent and respectable. You said your father was a businessman. You bastard! His wife had raked him with a sneer so seeded with hatred that it was forever branded in his memory. How could I have ever let you into my life?

I would never hurt you or Paden. Please, listen to me.

She’d slapped him so hard, the blow had split his lip. If anyone else had dared that, he’d have cut them in half. But like a pathetic nothing, he’d taken it from her.

Get out! I’ve already called the enforcers to arrest you. If I ever see you again, so help me, I’ll shoot you myself!

This from the woman he’d lived to make happy. The woman he’d given everything to. His heart. His soul. His life.

In the end, it didn’t matter that he’d treated her like royalty and would have sold his soul for a single rose to make her smile. Mara had betrayed him and taken everything he’d ever cared about for no other reason than his father had been a first-rank bastard and Syn, rather than lying down and dying, had fought to make a better life for himself.

All his life it hadn’t mattered to him that he was shit to the world. He was used to that. It was the day he’d become shit to his wife and son that had ruined him.

All he’d ever wanted was for one person to not blame him for his parentage. One woman who could look at him like he was a man and not a monster out to hurt her.

Then he’d asked the dumbest, most pathetic question of his life. Did you ever love me . . . even a little?

How could anyone love something like you? You’re a liar, a thief and a convict. All I wanted was your money. If only I’d known the truth about you . . . you disgust me. Get out!

Yeah, there was no such thing as love. It was a myth made up by ass**les who only wanted to sell stories and rings people couldn’t afford to gullible fools.

He didn’t understand love in any fashion. The gods knew, he’d never seen it in his life. It was as elusive to him as sleep.

His fury dying at the last thought, he grabbed his son’s frame, the stuffed toy, and his bottle, and skirted around the edge of his two facing sofas.

Stifling a yawn, he headed to his bedroom in back.

Later, he’d beat sense into Nykyrian. Right now, all he wanted was a good eight solid hours of oblivious rest.

You know it’s not safe here.

Yeah, his apartment had been seriously compromised, but damn it, he wasn’t going to be run out of his home for anything. If they came for him here, they’d learn . . .

And if they killed him, really, who would care?

Without disrobing or removing his blaster, he threw himself face down on the light, feather mattress that heaved under his weight. He clutched his soft, feathered pillow under his head, and sighed in deep contentment before he rolled over onto his back. A few hours of this and he’d be as good as new.

He leaned up to shove Paden’s frame and toy into his nightstand, then took a deep swig of whisky straight from the bottle and set it aside.

Lying back on his bed, he closed his eyes.

Gah, nothing felt better than this . . .

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: ra**st, 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.

Kill her!

But he had a bad suspicion about her identity and if she was whom he thought . . .

Better to have her beat him into the ground than the alternative.

Out of her sleeves, two knives appeared. She moved at him, slashing. He put his arm up to block her attack. Their forearms collided, then she swiped his arm with the blade. It sliced straight through his padding to his flesh.

“Son of a . . .”

She stomped his foot. “Surrender, convict. I don’t have to take you in alive.”

He glared down at her as he tried to pin her again and failed. “Then you better get ready to kill me cause that’s the only way I’m going in.”

Shahara headbutted him, then scissor kicked his chest. In a fluid roll, she scooped her blaster up from the floor and angled it at him.

He finally froze.

“Cute attack,” she sneered, waving him back into the bedroom with the barrel of her weapon. This time she knew to keep a good distance between them.

His eyes blazing obsidian fire, he obeyed in a manner that told her he didn’t often cooperate with orders.

No, she could tell by the arrogant, taunting smile that this man was a leader or a loner.

Never a follower.

“Not half as cute as yours.” He rubbed his groin meaningfully.

She shrugged at his sarcasm. “He who waits, loses.”

The fierce scowl Syn gave her told her he didn’t like the old Gondarion proverb at all.

Disregarding the look, she tossed him a pair of laser cuffs. They landed at his booted feet with a soft jingle. “Put those on quick or I’ll blast you straight to hell.”

He picked the cuffs up in his fist as if they disgusted him. His black gaze hardened and she swore she could actually smell the danger that radiated from every pore of his body.

She tensed her finger over the trigger, expecting him to toss the cuffs in her face. It wouldn’t be the first time a convict had reacted that way and she had a few more tricks to unleash if he chose that action.

A loud whistle blared in the room behind her. Startled, she snapped around to make sure someone wasn’t coming in to help him. Before she could focus on what the noise was, Syn’s hands closed around hers.

How had he moved that fast? He should still be on the other side of the room.

Her heart racing, she struggled for her weapon, kicking and punching at him with all the fury coursing through her body. If he got her blaster away, he’d kill her for sure.

His grip tightened around her hand, numbing her fingers until she could barely feel the roughened grip of her blaster. She tried to headbutt him, but he dodged too fast.

To her horror, the blaster dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

Cursing, she reverted to her strict training and punched at his throat.

Syn caught her hand in his before she could make contact with his windpipe. Wrenching her arm painfully behind her back, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

Shahara cursed as she struggled. In spite of her best efforts and blows, he knelt down, retrieved the blasters from the floor, then tossed her on his bed.

The soft, lump-free mattress startled her for the briefest moment before true panic consumed her. He stood a few feet away from the bed, gazing down at her with dark eyes.

Her vision dimmed. Snarling, she dove for him with only one goal—to escape with her life and body intact.

Syn switched his blaster setting from kill to stun and shot her in the shoulder before she could reach him.

A soft gasp left her lips. Her eyes widened as she clutched at her shoulder, then she crumpled to the floor.

A twinge of guilt annoyed him. He’d been stunned enough times to know she’d have a vicious headache when she woke up.

But what other choice did he have? She seemed to be a determined little cozu.

Shaking his head in bitter amusement, he knelt beside her to check her pulse. Satisfied he hadn’t hurt her, he took a good look at her peaceful features. Damned if she wasn’t the most attractive woman he’d ever thrown onto his bed. Not that he’d ever made a habit of tossing women there, but still . . .

The flesh of her throat was warm and soft beneath his hand, something completely at odds with her tough demeanor. Trailing his finger over her creamy cheek, he stared at her lips, which were slightly parted while she breathed. He couldn’t help wondering how much softer they might be, as well as other, more tender parts of her body.