Make Me Burn: Fireborne, Book 2 (7 page)

She’d talked him into coming with her a couple of weeks ago when she saw him at Underbridge. Dared him, really, since “talking” implied a conversation between two people and Ram tried to avoid those whenever possible. She’d had to do something. His body had healed but the rest of him was taking longer. Whether he admitted it or not, he was hurting and she owed him.

Luckily, the dare had paid off. He still wasn’t back to his old self—with her, at least—but as soon as he arrived here, so many people had fallen all over themselves to be near him, she wasn’t surprised when he came with her the next time. And the next. Ram had trained as a warrior most of his life, and he had enviable skill and control over his body—and enough arrogance and ego to appreciate the way everyone here admired it. Admired him.

“He’s still here.” Anthony tilted his head, his smile broadening. “I understand he and another man are having an impromptu sparring session in one of the training rooms. I believe that’s why it’s so empty in here. Shall we go take a look?”

Smiling back, she nodded and followed him through the grand room crisscrossed with ropes and wires, carefully staying out of the way of a young man in a harness who was running along the wall.

The Hangar was a large industrial building in Greenwich, a little bit hard to get to but more than worth it for Aziza. The Aircraft Circus held performances throughout London, and The Hangar was where they all worked and trained in aerial silks and trapeze, among other things. With four studios, acrobatics, yoga and flexibility classes, along with these one-on-one sessions, this was the best place to get the kind of workout she needed. One where she was her only competition, and all her battles were internal. It was her meditation, her workout. And it was by far the preferable option to werewolf boot camp.

Thank God she’d discovered this place—this very human, no-magic-needed-for-feats-of-daring place. When she’d marked “running away to join the circus” off her bucket list back in Texas so long ago, she’d been sad to leave the small class behind. Because of her memory—the woman performing on an aerial hoop beneath a hot air balloon—but also because of the atmosphere. The acceptance…the feeling of joy and family. The trust.

When they arrived in a crowded hallway, Anthony steered her through the huddled group so she could look inside.

“Speaking of perfection,” a woman behind her muttered. “You ever seen anything tastier than those two fit devils grappling shirtless?”

Aziza was too busy catching her breath to answer.

Ram and a man she didn’t recognize moved together in a dance-like circle on the exercise mat, close enough to either kiss or beat each other bloody as they ducked kicks, dodged punches and held each other’s arms down. The spectacle was breathtakingly erotic.

Her Jinn was still godlike and beautiful, but the word “pretty” was no longer entirely accurate. His time in exile had hardened him, made him look more like the warrior he was than the mischievous, deviant devil she’d first met. He’d cut his hair close to his head in a militant look and his side still carried the slashing scar from the wound he’d suffered that fateful night. The solid cuff on his wrist that she knew couldn’t be removed glinted as he threw a punch, reminding her that his actions had left more than physical scars behind.

He was stronger, his lean muscles more defined than they had been a few weeks ago. When she first met him she’d thought, despite his behavior, he looked like an angel. Now, he was all man.

Ram bent his knees and rolled, a move that should have knocked his opponent on his ass, but instead the man jumped with a laugh and winked at the audience. “Fool me once…”

A collective sigh echoed through the crowd, and Aziza wasn’t any more immune than they were to the smiling stranger. She’d been surrounded by hot men for months, and yet this man still managed to startle her with his attractiveness. It was as if someone had taken all the best qualities of her hunky entourage and poured them into one cool, lean package that reminded her a little bit of a young, short-haired Lenny Kravitz.

And she’d had an all-out, posters-in-her-high-school-locker crush on Lenny.

The man had obviously been getting a workout because his light-brown skin was gleaming. He wore low-riding black sweatpants and nothing else, and what she’d at first assumed were tattoos, on closer inspection merged into a series of scars across his chest, raised marks that had form and had obviously been put there on purpose. Designed. Scarification? He had small-gauge piercings in his ears as well. They only made him look more masculine and dangerous. So did his eight-pack abs.

He’s different.

Something drew her in, but Aziza honestly wasn’t sure if that was instinct or hormones talking. As if her hormones hadn’t been getting enough of a workout already. Would they never be satisfied?

At that moment, Ram took advantage of the man’s posturing to flip him into the air and onto his back, then covered him with his torso to hold him down.

Aziza squirmed. Speaking of erotic… The only way the scene could have been hotter was if she were naked between them. Or if Ram claimed the sexy spoils of his victory as she watched.

Oh yeah. She was shameless, and getting worse all the time. It must be the Jinn in her.

Ram grinned down at his vanquished opponent. “…shame on you. Isn’t that how your sentence ends?”

The people around her clapped, and when Ram raised his emerald eyes to accept the accolades, his gaze crashed into hers with a force that made her knees weak. He frowned abruptly. “Show’s over.”

The crowd groaned their disappointment as Ram got to his feet and held out a hand to the stranger. “Good match, West,” he offered in a low voice.

The man rose to his feet and patted Ram on the shoulder in a warm, familiar gesture that told her they knew each other outside of The Hangar. “Anytime, my friend. And I mean that sincerely. This is better than the yoga class Chiye talked me into. Men were never meant to bend that way.”

By the subtle southern twang and whiskey warmth of his voice, she could tell West was an American. What was he doing here?

“Men were not, but it is lucky for us that women are.” Ram lifted his eyebrows. “The view alone is worth the attempt. But their flexibility? That is our true reward.”

Her lips quirked. There was the Ram she knew. At least he was able to let down his guard with someone, which had to be a good thing. Even if that someone wasn’t her yet.

Ram glanced at her again and held out his hand. “Aziza, wipe the drool off your chin, if you would, and allow me to introduce you to my friend.”

Resisting the urge to wipe her mouth—in case he wasn’t being sarcastic—she frowned at him and stepped inside the room. “Good morning to you too.”

“Aziza? Aziza Jane Stewart?” West bent down to scoop up a white towel, tossing it over his shoulder before moving closer and holding out his hand in greeting. “As I live and breathe. Do you know I accused him of making you up? Apparently the Fates have been against us from the start, since I’ve just missed seeing you every time we’ve come here
and
the few times you visited Underbridge.”

When she took his hand, a momentary shock like static arced between them and it took a second for his words to register. He knew about the club as well? The invite-only fetish club that was now the one common thread in all the murders the Enforcers were investigating? Every conversation seemed to come back to that place.

She gave Ram a questioning look. “Underbridge?”

West’s hand was still warm in hers, and her palm tingled when he smiled. “That’s where we met him. And now I owe him my life because my roommate is in love with The Hangar. Unbeknownst to me, Chiye’s always wanted to run away and join the circus. The classes have distracted her from driving me crazy with the need to sightsee.”

Aziza laughed. “Your roommate and I have something in common then. I’m sorry we keep missing each other.”

West let her hand go with seeming reluctance. “I’m sorrier now that I know Ram’s beautiful, big-eyed badass is real. But now that we’ve met, we can make up for what we’ve missed.”

Beautiful badass? Aziza bit her lip. West was charming, but what had Ram been telling him? “So, Ram talks about me?”

Ram smacked his towel against his leg. “West, if you’re done silver-tonguing Aziza, would you give us the room for a minute?”

Tonguing.
Aziza shivered subtly.

The Lenny Kravitz look-alike shook his head and sighed. “Still mean as an alley cat this morning,” he murmured. “Handle with care, Aziza Jane.”

West closed the door behind him and they were alone. The crowd had moved on and there was silence in the hallway beyond. Ram was studying her small shorts and revealing leotard as if he hadn’t seen them before. As if he hadn’t seen
her
before.

He moved past her to lock the door and Aziza took a shaky breath. “What?”

“That should be my question, since you’re the one who sought me out. You haven’t done that in a few weeks.”

She tried to laugh. “I seek you out all the time—usually you just ignore me.”

“What’s wrong?”

God, how did he know? There was too much. But he was talking to her and she wasn’t ready for that to stop. Wasn’t ready to tell him what he needed to know and then watch him walk away again. “You’ve made friends, I see. Are they who you’ve been staying with?”

“When I’m not with a woman or in my hideaway at the club, yes. I’m not exactly welcome anywhere else.”

Aziza swallowed. She wanted to say he was, but too many others didn’t feel the way she did. Nobody else felt the way she did. In spite of all he’d done, they didn’t trust him—not even Greg—not completely. “I’m sorry.”

He was standing closer now. “You look like hell. Spent the night on your knees with your cur again?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of denying it. “On my back, on my knees, against the wall… I don’t have to tell you that
Fireborne
is the word for
tramp
to my people.”

Recognizing the barb—he’d once told her
Fireborne
was the word for
justice
to the Jinn—Ram huffed out a surprised laugh at her quick response, looking at her sideways. “Feisty this morning.” He narrowed his brilliant-green gaze. “You’re also lying. You spent the night crying, not fucking. Did you and the Enforcer have a fight again? Make my day and tell me it was all about me.”

“Enough, damn it.” For weeks he’d been an ass—ignored her or judged her—and she’d taken it out of guilt. But after last night, after having to defend him yet again, she was through. He’d called her out on her shit before, and it was about time he got a taste of that hard-to-swallow medicine.

She planted her hands on her hips. “Not that everything in this world is about you, but yes, we did. We
always
do. You’re welcome. Because we do, you’ve been free to continue feeling fucking sorry for yourself and behaving like a petulant ass without Enforcer interference. You’re welcome. You’ve been free to fight with me, grapple with your new buddy, West, and fuck every woman in sight. Free to enjoy your vacation from Fireborne babysitting while the Jiniyr murder innocent women who all seem to have a connection to your favorite hangout. Free to forget everything you said you believed in and leave me alone without any guidance, apart from Te’s random, sporadic appearances and my nightmares.
You’re so fucking welcome.
Anything else I can do for you?”

He moved so fast it took her a moment to realize he was on her. He took her wrists in his hands and whirled her away from the door to face the wall, her cheek pushed against the plaster and her hands behind her, pressed against the front of his snug sweatpants.

“Disappointed in me, Aziza Jane?” he whispered harshly. “Am I not living up to your expectations? Not as good a man as your
kalbu
? Was giving up my life and my connections, my powers and my status, not enough for you? I’m to live like a priest of Qaf, turn my back on my own desires to help guide you through a world I no longer reside in? To watch you make mistake after mistake in supportive silence?”

“What mistake?” she gasped as he thrust his hips against her hands, allowing her to feel the hard length of his erection. “Being with Brandon?”

“Trusting Brandon,” he sneered. “But you don’t completely, do you? That’s what the fight was about.”

They didn’t seem to trust each other.

“His kind are all the same,” Ram continued. “Enforcers are suckled on hate and violence. You know how he feels about my people. You know what he would do without thinking twice if you didn’t interfere.” He paused. “And I know you can imagine how he’d react if I broke in interrogation and told him about what we did. Told him you swallowed my cock down your throat while he was buried deep in that sweet ass of yours. I don’t think that would end well, do you? But it might be worth it, so you could see what he really is. What he truly cares about.”

Aziza felt his words as if they were physical blows. She knew he was lashing out. Knew he was hurting. “I’m sorry, okay? About your
tau’ma
, Shev. About your being exiled. I’ll never regret that you saved Penn, but I didn’t know it would cost you this much. I didn’t know…”

He took her wrists and brought them around to her stomach, still restraining her in a tight embrace. His lips pressed against her hair and he groaned. “You’re supposed to fight with me, Aziza. You’re supposed to play the game and yell and scream and storm out in a righteous rage, leaving me alone with my bitterness again. The Fireborne doesn’t apologize to her Qarin.”