Make Me Burn
Book 2, Fireborne Series
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Aziza Jane Stewart is the last
of the Fireborne, and so far it’s been nothing but a curse, destroying her
family and putting everyone she loves in danger. Now she’s on a quest to find
her brother’s portion of the power that flows in her veins and track down the
murdering Jiniyr who are a threat to her loved ones.
She and her Enforcer lover
Brandon are officially “in a relationship”, but she’s still torn between two
men who both set her on fire. Brandon’s duties are driving a wedge between
them, and her need to protect her Jinn guardian isn’t helping. Exiled and
stripped of his powers, Ram is focused on satisfying his darkest urges…and
tempting her to come along for the ride.
When Aziza discovers Brandon
has been keeping news of ritualistic murders from her and the evidence is
pointing at Ram, all bets are off. It’s time to find her own answers, embrace
what’s inside her and make her own rules, damn the consequences.
Warning: Explicit content, and even more danger and heavy
drinking than book one. Fetish clubs and role-play, whips and chains, voyeurism
and exhibitionism. More inappropriate use of supernatural powers for deviant
activities. In other words, burning down the house.
Excerpt:
Copyright © 2014 R.G. Alexander
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
It’s almost time. All you have
to do is let go.
No. If she let go she would fall.
Adrenaline made every muscle in
Aziza’s taut, outstretched body tremble and her grip tighten instinctively on
the silk fabric, the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor far
below.
Her mind was flooded by the
memory of falling backward carelessly and plummeting from Penn’s roof with her
arms wide. Though the world had gone black, before she realized it, Ram had
saved her from crashing into the unforgiving ground.
He wouldn’t save her this time.
He wouldn’t need to. Things were different now.She was different.
A small handful of people
standing beneath her craned their necks, waiting in absolute silence to see
what would happen next. They wouldn’t save her either, but she had their
undivided attention.
Show them how to live. Let
go…or I will.
Pushing away that disturbing
thought, Aziza listened for the cue of the music through the pounding of blood
in her ears. When she heard it, she relaxed her pose and let go of the silk.
Her body dropped, twirling down, the floor rising up to meet her so swiftly
that to the untrained eye it may have seemed accidental. But she was in complete
control. That was the point. She wasn’t falling. She was in
control.
Of this, if not her love life.
If not of the Jinn or the Niyr or her emotions. Of this, if nothing else.
The silk that had been coiled
purposefully around her waist was now held in both her hands as she swung her
legs upward and wrapped the fabric around her ankles. The swaying rigging
helped as she used her body’s weight and momentum to spin in a dizzying circle
through the air.
Flying.
The music she’d brought to
practice on the aerial silks—a club-style remix of “Come Josephine in My Flying
Machine”—reminded her with every precise movement who she was. The vocals were
haunting, the beat hard and invigorating.
Discordant.
It was how she felt. Just a
little…off. Not completely herself. She was missing something.
Brandon. She wavered on the silks before pushing him out of her
mind. The song. Focus on the song.
The tune from her nightmarish
dreams had now become a sort of anthem, a melody meant to keep her mindful of
what she’d done…what she’d been told she still needed to do. The more she
listened to it, the more familiar it became. Not only from the dream, but from
a childhood memory that remained frustratingly out of reach. Sometimes she saw
flashes of laughter and her father’s smiling, bearded face, but nothing else.
She never forgot anything.
Every word she’d heard spoken and every moment in her life was filed away and
easily accessible in her mind. Even the memories she’d rather not keep—like the
lifeless eyes of last night’s victim—would always be with her. So why was this
apparently happy memory eluding her?
Her arms and legs straightened
as they’d been trained to do, slowing her spin and pulling her body up with a
strength she’d never had before, a strength that had only grown in the last few
weeks, giving her this newfound agility.
Aziza pushed her legs back
against the silks, her body curved and breasts jutting out like the busty
carving on the prow of an ancient ship, her skin warm, more from excitement
than exertion. Forgetting her pain and fear, she let herself fall forward once
more, loving the momentary sensation of weightlessness as she did flip after
perfectly controlled flip until she landed on the padded mat and the music came
to an end.
Back on solid ground again, she
sighed in disappointment.
The smattering of applause made
her grin in spite of her dark mood, as her instructor, Anthony, left the others
who’d been watching her and came to her side.
“Either I’m a miracle worker,
which you are perfectly free to profess to anyone within hearing distance,” he
said with the self-effacing British charm that was so much a part of his
personality, “or you, Aziza Jane Stewart, are a prodigy. One week at your
American school and not much more time here, and already you’ve given our seasoned
performers some true competition. That was inspired. Are you quite sure you
won’t join in this season’s student performance?”
Aziza laughed, placing her hand
on his arm as she bent down to grab her towel and water bottle. “Thanks,
Anthony, but I’d rather be in the audience than in the spotlight. It’s the best
place to watch your show.”
“I am glad of that.” Anthony
cupped her shoulder in a friendly gesture before dropping his hand awkwardly.
“Though my joy is tempered with the knowledge that my charm is not what it once
was. Both you and your handsome friend have turned me down again.”
Handsome friend. Her instructor was no more immune to Ram’s charms than
anyone else in this city. He drew people to him like moths to a dangerous
flame. From what little she’d seen, the Jinn had the market cornered in the
sultry and breathtakingly beautiful department. And Ram was a prime example of
his species, even without his powers.
“Ram was here today?” She
looked around, attempting a casual air, as if she weren’t dying to see him. To
warn him about the murders. To be near him. Usually she passed him on her way
in or saw him watching her practice, but she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him yet
this morning.
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.
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