Make Me Burn: Fireborne, Book 2

by R. G. Alexander

  Dedication

  For Cookie, love is the reason. For Robin L. Rotham, who stayed up until all hours for days, brainstorming, holding my hand and giving her red pen a workout—and my other Smutketeer and bunny wife, Eden Bradley, who held my hand and reminded me to take my medicine—I love you both. For my family, all of those who’ve been neglected as I’ve lingered in my writing cave—thank you for understanding my crazy and loving me anyway.

  A special thank-you to my editor, Christa, who bent over backwards and sideways for me in a way that I will never be able to repay. You believed in this series and guided me through the rocky parts of the road with grace and patience and wit. “Thank you” doesn’t seem big enough.

  And to all of the readers who emailed me after Burn With Me to adamantly declare themselves as Team Brandon, Team Ram or Team All Three…you’re welcome. *G* Thank you for loving Aziza Jane, flaws and all. For all of your support and friendship, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.

  Chapter One

  Aziza Jane Stewart had two beasts between her legs—one was a motorcycle and the other was pissing her off. The machine’s engine roared as it came to a stop in front of the Greenwich movie theater, and she swung her leg over the seat, taking her hands from the hot, hard body that had given her so much pleasure when she’d snuck into his bed this morning.

  Brandon Nash—werewolf Enforcer, undeniably passionate lover and general pain in her ass. They’d only been an item for five weeks and already they were running into problems.

  “Aziza.” Brandon turned off the engine and reached for her hand. “Don’t go like this.”

  She stepped back, out of his reach. “Like what, Brandon? Like I’m being stood up for the third time since we’ve been back in London? Like every time we’re alone together, we only have time to slip in a quickie and a little pillow talk before you get a call for some new, conveniently timed wolfy emergency that you won’t tell me about?” She lowered her voice, glancing around the busy square. “Like you aren’t dropping me off for a play date with Greg that you set up at the last minute so you won’t feel guilty and I won’t get into any trouble on my own?”

  Brandon ran a hand through his hair and Aziza bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt. It would be easier to get mad and stay mad at him if she could ever get over how irresistible he was. Brandon might be the best and brightest of the “them” police, but he still looked every inch her sexy, giant stalker. Everything about him heated her blood and turned her on. The way his muscular, broad-shouldered body dwarfed the large machine he straddled, that thick sable hair shimmering like silk in the late afternoon sun, his strong, tight jaw and the dark, trimmed beard framing full, sensual lips… God, she loved to bite and lick those lips. Seeing the pleasure she gave him in those piercing, golden brown eyes never failed to make her heart race—only now it was pounding with a frustration that matched the emotion in his gaze.

  What the hell did he have to be frustrated about?

  “Damn it, Aziza, I did that for you. You’ve mentioned Greg’s busy work schedule and I know you wanted to visit this cinema—”

  “I wanted to do it with you! I don’t give a shit about the movie. Werewolves know about romance, right? Or is it all, ‘You’re mine, fuck the flowers and get on your knees’?” she asked, mocking his raspy growl.

  His eyes flashed. “That’s not fair, Aziza. I—”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t even matter.” She crossed her arms. “Fuck the flowers and violins, they aren’t my style either. But you can tell me why you’re bugging out on me again. Does it have to do with the Jiniyr this time? Razia? Isn’t the Enforcers being on high alert for the last few weeks something their ‘Vessel of Fire’ should know about? Or am I still not allowed in the club until I bow to the Big Bad Wolf boss and he gives me the secret handshake?”

  “No, it’s not Razia, and you don’t need to know about this.” His tone was adamant, his shoulders stiff. “Yes, the Alpha has told the others to wait for his approval before interacting with you, but this isn’t about you and my father. As I’ve told you many times…this is my job, Aziza. Something I’ve trained for. Why do you insist on pushing me for details? You’ll notice I haven’t asked questions about what you spent the night doing at that damn fetish club besides looking after your stray—again—or exactly what had you knocking on my door to satisfy your needs before dawn.”

  “I noticed you managed to resist until about two seconds ago,” she replied archly. “You know I didn’t do anything without you because I told you I wouldn’t. You also know that if you came with me once in a while, you’d never have to wonder. And don’t pretend I was the only one enjoying myself this morning. Your broken bed tells a different story.”

  He closed his eyes and took a breath before opening them again. “Aziza, I know you’re angry, but about the club—I want you to stay away from Underbridge for now. I think you should know—”

  The pocket of his leather jacket started to ring and Aziza shook her head. “I think you should answer that. It’s important, right? It always is. Don’t let me stop you, Enforcer.”

  “Fuck. Damn it all, Greg said he would be here.” Brandon pulled out his cell to check the number and swore again before shoving it back into his pocket. He looked beyond her, studying the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

  She laughed derisively. “Waiting to pass me off like a hot potato? I’m a grown woman, Brandon. I don’t need anyone to take care of me and I don’t need or want you to tell me what to do unless we have whipped cream and a safe word. Greg will be here. He’s a man I can always count on.” She shooed him away with her hands. “You should run along before that leash gets any tighter.”

  His face tightened. “You’re my woman, Aziza Jane Stewart. Mine. You have been from the moment I first saw you and nothing you say or do is going to change that. Stay with Greg. I’ll call you as soon as I can and we’ll finish this conversation. There are things I need to tell you.”

  “You’re going to tell me something? That would be a nice change. If you can fit me into your schedule for more than a good fuck.”

  His shoulders slumped in defeat at her words, and then he started his engine and headed back into traffic.

  Aziza watched him weave his motorcycle through the cars and resisted the urge to stomp her feet like a two-year-old who wasn’t getting her way. She didn’t think it was wrong of her to want to keep one date they’d planned days ago, one scheduled date that wasn’t a meal grabbed at midnight or a booty call. And she hated being kept in the dark about what the Enforcers were up to.

  More than anything she hated fighting with him. Was this what being in a long-term relationship felt like? What her mother had spent her life crying over the loss of?

  “Well, it fucking sucks,” she muttered.

  She’d never been with someone exclusively before. Never dated like a normal person. Her overprotective family had seen to that. Hell, Greg was her longest relationship with someone who wasn’t a relative, but he may as well have been a fourth brother, so it wasn’t the same.

  Maybe this was normal and she should be flattered by Brandon’s desire to keep her safe and his attempts to placate her with gifts and play dates. But to be honest, there were times when his domineering behavior made her want to break something over his head.

  Unless they were in his bedroom. Or her bedroom. Or in the middle of the street bent over the hood of a stranger’s car with her jeans around her ankles and her recently acquired ability to temporarily stop time being misused in the kinkiest possible way. Brandon’s dominant nature in those cases had her screaming and quivering and begging for more.

  But those cases weren’t happening with enou
gh frequency in the last few weeks to stop her from feeling…restless. And the passion between them—off the charts as it was—wasn’t enough to ease her doubts about the kind of future they could have together.

  “Hey, Aziza Jane.” Greg’s voice made her jump. “Am I late for the movie? I got turned around on the Tube.” When she faced him and he noticed her expression, he whistled. “I must be late, or Brandon must have really stepped in it this time, because my badass superfriend looks like she wants to burn the city down.”

  She could. He knew it and so did Brandon. They all knew what she could do now. “You’re fine, babe. And I don’t even want to see the movie,” she added resentfully. “I hate movies. Right now all I want to do is punch that British Dudley Do-Right in his perfect nose. You could film that and I’ll eat Milk Duds and watch it until I feel better.”

  Greg’s hazel eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter as he pulled her into his arms. “Oh, poor baby. Is tall, dark and hairy too dedicated to saving humanity to cuddle over popcorn and romance clichés?”

  She elbowed him lightly. “Don’t defend him. He pawned me off on you so he could go on a hunt. I could be helping. I’m supposed to be helping, right? But he won’t even tell me what he keeps riding off into the sunset to do. If it’s a basic stop, frisk and bully, or something more serious. And it’s not like I can eavesdrop on his phone calls to find out. Damn werewolf language sounds like a cross between German and Pig Latin. There’s no Rosetta Stone to translate that guttural gibberish.”

  “They are a different species,” Greg reminded her. “But you’re right. Not letting you jump into random fights with the criminal elements of the supernatural world is thoughtless of him. You should break up with the unforgivable bastard. That’ll show him who’s the boss of you.”

  “Thanks for pretending to be on my side.” Aziza squeezed his waist affectionately and looked up at him. “I’m a bad play date, aren’t I? I haven’t seen you in days and right away all I’m doing is whining about my love life.”

  “Days?” He frowned. “We are crammed into one small flat with your aunt and—on a regular basis—your aunt’s sexy werewolf girlfriend. Not that I’ll ever complain about that particular fantasy come partially true, but other than the nights you spend at Brandon’s, we see each other every day.”

  “Seeing isn’t the same as talking. You’ve been neglecting me for your laptop since we got back to London.”

  “I’m sorry, Aziza. I didn’t mean to. My work is relaxing for me, I’m useful, and it keeps us in fish and chips and those rolls shaped like hedgehogs you like so much.”

  She sighed. Greg was right—kind of. All told, she had enough inheritance money in the bank to keep them both in French fries and buttered rolls for life, but he loved his job with the corporate think tank, and he’d been neglecting it for over a year to be with her. His bosses were so excited to have their resident genius back that they express-mailed over everything he needed to telecommute from London within hours of his call.

  “No, I’m sorry. I do understand. But you aren’t the only one. Penn has a backlog of books she needs to edit, and when she isn’t working, she’s taking the ‘snog’ train to Hillary town. I’m kind of going crazy doing nothing but working out, reading about angels, Jinn and shifters, and waiting around the flat for Adam’s box to get here.”

  “You spend time with Brandon,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, and look how that always turns out,” she muttered morosely. “We’re either fighting, making up or avoiding any conversations that might lead to the other two by staying in bed. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground lately. I feel cheated. I think the honeymoon period people are always going on about is one whopper of a lie.”

  “That’s what you get for dating an Enforcer,” he said with a wry smile. “Zero blissful ignorance and very little honeymooning. Although you did turn down the opportunity to spend more time with him when you nixed the option of meeting his father and training with his team as soon as we got back.”

  “I didn’t need werewolf boot camp, especially when saying yes to it meant they’d be able to make decisions about what I did with my free time. I’d rather work out at the Hangar. And, if I recall, that was a choice you and Brandon both supported at the time.”

  “Circus folk versus grumpy werewolves. Hell of a choice.” Greg chuckled.

  “At least they’re human.” Aziza looked around and spotted a sign for a Greek restaurant. “And the reason we came all the way to Greenwich to see a movie. One of the ‘circus folk’ suggested it might have spotty cell phone service so my date wouldn’t get a work call. Obviously it wasn’t spotty enough.” She didn’t want to think about what Brandon was doing right now. “Let’s skip the theater and get something to eat instead. I’m in desperate need of comfort hummus. Possibly some ouzo.”

  She took his hand as they walked across the street and went down a set of stairs off the sidewalk that led to a dimly lit, cozy Greek hideaway. This was one of her favorite things about London—the food. Not English food. Other than breakfast and those tiny sandwiches they made for tea, she wasn’t a fan. But the Greek food? The Italian and Indian restaurants? To die for. The food here was better than any she’d had back home. The only thing they did better in Texas was barbeque, and it wasn’t something she missed.

  As soon as they walked inside she knew she loved the place. It was like a different world down here—intimately lit and relaxed, with none of the rush of most restaurants. The distinctive bouzouki music playing softly in the background made her think of intoxicating drinks and hot, sandy beaches… And billionaires with secret babies, but that could be due to that one summer she’d spent on a romance-reading binge.

  A busty hostess with short, curly hair picked up two menus and led them to a quiet corner booth, her twinkling brown eyes focused on Greg every step of the way.

  “Our best table for you,” she said with a suggestive smile. “Very private.”

  Greg smiled back, just as suggestively. “Efharisto.”

  “You’re welcome, and the accent is cute,” she said with a pleased expression and a thick accent of her own as she held out the menus. “But it needs work.”

  “I’m a quick study.”

  “He really is.” Aziza took her menu absently. “It’s too bad he can’t find the time to translate German Pig Latin.”

  Greg glared at her and Aziza gave the confused-looking woman an apologetic grin. “I mean, he is…and do you happen to serve ouzo in this establishment?”

  “Yes, of course. Excuse me, please.”

  When the hostess nodded and left without another word, Greg shook his head. “Thanks for that.”

  Aziza reached over and patted his hand. “You can always come back and flirt with her later, buddy. I need that hunky shoulder of yours to cry on at the moment.”

  He studied her, his expression both amused and concerned. “Yes, ma’am. Flirting has been tabled. Tell Saint King Greg all your troubles.”

  Saint King Greg. She smiled, leaning back against the soft fabric of the booth seat. She loved him. Handsome and familiar and…Greg. Greg with his sandy hair that always begged to be tousled, his perfect, movie-star smile that his family had spent a fortune on, and the hazel eyes that were always so open and ready to be kind. He’d been her best friend—her hero too—for as long as she could remember. He’d never left her or let her down, even when he thought she was headed for the loony bin. Even when her power was activated, her hands caught fire and she started hooking up with men of the inappropriately paranormal variety.

  “Where do I begin?”

  A dour, older waitress came to their table, setting down the bottle and two narrow shot glasses firmly and then standing there waiting to take their order with a scowl and no hint of the hostess’s flirtatious personality.

  After they hurriedly chose several items from the menu, she walked away and Greg got straight to business. “Let’s start with the easy problem—your lack of a honeymoon phas
e. Personally, I think Brandon is trying to give you a break by not letting you join him on these hunts of his. By keeping you out of it. Has that occurred to you?”

  “How do you know he’s what I want to talk about first?” she asked, pouring them each a glass of ouzo. “And why in the hell do you think that’s the easy problem?”

  “He’s usually what you want to talk about. And you get a certain look when you’re brooding about him,” he told her with a grin. Then he sobered and lowered his voice. “But seriously, after all the shit that went down last month? The murders, our own twisted version of angels versus demons…him? It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Angels and demons,” she snorted. “I’ve read every one of those books you bought me, cover to cover, and all I can say is the quote-unquote angels must have one hell of a PR department. Other than the glowing bits, they aren’t anything like that in real life.” The facts about demons—Jinn—on the other hand, were fascinating and eerily accurate.

  Greg nodded. “And you just made my point. In real life. Aziza, in real life you are dating a werewolf and you can set yourself on fire. You have powers I’d always relegated to the land of fiction and bull puckey. I’ve needed some time to come to terms with it, so I can only imagine that you do too. Maybe Brandon knows what you need better than you think.”

  Aziza sucked in her lower lip to restrain the pout she felt forming. She really wished Greg weren’t defending Brandon. She wanted to bitch about her boyfriend, not empathize.

  He was right, though—it was a lot to take in. Ever since they came to England, she’d been confronted with the kind of new experiences she wouldn’t have put on her bucket list in a million years, and the family curse she’d been so sure would strike her down had taken a strange turn. Not death. Not for her.

  Not yet, anyway.

  She did have powers now. She’d also learned she wasn’t entirely human and she’d attracted the unwanted attention of three species most of humanity lived in total ignorance of. She was Fireborne. Justice. All that stood between the Jinn and Niyr decimating her world with their hatred for each other. She was a legend to werewolfkind and the lynchpin of some ancient damn treaty.