Playing with Fire by Tamara Morgan

force that would ensure she knew he meant business, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop once he got started. Instead, he brushed his lips lightly on her forehead and, his whole body throbbing, stomped up the stairs before she could respond.
    First he would make her safe.
    Then he would make her his.

Chapter Nine
    Don’t touch my stuff.
    What a jerk. That was pretty much what that conversation in the basement had amounted to. That, and Ian brushing her off after yet another moment of painful intimacy while Fiona once again begged at his feet for a few scraps of dignity.
    And the most he could say to her was not to touch his stuff.
    Fiona sat in Ian’s living room—or rather, his parents’ living room—trying very hard not to imagine herself sprawled on the beige carpet, writhing under the popcorn ceiling and Ian’s expert skill.
    Sex was not an alternative to compassion. Sex was not going to make men love her.
    Who was she kidding? A lifetime of affirmation would never be enough. She’d never be more than Fingerbang Fiona, never learn that even the guys who acted gentlemanly and noble were still after one thing. And sitting in this time-warped shrine to Ian’s adolescence wasn’t helping any. Ian needed to return with good news—and fast. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.
    A car pulled up outside, and Fiona stood. Thank goodness. Maybe they could get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
    But when the door glided open and a foot appeared at the base of the door, Fiona was immediately on her guard.
    That foot didn’t belong to anyone she knew. It was an extension of some sort of astronaut intruder covered from head to toe in a metallic suit. She stared, trying to make out the rest of the outfit. It looked like the guy had a welder’s helmet and a jet pack on.
    Oh, shit. Fiona knew what that was.
    A fireproof suit.
    A huge blast of heat threw her off the couch—and for the first time, it wasn’t coming from her. That honor belonged to the creature in the suit, who pointed a flaming hose at the far wall.
    An old armoire caught fire almost immediately, and the flames licked at the wall, the light crackle soon giving way to a full-blown roar. That was all it took. After a few seconds, the flamethrower turned off as abruptly as it had turned on.
    Fiona wasn’t impervious to that kind of heat, and the smoke and whatever fueled the flamethrower swirled in noxious waves around her. Her head spun, her thoughts slowing down until she felt like she was slogging through some murky underwater cavern.
    Sliding back door through the kitchen. She had to get to it, get to safety. She had to find air.
    As she stumbled over the linoleum floor toward the back door, her t-shirt pressed against her nose and mouth, she caught sight of another figure. This one wasn’t hidden under layers of protective gear, but he blocked her exit, standing just outside the glass, watching with an eerily calm smile. She fell to her knees.
    Patrick.
    On all fours, she turned around, but the henchman in full fireproof gear was posted at the front door, the flamethrower pointed right at her. She was trapped.
    Except she wasn’t. She wasn’t some useless victim without recourse. This, at least, she could fight.
    Using the last of her strength, Fiona pulled herself to her feet and did what she should have done a long time ago. She aimed at Patrick’s head.
    And shot her fireball.
    Smoke-induced nausea crept over her, but she was determined to stand there until her body gave way. Unfortunately, getting through glass took time, and that was one thing she didn’t have. The sound of footsteps came from behind. Turning was painful and slow, and she no longer seemed to have command over her limbs. The only thing she registered before hitting the ground was the cool metal of two small prongs hitting her neck and the peculiar sensation of her heart coming to a stop as the Taser shot liquid fire into her