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outline of steely muscles beneath the leather and silk, and for some unknown reason she wished she could hear the masculine, musical cadence of his voice while he whispered a prayer.
    What are you? Insane?
    He’s a felon
.
    She tightened her grip on the bottle. Pray? How could anyone with his brutal reputation be so hypocritical?
    The thought sent anger pouring through her.
    Her eyes focused on the blaster strapped to his left hip and a slow smile spread across her face. That was the ticket to freedom.
    Without making a sound to alert him to her presence or intentions, she snuck across the room and reached for his weapon. His hand enclosed hers before she could snatch the blaster free.
    He glared up at her with eyes that were . . .
    Well . . .
    As dark as sin.
    And every bit as frigid and evil.
    With a curse, Shahara raised the bottle to strike him.
    Quicker than she could blink, he pulled the blaster free and held it under her chin. “I don’t like scars,” he gritted between his teeth in that deep baritone voice that sent a shiver down her spine. “And I really hate people who mess up my house. Put the bottle down, slowly, and take a step back.”
    Shahara weighed her options as she felt the cold barrel of his blaster pressing against her jaw. The airaround her sizzled with his anger and ferocity. Two things belied by blank, emotionless eyes that stared into hers.
    She knew he would kill her without a second thought.
    She swallowed the tight lump of fear in her throat. There had to be some way she could gain the advantage.
    A sudden idea leapt into her mind—distraction.
    Yeah, but she hated what that would entail since she only had one thing she could use.
    I would rather be shot than come on to a convict
.
    If you don’t get that weapon out of his hand, you
will
be
.
    She forced herself not to show her anger or frustration. Like it or not, she only had one thing to rely on and if she didn’t get his blaster, she was at his mercy for however long he decided to keep her.
    And no one knew where she was to even look for her.
    The first rule of a seax was to use whatever means you had at your disposal . . .
    That cemented it. Curving her lips into a seductive smile, she slowly, suggestively slid the bottle down the front of her battlesuit and set it on the hardwood floor with a soft thud. She took a step back, giving him a warm, playful look.
    He holstered his weapon and rose slowly to his feet.
    Shahara tensed in uncertainty at his height. She barely reached mid-chest. And he had a way about him that dominated the room. A way about him that made him seem even more formidable.
    He watched her like a deadly viper eyeing its prey—calculating, waiting. Ready to spring at a moment’s notice.
    But then men were fools. Even dangerous ones. Theylived their lives by their hormones and as long as she kept her wits about her, he would be easy prey to her tactics.
    Her life and Tessa’s depended on her acting ability.
    Opening her mouth, Shahara licked her lips and scanned his body with a hungry look that would make a prostitute proud. “We could negotiate this,” she whispered, her voice heavy with feigned desire as she gazed meaningfully at the bulge in his pants, then to the bed.
    Syn stared at her in disbelief, his senses whirling at the real-life version of his fantasy. All too well, he remembered Caillen’s stories about his notorious sister, as well as the rumors that circulated about her fierceness.
    If he knew anything, it was that Shahara Dagan didn’t practice bedroom politics.
    She began unbraiding her hair. His arguments scattering, Syn watched her separate the thick, heavy, mahogany tresses. Every inch of his body burned for her as he imagined her long, graceful fingers caressing his flesh with the same tenderness she used to stroke her hair.
    She climbed onto his bed.
    Oh yeah, baby
. . .
    Resting on her knees, she arched her back and ran her hands through the soft, tangled hair that tumbled around