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want me to do?” Zane asks.
    “You are going to hold the rest of her down,” Roman says.
    A grin spreads across Zane’s face.  “I like that idea.”
    “It ’s important she doesn’t move while I’m doing this,” Roman emphasizes.
    Brielle, ever the patient one, says, “Got it, Doc, just get on with it.”
    Zane helps me sit up so Roman can remove the pillows I’m resting on.  When I am flat on the bed, Zane straddles my torso so he can get a tight grip on my good arm while holding my upper body still.  He places a hand on the center of my chest with enough pressure to keep me from bucking up.
    Roman is miserable over what he’s going to do.  Lifting my arm gently, he asks, “Do you want me to warn you when I’m going to do it?”
    As I debate whether or not I want to know when the pain is coming, Roman tugs on my arm.  Apparently, that was another rhetorical question.  A scream is torn from my throat.  My wrist is aflame with pain and I try to pull it back but Roman’s grip is too strong.  Without another word, he manipulates my bones again.  I try to thrash my legs, but Brielle is doing a good job and I can’t move them. 
    I look up to see Zane practically in tears.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.  Are his tears because he feels my pain or he hates seeing me like this?  Right now, I don’t care.  My own tears are flowing down my cheeks.
    Roman swears under his breath.  “This is going to hurt.”  How could it hurt worse than what he’s already done?
    I don’t know the how of it, but it does hurt more.  My bones shift, grinding together under my skin.  There’s no pop telling me things are back in place, only a searing pain I feel down to my soul.
    “Son of a bitch!” Roman shouts, dropping unceremoniously to the floor, pulling my arm with him but it doesn’t hurt anymore.  My mind is clouding; a slow fog is rolling in to take away any thoughts of pain, or anything else.
    I hear Brielle say, “Sorry, Doc, but that is fucking wicked.”
    “Skye,” Zane shouts , trying to rouse me from the fog, “put them out!”  My confusion must show in my eyes because he adds, “Your flames.  Put them out!”
    My flames?  I crank my head to the side and finally figure out what the problem is.  My flames, the seekers of truth and justice, are alive and dancing along my arm.  Roman is still clutching my hand and it is his face now contorted in pain.
    I close my eyes, trying to will the flames to stop.  Instead, they send images to my brain, images I don’t want to see.  The bedroom I share with Zane has disappeared and I am in someone else’s bedroom.  A woman I recognize is lying on the bed.  Roman’s wife.
    “What are you doing here?” Roman growls from the doorway.  He leans against the door jamb, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.  He is dressed in black pants and a black sweater, both highlighting his muscular body.  The most surprising thing is how young he looks.  He can’t be older than seventeen or eighteen.
    Thinking he’s talking to me, I start to speak but t he woman sits up, letting the sheet fall from her naked breasts.  “I’m your wife, this is where I belong.”  Oh god, I don’t want to be here.  I understand now they can’t see me, this is the past and I am simply a voyeur.  Still, I don’t want to be here when Roman makes love to his wife. 
    “You are not my wife.”
    The woman laughs and lies back against the pillows again.  She uses her long legs to kick the sheet completely off her naked body.  “Why do you continue to fight the inevitable?”  She uses her finger to trace circles around the nipple of her right breast.
    Roman doesn’t seem to notice.  “Death is inevitable.  Having you as a wife is not.”
    A pout forms on the woman’s lips.  “You want me, Roman.  Why can’t you admit it?”
    P ure hatred fills his eyes and acid fills his words.  “I never wanted you, not even when we were children.”
    The pout