Free The Final Formula by Becca Andre Page A

why you’re going to keep this meeting short.”
    Meeting? I looked up.
    “Hello, Addie.” Rowan, Lord of Flames and Arrogance, gave me a smile and stepped past George. “So nice to see you again.”
    With an undignified squeak, I dropped the bullet and syringe, and took a hasty step back. My butt bumped the wall, leaving me trapped. Rowan stopped on the opposite side of the table, a predatory gleam in his gray eyes. He wore a dark sweater and slacks, but the casual clothing didn’t make him any less intimidating.
    “This guy claims to know you and insisted ,” George waved a one-hundred-dollar bill, “that I bring him to you. Do you really think I’d interrupt otherwise? Gotta get what work I can out of your scrawny ass before you run off with James again.”
    I gave George a look that expressed my feelings about him and his reasons for the interruption.
    “Considering your vindictive nature,” Rowan spoke up, “I’m wondering how this guy is still alive.” He jerked a thumb in George’s direction.
    “I need the job. Ingredients for truth serum don’t come cheap.”
    George sneered and hooked his thumbs in the front belt loops of his camos. “Don’t let her fool you. She likes to pretend to be an alchemist, but she keeps getting kicked out of the academy.”
    “Academy?” Rowan eyed me.
    “Master Boris over on Ninth.” George waved a hand in that direction. “I paid him off to take her back once. He flat refused the second time.”
    The corners of Rowan’s mouth curled upward.
    I crossed my arms. “He didn’t have a muffle furnace. I had to make my own; it wasn’t very stable.”
    “A muffle furnace?” Rowan leaned a hip against the table, and his eyes slid over me. Sizing me up or seeing what it’d take to incinerate me?
    I kept my arms crossed to hide my shaking hands. “It reaches very high temperatures. Might be something you’d understand.”
    He grinned. “Perhaps.” The jerk clearly enjoyed this. A little game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately for this mouse, the cat had brought a flamethrower.
    “Don’t fall for that crap,” George said. “She probably looked it up in some book. She’s all talk.”
    Rowan studied me. “Is she?” He lunged across the table and caught me by the upper arms before I could even think of moving. His hands gripped my biceps, and I could feel their warmth through my shirt. I caught a whiff of smoke, and then he jerked my sleeves down my arms. They tore away from the shirt with surprising ease. He’d vaporized the stitching and left the fabric in both the body and sleeves intact—without any singe marks. Holy crap. I had no idea he could wield fire with that kind of finesse.
    “What the hell?” George stared at the tattoos on my upper arms. “Are those real?” Observant as always.
    “Yes.” Rowan held my shirt sleeves around my forearms, looking very pleased with himself.
    “You bastard,” I whispered. Fantastic. George knew I was legit. He’d probably lock me in the basement.
    George stepped closer, wide eyes on my arms. “She can’t be the real thing. She’s too incompetent.”
    “Incompetent?” I tried to pull free, but Rowan wouldn’t let me go. “I put your little shop on the map, dumbass.”
    Rowan snorted. “She’s an alchemist, all right.” He released my right wrist, but held on to the left. “Come along.” He started to pull me around the end of the table.
    “I’m not going anywhere.” I dug in my heels.
    “What are you doing?” George fisted his large hands and took a step toward Rowan. Anyone else, and I’d be touched by his defense of me. But George wasn’t the altruistic sort. “She’s mine. Get your ass out of here.”
    “Excuse me?” Rowan released me and turned to face George.
    “Something wrong with your hearing, pal?” George gripped Rowan’s arm above the elbow. “I said it’s time for you to leave.” He gestured at the open door to the stairs.
    George might be half-a-head shorter than Rowan,