Free Playing With Fire by Gena Showalter

open, and I instinctively tried to glance at him again. He applied more pressure to my head, keeping me immobile. “You can control the four elements, too?”
    “No.” He didn’t elaborate.
    I bit the inside of my cheek at such a cryptic nonanswer. He’d been where I was, yet he hadn’t experienced the same thing. How? Why? I despised this puzzle; I needed answers. Rome was the only person I knew who understood what was happening to me. And so, unfortunately, this government agent who’d threatened to neutralize me was also my only link to sanity. And I didn’t even know his last name.
    “Help me understand, Rome. Please.”
    No response.
    Tears gathered in my eyes as wave after wave of helplessness bombarded me. “I won’t let you kill me, and I won’t let you take me to a lab. I didn’t ask for this to happen to me.”
    “But it did happen.” His fingers became steel shackles on my wrists. “And just so you know, I didn’t keep you alive—” He cut himself off. “I didn’t keep you alive to watch you escape.” A note of warning dripped from his voice.
    Before I had time to act, before I had time to protest, he had my arms anchored behind my back, wrists tied together. The cord he bound me with was cool and firm, unyielding—and foreshadowed malevolence.
    My heart slammed against my ribs. “Let me go! What are you doing?”
    He gripped my shoulders and whipped me around, finally letting me see his face. His gaze pierced me with a fierceness that somehow managed to shock, frighten and rock me all at once. It darted over me, hungry, reading me, perhaps, before it went flat again, the light in it suppressed as quickly as it had flared.
    “Your five minutes are up.”

CHAPTER SIX
    F ASTER THAN I COULD OFFER up a prayer of “strike this bastard dead” I was trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey and tossed over Rome’s shoulder. While he had me in such an undignified position, he tied my ankles with the rest of the cord.
    “Put me down this instant!” I shouted, attempting to knee him in his midsection.
    “Stop wiggling.” He purposefully bounced me on his shoulder, cutting off my air when my stomach hit the sharp edge of his collarbone.
    When I could breathe again, I muttered, “You’re squashing my kidneys and my pancreas! Do you know how dangerous that is? Put me down before I sink into a coma.”
    “If you can point to exactly where your pancreas is located, I’ll do as you so sweetly asked.”
    “It’s—oh! Damn you. Put me down right now. I do not want my face in your ass.”
    He chuckled, that deep, seductive sound all the more potent because this time it held rusty layers of disuse, as if he didn’t allow true humor in his life very often.
    Keeping his stride smooth and easy so I didn’t bounce on his shoulder again, he sailed down the short hallway and into the kitchen. He plopped me onto a bar stool. Without the use of my hands, I teetered precariously and almost tumbled to the floral linoleum.
    “Now we eat and talk.” He moved to the other side of the counter, heaping a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon.
    I glared over at him, ignoring my grumbling stomach. “We were talking. There was no reason to tie me up like this.”
    “There was every reason.” His gaze veered pointedly to my bound hands. “Call me silly, but I’d rather not be roasted alive.”
    I took some comfort in that and grinned smugly. “Afraid of me, Rome?”
    He snorted. “Afraid of your inability to control yourself, more like.”
    Score one (or twelve million, but who’s counting?) for Rome. I lost all sense of superiority, and my shoulders slumped. He was right. If I could catch my own fingers on fire without any provocation—that I knew of—what else could I do? I hated having powers.
    The moment the thought filled my head, I blinked. Powers. Me. Would I ever get used to those two words used in conjunction?
    “You’re as likely to harm yourself as me,” Rome said. He set the plate between