Page 2 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 2

D orian

I sprawl in the leather chair opposite Caleb’s desk, one leg hooked over the armrest. His jaw twitches at my posture. Classic Caleb—always the guardian of proper etiquette while I’m busy testing how far I can push before he snaps.

The leather creaks as I sink deeper, deliberately scuffing my boot against the pristine upholstery. We might be twins, but he still acts like I’m the unruly teenager who needs constant supervision. And for some reason, I can’t seem to stop myself from antagonizing him.

The muscle in his cheek jumps again.

Almost there.

Good.

The entire forty-eighth floor of Craven Towers screams Caleb—sterile, precise, boring as fuck. Glass and steel, and not a single thing out of place. Even the air feels filtered, like he’s removed all the particles that might dare disrupt his perfect little kingdom.

The Seattle skyline stretches beyond the windows, all gray and misty, but in here, it’s like time stands still. No dust, no clutter, no sign that an actual living being occupies the space. Just the pristine shrine to corporate power that my dear brother has built himself. It makes my skin itch just being here.

“So, are you going to tell me about what happened this morning?” I cock my head. I walked in on my brother kissing an intern, and he’s been as cagey as fuck about it.

“No,” he blocks me yet again. “The NyxCorp acquisition,” he changes the subject, his back to me as he stares out the windows. “Walk me through the final numbers.”

I roll my eyes at his back. “The same final numbers I emailed you three hours ago? Or did you delete that like the last six reports?”

“Humor me.” He doesn’t turn around.

Control freak.

“Fine.” I pull up the mental spreadsheet—one of the perks of dragon DNA: perfect recall. “We’re getting their tech division at twelve percent below market valuation. Their energy subsidiaries come with a forty-million cash offset to compensate for the Malaysian regulatory complications. The data mining operation stays autonomous for eighteen months, then integrates under our umbrella.”

Caleb turns, his reflection sliding across the glass wall like a ghost. His charcoal suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. Centuries of evolution, and my brother still dresses like he’s auditioning for Vampire Monthly’s cover model.

“And Blackthorn Consulting?” he asks, touching his dragon claw cufflink—a tell he doesn’t realize he has.

“Like we suspected, shell company. Launders money for someone bigger. We’re letting them think they’re flying under our radar.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch—maximum surprise in Caleb-speak. “That wasn’t in your report.”

“Some things are better discussed in person.” I tap my temple. “Some of us still remember what information security means.”

He moves to his desk, adjusting a stack of papers until they align perfectly with the edge. The medieval dragon-wing crest mounted on the wall behind him catches the fading daylight. Our family emblem—a constant reminder of duty, legacy, all the shit that Caleb lives for and I’m supposed to care about.

I do care about it. Just not the way he does.

“The legal strategy meeting is tomorrow,” he says. “I need you there.”

“Let me guess. At seven in the morning? Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“This one’s at nine.”

“Still cruel.”

He ignores me, shuffling through the acquisition documents I brought up. His finger stops on a clause halfway down page sixteen. “This indemnification language is too broad.”

“It’s standard.”

“It’s sloppy.”

I sit up, dropping the bored act. “It’s the same language we’ve used in our last eight acquisitions.”

“And it’s been wrong eight times.” He makes a note with his ridiculously expensive fountain pen. “Fix it.”

The old familiar heat crawls up my neck. I force it down, keeping my voice light. “You know what your problem is, Caleb? You’ve forgotten how to delegate.”

“And you’ve forgotten that details matter.”

“I got the dirt on the shell company, didn’t I?” I lean forward. “While you were reorganizing your color-coded folders, I was having drinks with their CFO, who got just drunk enough to mention Blackthorn’s off-book transactions.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow. “And how many martinis did that intelligence cost the company?”

“Three. Plus, I had to listen to him drone about his boat for an hour.” I lean back again. “You’re welcome.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. Then it’s gone, replaced by his default expression: constipated professionalism.

“The language still needs fixing.” He taps his pen against the report.

I throw up my hands. “Jesus Christ, Caleb. This is why Dad gave you seventy percent of the voting shares and me thirty. You’re exactly like him—micromanaging every goddamn comma.”

Any hint of humor in his expression evaporates.

Shit. I went too far.

Caleb sets down his pen with deliberate care. “Dad gave me seventy percent because I understand responsibility.”

“No, Dad gave you seventy percent because you were born five minutes before me, and he was obsessed with primogeniture like it’s still the fucking Middle Ages.”

“ Primogeniture ?” he scoffs. “When did you swallow a dictionary?”

I puff out a breath. “Okay… It means he was anal about keeping his first-born in power. Happy? It was still just five fucking minutes.”

“Five minutes was enough time to develop a work ethic, apparently.”

I stand, my chair rolling backward and hitting the wall. “A work ethic? I closed this deal. I found the shell company. I’ve doubled our tech portfolio in three years.”

“While sleeping with half of Seattle.” Caleb steeples his fingers beneath his chin, looking smug.

Bastard.

“At least I sleep.” I gesture to the security feeds on his wall screen. “When’s the last time you weren’t here until midnight? You’re turning into him, you know. Going to die right there at that desk, probably mid-email.”

His face goes blank—the look that means I’ve scored a direct hit. Our father died of a heart attack in this very office. For dragons, it was an embarrassment. No glorious battle, no legendary last stand. Just an old man with high cholesterol who worked himself to death.

Caleb literally can’t say it out loud.

My brother straightens his already straight tie. “Some of us take our clan responsibilities seriously.” His voice is low.

“The clan responsibility of correcting punctuation? Very heroic.” I snort.

“I have to maintain standards.” His voice is as crisp as his pressed shirt. Classic Caleb—hiding behind protocol when emotions get too messy. He probably irons his socks, too.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Standards? Is that what we’re calling it now? Christ, you’re more obsessed with semicolons than you are with the fact that the Syndicate is breathing down our necks. If those fuckers are planning another clan heist, all they have to do is wait for your next grammar lesson.”

“You think I’m not on top of that too?” he snaps. “Someone has to keep an eye on the ball.”

“And someone has to actually live, Caleb.” I turn toward the door, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. “The acquisition closes tomorrow. The language stays as is. If you want to change it, do it yourself.”

He watches me, amber eyes unreadable. We have the same eyes, same height, same dark hair. Genetics playing its cruelest joke—making us mirrors of each other while programming us to be fundamentally incompatible.

Except he’s my twin brother and I love him beyond reason. The bond between us is so tangible, I can often share his thoughts, feel what he’s feeling. Right now, it’s frustration.

I exhale slowly and stop walking, releasing the pent-up tension that’s building.

This is bullshit.

“I’m sorry, bro. Let’s get breakfast,” I say, extending an olive branch despite myself. “The Grind for a moment, I’m certain he’s going to turn me down.

Then he nods once. “Fine.”

As conciliatory gestures go, this is as good as it gets.

“See you then.” I leave without another word, taking the elevator down forty-eight floors, loosening my collar as I descend. The tension from our conversation still crawls under my skin like fire ants. Typical fucking Caleb—always has to have the last word, always has to be the responsible one.

But I guess I can’t blame him. It’s not just this latest deal. He’s been antsy about the Heartstone acting up lately. Our family heirloom hasn’t acted up in decades, but now it’s setting him off with its freakish energy surges. Crystals aren’t supposed to do that, but then again, this one is different. A shiny stone that controls our entire fucking bloodline. And Caleb has to guard it, or everything goes to shit.

No pressure.

By the time I hit the lobby, I’ve unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled up my sleeves, the dragon scale tattoos on my forearms visible again. I flex my fingers, feeling the relief of shedding these corporate constraints.

The security guard nods at me; he’s used to seeing the CEO’s wild twin emerge from the suits they try to stuff me into. My armor coming off while Caleb’s stays firmly in place.

That’s always been our dynamic—him locked in his perfect posture and pressed suits, me breaking free the moment I’m out of the stainless-steel cage.

I have to get out of this place before it smothers me.

Heading to the executive parking bay, I pick out my red Jaguar and slide into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs to life as I start it up and reverse out of the bay at a speed that’s just a hair shy of reckless.

The night is calling. And with it, the nightlife.

Time to get my freak on… and I know exactly where to do it.

The bass at Obsidian hits me like a wave as I push through the doors. Bodies press together on the dance floor, a mass of perfume, sweat, and desperation. My kind of place—or it used to be.

I make my way to the VIP section, nodding to the bouncer, who recognizes me instantly. No waiting in line when you’ve dropped enough cash to buy his car several times over.

“Mr. Craven.” The hostess appears, all legs and practiced smile. “Your usual table?”

“Why break tradition?” I flash her the grin that’s opened more doors than my black Amex. She leads me to the corner booth with the best view of both the dance floor and the entrance—old habits from centuries of watching for threats.

“Bottle service?” she asks, leaning close enough to brush her tits up against me.

“Macallan 25.” I settle into the leather booth. “Just one glass.”

Her smile falters for a second—Dorian Craven drinking alone is apparently newsworthy—but she recovers quickly. “Right away.”

The whiskey arrives as three women at the adjacent table notice me. I recognize one from a charity gala last month. Can’t remember her name, but I remember the way she laughed—genuine, not the manufactured trill most society women perfect. She catches my eye and whispers to her friends.

My phone buzzes. Caleb, of course.

Language still needs fixing. Sending revised draft.

I drop the phone on the table without responding. The screen lights up again immediately.

And wear a tie tomorrow.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, downing half my whiskey in one swallow. The burn is comforting. Unlike the hollow feeling that’s been growing in my chest for… months? Years? Hard to mark time when you’ve lived as long as I have.

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity.” The woman from the charity gala slides into my booth, uninvited. Up close, I can see her eyes are different colors—one blue, one green. “Or so they say.”

“I passed insanity a century ago.” I offer her my glass. “Care for a taste?”

She chuckles, probably at my reference to a century of insanity, not realizing the truth in the words. She takes the glass, her lipstick leaving a crimson mark on the rim.

“Drinking alone doesn’t seem like your style, Dorian Craven.”

So she remembers my name. I should be flattered.

“And what is my style, exactly?”

“Surrounded by admirers. Center of attention.” She hands back the glass. “The charming black sheep of the Craven dynasty.”

I study her face, trying to place her beyond the gala. “Have we met properly?”

“Twice. You asked for my number both times.” She smiles, no malice in it. “I said no both times.”

That gets my attention. “Now I’m definitely intrigued.”

“I’m sure.” She glances at my phone as it lights up with another text from Caleb. “But it seems like you’ve got bigger problems tonight.”

I turn the phone face-down. “Just my brother being his usual controlling self.”

“The famous Caleb Craven.” She nods. “I’ve heard he’s brilliant. Intimidating.”

“A brilliant pain in my ass.” I signal for another whiskey. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like why you said no. Twice, apparently.”

She laughs, that same genuine sound I remembered. “Because you weren’t actually interested in me. You were going through the motions.”

“That’s presumptuous.”

“That’s observant.” She leans forward, her mismatched eyes direct. “You flirt like someone following a script. Very good script, don’t get me wrong. But your heart’s not in it, is it?”

The hostess arrives with my second whiskey, glancing between us with poorly concealed curiosity.

“Will your friend be joining you for a drink?” she asks.

Before I can answer, the woman stands. “No, I was just leaving.” She looks down at me with a small smile. “For what it’s worth, Dorian, there’s more to you than your reputation. Maybe figure out what that is.”

She walks away before I can respond, rejoining her friends, who immediately lean in for details. I watch her laugh, shake her head. Whatever she’s telling them, it’s not the story they expected.

I stare at my fresh whiskey, the amber liquid the exact shade of Caleb’s eyes. Of my eyes. Dragon eyes, our father called them.

Predator’s eyes.

The music pounds, the crowd writhes, and suddenly, I feel utterly disconnected from all of it. The game—the endless cycle of drinks and conquest and temporary pleasure—suddenly seems exhausting.

My phone lights up again.

Did you see the revised language?

I pocket the phone without answering, leave cash on the table, and head for the exit. The night air hits me like clarity after the club’s stuffy heat. Seattle stretches before me, the Space Needle illuminated against the night sky. I loosen my collar further, breathing in the scent of salt water from the distant harbor.

When the valet spots me, he immediately jumps to attention, but I wave him away.

“I’m taking a walk,” I tell him as I head down the sidewalk. I need to clear my mind.

What the hell is wrong with me lately? I’ve played my part for centuries—the charming rebel, the counterpoint to Caleb’s rigid control. It fit me like a second skin. Or I thought it did.

Now, it feels like a costume I’ve outgrown.

A group of women walk past, one of them doing a double-take as she recognizes me. She smiles invitingly. Six months ago, I’d have been beside her in an instant, turning on the charm, playing the game. Tonight, I just nod politely and turn away.

I walk toward the waterfront, hands in my pockets, no destination in mind. The woman’s words echo in my head.

There’s more to you than your reputation.

Is there? I’ve spent so long being Caleb’s opposite that I’m not sure who I’d be without that definition.

I look back toward Obsidian, its neon sign glowing in the distance. The music, the drinks, the meaningless connections—it all seems so futile.

I need purpose. Not Caleb’s hand-me-down sense of duty, but something of my own.

I turn away from the club, heading to the valet parking. Whatever’s coming, whatever the Syndicate has planned, I’m done playing the carefree playboy. It’s time to be something else.

I just wish I knew what.